“There’s something off about that boy,” Mirabel muttered, eyes tracking Alden as he slipped through the market crowd.

  Garrick shot his wife a warning look from the back of their stall, his voice a low hiss. “Quiet, Mirabel. Business is business.”

  Mirabel bobbed her head, chastened, but her eyes still tracked the boy as he moved through the crowded marketplace. Alden Fairwood—son of the Duke himself—slipped through the bustling lanes with a kind of practiced ease, his green eyes darting from stall to stall, scanning the wares with an intensity that belied his casual demeanor. To the villagers, he was both a familiar face and an enigma, a boy who seemed to know too much for his years.

  The bustling market district of Marlugrathara was a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, alive with the hum of life. Merchants called out their wares, their voices rising above the clatter of skids hauling goods through the streets. The scents of exotic spices mingled with the sweetness of fresh pastries and the acrid tang of burning ozone from the anti-grav fliers buzzing overhead. The crowd pressed in on all sides, a chaotic symphony of traders, travelers, and locals weaving through the maze of stalls and shops.

  The Emporium lay at the heart of the district, its towering arches casting long shadows over the plaza. It was here that the rarest and most coveted items could be found, brought from across the galaxy by traders bold enough to traverse the perilous void between worlds. Alden’s destination, however, was far more modest: a small, unassuming stall tucked away at the edge of the plaza, where an elderly baker sold his famous spiced pastries.

  "One, please," Alden said, his voice was soft but steady, a contrast to the din around him.

  The baker, a kindly man with weathered hands, smiled as he wrapped one in paper and handed it over. "You’re early today, lad. Did you race the sunrise?"

  Alden shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The earlier I come, the better the chance there’s some left."

  The baker chuckled, tying the box with a piece of twine. "Smart boy. Here you are. Give my regards to your mother."

  Alden nodded, tucking into the exbosed side of the pastery and mumbled around a full mouth. "I will. Thank you."

  He contined on through the market and paused by a table piled with strange, glittering stones. His fingers brushed over a gem that caught the light, casting a prismatic glow across his hand.

  “Is that… Theranthis crystal?” he murmured, tilting his head, his voice just loud enough for the merchant to hear. “The ones with a hint of mineral salt in the veins?”

  The merchant looked up, startled. “Aye… that’s… that’s right.” His eyes narrowed, studying Alden with a mixture of curiosity and unease. “You’ve got a good eye, lad.”

  -Watch closely. There’s more here than they’re willing to show.-

  Alden’s fingers lingered on the crystal for a moment longer, then he shrugged, his attention already drifting. Around him, merchants called out—“Silks from the southern coast!” “Fresh spices from the Plains of Xir!”—their voices weaving into the scent of roasted nuts and the jangle of coins. Ahead, a familiar voice called out.

  "Alden! Come over here, lad!" Vareck, a wiry man with sharp features and a row of gold-capped teeth, beckoned him over. He was standing beside a stall crowded with baskets of strange, jewel-like fruits, their skins shimmering in shades of deep blue and purple. "Got something new this week—straight from Azoria. Ever tried a veluuma?"

  Alden grinned and approached, eyeing the fruit with curiosity. "They look like gemstones," he murmured, reaching out to pick one up. The veluuma felt cool in his hand, its skin smooth and almost iridescent in the sunlight.

  "Aye, lad. And they taste as fine as they look," Vareck said, his grin widening. "Go on, try one."

  Alden brought the fruit to his lips and took a bite. The flavor was unlike anything he'd ever tasted—sweet and tart, with a faint hint of something almost mineral, like the crispness of cold mountain air.

  -The soil of Azoria is rich in metallic salts. Because veluuma plants are geocarpy the minerals seep into the fruit's flesh, giving it that sharp edge.-

  “I suppose it’s the minerals in Azoria’s soil,” he said thoughtfully, taking another bite. “Absorbed as the fruit grows underground.”

  Vareck blinked, his hand pausing halfway to his belt pouch. He scratched his head, studying Alden with newfound respect. "Well now, that's an insight and a half," he said slowly. "Most folk don’t know that, even the ones who’ve tasted ‘em before."

