Stillness clung to the rough-hewn lodge. Miners had not returned from the depths. Deep within the earth, they toiled, and their absence left an echo in the dim common room, a quiet Kaelen had not experienced since leaving the fen’s embrace.
Awakening came with a strange, liquid clarity. No stiffness plagued his limbs. Ancient memory stirred, a cool draught from the fen’s heart, chasing away the exhaustion of yesterday’s ordeal. Power, raw and green, coursed beneath his skin. It hummed, a low vibration, making the rough straw mattress feel like damp moss.
Sunlight, sharp and unwelcome, cut through the lodge’s narrow windows. A harsh glare threatened to scorch the skin, so unlike the filtered light of his home. Once, Kaelen would have recoiled, sought the shade. Now, a faint resilience, a gift from the burgeoning fen-will within him, kept the light from biting too deeply. His skin, accustomed to perpetual twilight, felt the strange warmth without truly burning.
He left the lodge, stepping into the sparse, crude settlement built around the Gloom-Quarry. Dust motes danced in the morning light, disturbed by his silent passage. Aethelgard’s settlements felt alien, a wound on the land, but this place, the quarry-town, was a festering sore.
Quarry-town existed as a necessary evil. A crude nexus in the desolate corners of Aethelgard. Its rough market, though small and mean, offered most necessities. Fen-Stone, torn from the earth’s gullet, fueled the distant cities, making this a vital, if grim, waystation. Caravans traversing the scarred lands stopped here, exchanging goods. Adventuring parties, like Lord Valerius’s, paused to arm themselves before delving into the more dangerous wilderness.
Kaelen moved with an almost preternatural quiet. His eyes, dark as peat, swept over the stalls, absorbing every detail. He trusted only what his own senses verified. Slums of old, he remembered, taught that lesson best. Whispers and second-hand tales twisted truth like old roots.
Few souls stirred in the ragged market. Morning had barely broken, and most miners remained deep below, their shifts stretching for days. They carried provisions into the lightless tunnels, finding it a waste of precious time to surface for every meal. A miserable existence, Kaelen thought, a grim fate he was determined to avoid. He would not be another swallowed by the quarry’s maw.
Hunger gnawed, a foreign sensation after the fen’s restorative grace. A day had passed since his last proper meal. He sought sustenance, a task more pressing than any other. No true eating house existed here, just crude stalls and cook-fires.
A savory scent, heavy with rendered fat and a hint of smoke, drew him to the market’s shadowed edge. An old man, hunched over a sputtering grill, turned skewers of dark meat. Deep wrinkles etched his face, a beard like grey moss spilled from his chin, and one lens of his spectacles was cracked. It was impossible to guess his years; he seemed older than the stones themselves.
Kaelen settled on a splintered stool before the griller. Voice low, almost a murmur, he asked, “What flesh is this?”
“Wouldn’t do to know, lad,” the old man cackled, a dry, rustling sound. “Best not to ask.”
Kaelen gave a slow nod. He’d eaten worse in leaner times. Gone were the days of clean kills, of fresh game. Now, survival meant accepting the grim reality of the world. He took a skewer, the meat still sizzling, and brought it to his mouth.
Through the fractured lens, the old man peered at Kaelen. “New face, eh? Drifter?”
“Arrived yesterday,” Kaelen replied, chewing slowly. The meat was tough, gamey, but surprisingly flavorful. “This has a good taste.”
“Yesterday? Must be the one from the Mire-Leviathan attack then.” Goris’s eyes, keen and unblinking, seemed to bore into him.
“News travels fast.” A slight frown creased Kaelen’s brow.
“Ha! Here, only the color of your underthings keeps secret. By midday, your deepest secrets are market gossip.” The old man’s chuckle held no warmth. “A fresh face, with luck still clinging to him… ripe for the plucking, eh?”
Kaelen’s jaw tightened. He recognized the veiled threat, the clear implication. His gaze, usually placid, sharpened, a momentary glint of ancient ice. The old man, unmoved, continued turning the skewers.
“Be wary, youngling. I know not why you cast anchor in this desolate port, but comfort you’ll not find. No refuge here.”
“No refuge,” Kaelen clarified. “I came to earn my keep. For Fen-Stone.”
