His hands, torn and raw, bled freely as he clawed at the gritty sediment encasing the base of the rock.

  Cloudstones never came easy. They were nature’s most elusive gift, always buried in the meanest, rock-choked dirt. A clever artisan could shape wonders from a nugget alone—but Vel wasn’t interested in clever. He was interested in extraordinary. What he made from the stone, he called fine cloud—a refinement so rare it shimmered like a kaleidoscope caught in motion. Furniture, jewelry, tools that whispered with power—his pieces fetched five or six times the jika in the market. The kind of pieces nobles begged for, and only the highest circles could hope to own.

  He tunneled the end of his shirt beneath the boulder, looping fabric like a sling around either side. Blood pooled under his reddened nails as he twisted the cloth tight around his palms. His sandals were long gone—shredded by the digging—and now gravel bit into the tender arches of his bare feet as he dug in.

  “This is not going to be fun,” he muttered, mostly for himself.

  The star overhead pulsed faintly in the overcast sky, just visible now that twilight had come. It hung low in the east—a hollow brilliance, impossible to ignore once your eyes found it. It had followed him here, like it followed everyone now. But tonight it looked especially alive, glinting with something deeper than starlight.

  He sank low, set his jaw, and pulled.

  Muscle surged through his frame—thick shoulders bracing, legs like tree trunks coiled with effort. The cloth in his hands strained. Pebbles screamed under his heels. A sharp burst of pain flashed through his ribs, but he didn’t stop.

  “Cooooome oooooon!”

  With a final, wild yank, the shirt tore free and sent him sprawling backwards.

  He lay there, panting, arms splayed in the dirt, eyes fluttering toward the darkening sky. A faint drizzle speckled his face. Somewhere beyond the clouds, the Hollow Star watched him. He didn’t know why it unsettled him tonight more than usual—perhaps it was the way it flickered just then, like something behind it had moved.

  Vel chuckled through a groan and raised his head. The cloudstone still sat smug and half-buried, refusing to budge. Beautiful and stubborn. He could respect that.

  Rain trickled steadily now, darkening the dirt around him. Somewhere, a low wind moved through the grass with a hiss. He imagined the tavern’s fire crackling back in the village. A warm tankard. And Senna, sweet, sweet Senna.

  A single cold drop hit him square in the forehead.

  “Thank you,” he whispered to the sky.

  The Hollow Star blinked once more, faint and strange.

  With a sigh, Vel forced himself upright. He stared at the stone, then at the rising puddle where his hands had bled into the dirt. He’d never get it home tonight. Not like this.

  He laughed again, quiet and grim.

  All that effort to unearth a treasure—and now he had to bury it.

  ~ ~ ~

  The tavern breathed with life. Thick talk curled through smoke. Ale clung to the air. Over worn tables and sloshed mugs, men with sunburned necks and calloused hands swapped stories no one believed. Yet all eyes—eventually—drifted toward the back.

  Where he was.

  Wren leaned against the bar, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a knife dancing between his fingers like it was born there. Too young for a crowd like this. Too sharp. Too alive. But that recklessness—like he thought death was something that happened to other people—kept the watchers watching.

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  “Place your bets,” he grinned, cocky and bright as a lightning strike. “One throw. Coin or cup.”

  A ripple of laughter. Someone flicked a copper. “Not paying for your drinks tonight, boy.”

  “Smart man,” Wren said, turning. “I don’t drink with sore losers.”

  The knife flashed, slicing the firelight in two. It struck with a thunk, pinning the coin to the wood. The coin clattered loose, but the cheer came before it hit the floor. Wren bowed like a prince, then tossed the coin back.

  “Your round,” he said, all charm, all teeth.

  From the shadows, Chavi watched. No applause. No smile. Just a slow drink and a stillness. Wren thrived in the noise. Needed it. Fed off it. But Chavi’s eyes were elsewhere.

  She stood on the edge of the crowd—arms folded, chin tilted, a secret smile teasing her lips. She watched Wren. When he noticed her, something passed between them. Something unsaid. Something real.

  He flopped into the seat across from Chavi, spinning the knife lazily.

  “Well?” Wren asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “Who is she?”

  Chavi flicked a glance back. The girl stood beside two figures—guardians maybe, parents maybe not. Didn’t matter.

  “No clue. Never seen them.”

  “She’s our age.”

  "She's leaving," Chavi said. As quick as she caught their eye, she and her companions finished their drinks and made their way to the exit. On her way out, the strange girl shot a smile toward them both.

  "I was just gearing up for my next trick," Wren said, examining the tip of his blade.

  Before Chavi could answer, Wren leaned in a little, eyes narrowing. “What happened to your eye?”

  Chavi didn’t respond. His thumb worked the edge of his mug, silent.

  Then the crowd shifted. A flash of curls, a purposeful step. Senna slipped between tables, braid bouncing loose against her shoulder.

  “Either of you seen Vel?”

  “He was due back this morning,” Wren said, straightening.

  Senna frowned. “He’s late.”

  They both knew—Vel was never late.

  Then the tavern door creaked open, slow and deliberate. Rain hissed through the crack as a silhouette filled the frame. Bare chest streaked with grime. Hands wrapped in bloodied rags that might’ve once been a shirt.

  “Uncle Vel!” Wren was on his feet before the hush fell.

  Without hesitation, Wren stepped aside and gestured to the chair he’d just vacated, close to the hearth. “Here,” he said. “Take mine.”

  Vel’s breath caught the lantern light. Rain streamed from his hair, his eyes dull and tired. He walked like he was dragging mountains behind him and dropped into the offered seat with a grunt.

  Senna was there in a blink—clean cloth in one hand, a steaming tankard in the other.

  “What happened?” Her voice was low but steady.

  Vel drank. “Caught in a storm.”

  “That did this to your hands?”

  He exhaled. “Digging.”

  “For what?”

  “Cloudstone,” he said. “Biggest I’ve ever seen.”

  Wren leaned in. “Where is it?”

  “Still in the ground.”

  Senna knelt beside him, dabbing dirt and blood from his skin.

  “Did you see anything strange?”

  Vel paused. “Like what?”

  “You know.” Senna slid aside the drape on a nearby window. “The Hollow Star. They say it changes the land.”

  “All I saw change was the rain. Could barely see in front of me.”

  Outside, the Star glowed—pale green, low and watching. Its light poured into the tavern like ghostlight, bending shadows at odd angles.

  “I’ll get you dry clothes,” she said, rising and disappearing upstairs.

  Wren slid closer. “So… when are we digging it up?”

  Vel chuckled, the sound rasping through his beard. “Did you fix the cart?”

  Wren blinked. “Define fix.”

  Vel just stared.

  “Alright, alright. It’s still got a wobble. I’ll get to it tomorrow.”

  Vel grinned, weariness melting into something warmer. “Good. We’ll need it.”