  Alden tilted his head, playing it off with a modest smile. "I read a lot," he said, which was true enough. But he had never read about Azoria’s soil.

  Vareck nodded, still watching him as if reassessing something. Then, perhaps to hide his surprise, he quickly bundled a few more veluuma into a small cloth pouch and handed it to Alden. "Take a few home for your father," he said, his voice jovial again. "On the house. Let him know they’re the finest in Marlugrathara."

  Alden accepted the pouch graciously, though he caught the calculating glint in Vareck’s eyes. It was no secret that the merchants treated him well not just out of kindness, but in hopes that a favorable word from the Duke’s son might bring future business or privileges. Still, he didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay for the treats and tidbits they were willing to share.

  Alden found himself drawn to a stall where a burly Xovru blacksmith was displaying a collection of gleaming weapons, each one enhanced to catch the light in strange, shifting hues. Alden glanced over the blades, his eyes landing on a dagger with a subtle dark shimmer, almost like it was cloaked in shadow.

  "Oi, young Fairwood," rumbled the blacksmith, Master Goruk, nodding to him. "Come to admire the blades?" His voice was deep and rough, like the grinding of stones.

  Alden’s gaze lingered on a sleek dagger that seemed to shift in color with the angle of the light, shadows pooling along its edge as if the blade itself held secrets. “That one’s new, isn’t it?”

  Goruk’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Aye, Cradus steel, with a spellform to cloak the holder in shadows. Good for slipping through a crowd unnoticed.” He looked at Alden knowingly. “Not that a lad like you would need to hide from anyone, hmm?”

  -Cradus steel reacts to body heat. The closer it is to warmth, the deeper the shadow it casts.-

  Alden tilted his head, looking thoughtful. "I’d imagine the shadows get stronger if you’re holding it," he said, “since body heat makes the metal react.”

  Goruk’s eyebrows shot up, and he gave Alden a long, appraising look before letting out a low chuckle, his laugh like the rumble of distant thunder. "Sharp as ever, eh? That’s right. Only those who know how to wield it can bring out its full effect. Good guess, lad."

  Alden kept his face neutral, even as a faint thrill sparked within him. “Father says it’s wise to know the tools of the trade, even if I don’t use them.” His fingers itched to reach for the blade, but he held back, letting only a polite nod escape. Showing too much interest was a luxury he didn’t allow himself, not here, in the eyes of men who watched for every flicker of weakness or wonder.

  Goruk’s chuckle deepened, his expression softening with something almost like pride. “Fair enough, lad. Wouldn’t want to see you with a weapon like this just yet. But remember, there’s always a blade waiting here for you, if the need ever arises.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Alden gave a small nod, smiling at the compliment but keeping his face neutral. These merchants had learned to expect quick insights from him, even if they didn’t understand how he’d come by them. He moved on, feeling the weight of watchful eyes on his back, a familiar pressure that had become as much a part of Marlugrathara as the winding streets and bustling stalls.

  As he wandered further into the emporium, he passed a vendor selling spices that sent plumes of fragrant smoke into the air, their bright colors swirling like dust. He caught snatches of conversation from groups of traders nearby, talking in hushed tones about the latest convoy from Lurkibraski’vinumara and the arrival of the Galactic Council envoy.

  "More spaceports, they say," muttered one trader to his companion. "Could mean an end to these old skid routes."

  "Aye," replied the other, his voice wary. "But more off-worlders too. They’ll change this place, mark my words."

  Alden lingered nearby, pretending to examine a tapestry woven in shades of green and silver. He understood the significance of the Galactic Council envoy, the promises and dangers it brought with it. Even though he was still young, he knew his father was paying close attention to these developments, balancing the potential for growth against the risks of influence from the galaxy beyond Umbralumara.

  -Watch and listen. It’s in these voices that true power speaks.-

  He absorbed the whispers around him, noting the blend of excitement and fear. These were his father’s people, and they looked at him with respect, curiosity, even expectation. But they were also careful—careful not to reveal too much, careful to weigh every word when he was near. Alden knew he was more than just a boy to them, even if he longed to slip unnoticed among them like any other child.

  As he turned a corner, a flash of movement caught his eye. There, in the shadowed depths of a stall draped in dark, heavy cloth, was Mistress Selune—the Zyneerian seeress. Few dared approach her stall; it was a place even the boldest market-goers avoided, murmuring tales of curses and visions that lingered long after one left her presence.

  “Ah, Alden,” a voice drifted out of the darkness, barely a whisper, yet it cut through the bustling noise of the market like a blade. He jerked to a stop and bowed instinctively toward the shadowed interior.

  “Mistress Selune,” he said, his voice respectful, with a hint of practiced calm that his father had drilled into him. Carefully, he stepped forward into the stall’s gloomy embrace, the air turning noticeably colder as he crossed the threshold. “How are you today?”

  From the inky recess, something began to emerge—a shadowy appendage that seemed to defy natural order. It stretched forward, its shape wrong and unsettling, an ebony limb that twisted and bent at unnatural angles. The surface glinted like polished stone, but it moved with a fluid grace, each joint bending in silence, like the slow unfurling of some ancient, patient creature. Alden felt a shiver run down his spine as the appendage extended, brushing lightly over the top of his head. Its touch was impossibly cold, sending a chill that seemed to burrow beneath his skin.

  He fought the urge to step back, remembering his father’s warnings. Lucian had always spoken of Selune with a mix of reverence and caution, his voice grave when he’d told Alden, “Never seek what lies beneath her veil. The truth is a burden, boy, and not all truths are meant for mortal eyes.”

  “Well enough, and happy now to have seen you.” Even with the airy softness of her voice, he could sense a smile beneath it, a hint of affection layered in mystery. “You have grown again, Alden. Elara must be so proud of you. Tell her…” The voice trailed off, as though reaching through webs of time. “…Tell her the shadows have not forgotten, and that I would see her again.”

  Alden’s voice held steady, though his pulse thrummed at her words. “I’ll pass along your message, ma’am. Mother will be glad of your well wishes.”

  With a faint rustling that seemed to echo from deep within her stall, the shadowed appendage retracted, vanishing into the blackness. The light of the market seemed to hesitate, as if reluctant to pierce the gloom she left in her wake.

  With a final bow, Alden stepped back into the sunlight, a faint prickling still lingering on his scalp where she’d touched him. The warmth of the market settled around him once more, but he couldn’t shake the chill of her presence. As he continued on his journey through the maze of stalls, pausing only briefly to examine a tapestry woven from Zephyrian silk or to haggle over a glinting crystal from the rings of Aethera-7, he found himself glancing back, half-expecting to see those shadowed limbs reaching for him again.

  Alden made his way out of the emporium and toward the edge of the city, where the crowds thinned and the air smelled faintly of pine and damp earth rather than spices and metal. The noise of the market faded, replaced by the occasional creak of leather and the low, gravelly murmur of off-duty skid drivers gathered outside a tavern set just below street level. The Broken Axle was a rough establishment by reputation, but Alden knew its depths well enough. It was a place where the city’s hardest-working hands could rest, where the skid drivers and loaders shared thick mugs of ale and tales of close calls and long nights hauling goods through the winding roads.

  The narrow stairway leading down into the tavern was worn smooth, the stone steps cupped in the middle from decades of boots. Alden descended, feeling the temperature drop as he moved below street level, the air thick with the smell of ale and woodsmoke. He pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the dimly lit space.

  The murmur of conversation dimmed slightly as he entered, enough that a few heads turned his way, giving him quick once-overs before returning to their tankards. A few of the skid drivers raised their eyebrows, surprised to see the Duke’s son here alone, but they knew better than to stare. Alden was no stranger to The Broken Axle, and while he was still young, he’d learned to blend in well enough. He wasn’t here to bother anyone or ask questions about the life of a skid driver; he was just here for his usual visit.

  “Oi, Alden!” A grizzled driver with a beard like brambles gave him a nod. His voice carried a hint of a chuckle. “Back again for those pastries, are you? Lucky lad, always getting the best of Master Haldor’s kitchen.”

  Alden grinned, nodding back in acknowledgment. “You know it,” he replied easily, his voice light, matching the rough, teasing energy in the room. “Can’t let you lot eat all the good stuff, can I?”

  The men chuckled, raising their mugs in jest. Some of them were the type who’d been up all night on a long haul, eyes red and hands calloused from hours of steering their skids through dark, winding roads. There was a kind of camaraderie here that Alden found comforting, even if he didn’t quite belong. Here, men and women shared their weariness openly, talked of bad roads and bad pay without any fear of judgment or consequence.

  He spotted Master Haldor behind the counter, a hulking man with forearms thick as tree branches and a wild, untamed beard. Haldor ran the kitchen and owned The Broken Axle, and despite his gruff exterior, he always had a warm spot for Alden. The big man saw him approaching and broke into a grin, setting down the heavy tray he was carrying.

  “Alden, my boy!” Haldor boomed, his voice deep enough to shake the mugs on the counter. “Come for some of the good stuff, I bet?”

  “You know me too well, Master Haldor,” Alden replied, leaning casually against the counter as he took in the delicious smell of fresh pastries.

  Haldor laughed, reaching beneath the counter to pull out a cloth sack. “Well, it just so happens I saved you a few of the cinnamon rolls. Fresh out of the oven, no less. Can’t have the Duke’s family going without the best bread in Marlugrathara, now can we?”

  Alden accepted the sack with a gracious nod. “I’ll let Mother know you’re keeping us well-fed,” he said, feeling the warmth of the freshly baked rolls through the fabric. “She keeps saying yours are the best in town.”

  “Your mother knows good baking, that’s for sure,” Haldor replied with a chuckle, glancing at the skid drivers nearby. “If only she could see what kind of company I keep around here. Might ruin her opinion of me!”

  Alden smirked, catching a few of the nearby drivers exchanging knowing glances. He was well aware of how these men saw him—not quite one of them, but not exactly a stranger, either. To most of them, he was the Duke’s son, yes, but also a familiar face who didn’t look down on them. He came here not out of obligation, but because he liked the place, liked the people. He didn’t act like a noble.

  -They watch you because they hope you’ll watch them back someday.-

  The thought slipped through his mind like a shadow, unexpected and calm. Alden’s expression didn’t change, though he felt a faint flicker of understanding. He had no official duties, not yet, but the drivers and merchants here knew who he was and what he’d likely become. The thought of those future responsibilities weighed on him, but he shook it off. Today, he was just a boy picking up pastries.

  Just as he was about to turn and leave, one of the younger drivers, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, called out, a grin spreading across his face. “So, Alden,” he drawled, “when’s your old man gonna clear us a proper road to the capital, eh? I’m tired of hauling goods through the Shroud like I’m dodging ghosts!”

  Alden met the driver’s gaze, recognizing the teasing undertone, and shrugged good-naturedly. “Maybe if you offered to haul a few crates of these rolls up to him, he’d think about it,” he quipped, drawing a round of chuckles from the men.

  “Smart mouth, that one,” muttered the grizzled driver from earlier, but there was a grin hidden in his beard. “Better watch out, or he’ll be running Marlugrathara before we know it.”

  Alden gave a modest smile, but he noticed the way a few of the men looked at him more thoughtfully than before, weighing his words. It was a reminder that even here, in the warmth and laughter of The Broken Axle, people didn’t forget who he was or who he might become.

  Haldor reached out to clap him on the shoulder, his massive hand gentle despite its strength. “Take care on your way back, lad,” he said, lowering his voice a notch. “There’s been talk of strangers lurking near the Shroud’s edge. And with the Council envoy on world, there’s bound to be trouble somewhere.”

  Alden nodded, his expression growing serious. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, sensing the genuine concern in Haldor’s tone.

  With the sack of pastries in hand, Alden gave a final nod to Haldor and headed for the door. He could feel their eyes on him as he climbed the stairs—rough hands and hard eyes that held a flicker of something deeper, a mixture of pride and guarded hope.