“Ha! Fen-Stone, you say.” Goris let out a wheezing laugh. “But you come with no pickaxe, no gear. That’s not the stride of a man come to earn.”
Kaelen’s frown deepened. The old man’s words pricked, finding a tender spot. Goris seemed to find his discomfort amusing. Kaelen changed the topic.
“You’ve seen many moons here.”
“Since the first vein was struck,” Goris affirmed, gesturing vaguely to the piles of forgotten objects in the back of his stall. “Old-timer, they call me. Been here from the start, I have.”
He pointed a gnarled finger at the jumbled mass. “Look at them. Traces. Every piece, a tale. Those who first came, clinging to hope. Like you. They resisted the pull of the mine, fought to stay above ground. When their coin ran dry, they sold what they had. A worthless trinket first, then a prized possession. Until nothing remained. Only then did they descend.”
“The good stuff,” Goris went on, his voice a low rasp, “the useful things, they’re sent to Aethelgard proper. What’s left behind, the dross, the broken, the useless… those are the echoes of desperation. Hehe!”
The old man’s mirthless chuckle sent a chill down Kaelen’s spine. Goris’s eyes, ancient and knowing, seemed to tell Kaelen his own fate was etched in those forgotten relics. Kaelen’s appetite withered. The last bite of meat became a tasteless wad in his mouth. He swallowed it with effort, then rose.
“What foul sorcery is this?” Kaelen exclaimed, his voice low, controlled but with an edge. “Ten Gloom-Shards for one skewer?”
The currency of the quarry, Gloom-Shards, was minted from fragments of Fen-Stone. Ten shards equated to one-hundredth of a full Fen-Stone. Such outrageous prices were unheard of, even in the most cutthroat markets of Aethelgard. Kaelen felt a flare of righteous anger.
Goris, however, remained utterly unmoved. A flicker of expectation, perhaps, in his ancient eyes.
“Here, everything carries a price. Food, clothes, even the dullest pickaxe. Necessity governs value in this forsaken place.”
“What if I refuse?” Kaelen’s voice dropped to a near whisper, a dangerous quiet.
“Hehe! A helpless old man, you see before you. Yet, I’ve kept my stall for decades in this rough land. There’s a reason for that, boy.”
Nearby shopkeepers, previously absorbed in their meager wares, slowly turned. Their gazes, sharp and hostile, settled on Kaelen. A cold knot formed in Kaelen’s gut. The old man, Root-Gaffer Goris, was not alone. He was the root, perhaps, of this entire wretched market.
*He’s an old-timer*, Kaelen remembered. To survive here for so long meant connections, means, an understanding of power. Refuse to pay, and every door in this outpost would close. He’d be an outcast, a target.
“Damn it.” Kaelen cursed under his breath, a rare slip of frustration.
“Your wits serve you well, lad. Some fools lash out, and then find themselves buried deeper than any miner.”
“I have no coin on me,” Kaelen said, knowing it was a thin lie.
“Then you must have something else. Perhaps a sliver of Fen-Stone?” Goris’s smile was all teeth. “Hand it over. I’ll give you a fair price.”
Kaelen bristled. That tiny piece of Fen-Stone, his only real asset, was a hard-won prize. He hadn’t endured the Mire-Leviathan, hadn’t faced Lord Valerius’s suspicious gaze, only to surrender it for a single skewer of dubious meat.
The old man’s smirk widened. “Listen, boy. That you carry a Fen-Stone? That whisper will slither through this quarry like a bog snake within the hour. Do you truly think you can hold onto it then?”
Of course, the source of that whisper would be Goris himself. The unspoken threat hung heavy in the dust-filled air. Kaelen glared, a deep, primal anger stirring within him. He had faced hardship, known desperation, but this old man… Goris had clearly seen it all, lived through decades of it. In cunning, in sheer nerve, Kaelen was a fledgling before this ancient, withered hawk.
Once it was known he possessed a Fen-Stone, refusal was no longer an option. He felt the weight of the outpost pressing down on him, the unspoken rules of this harsh economy. Kaelen reached into his rough tunic, retrieving the small, raw shard of Fen-Stone he had kept hidden.
Goris’s eyes gleamed with avarice. “Ah! That size… worth about a hundred Gloom-Shards.”
“You jest!” Kaelen hissed. “In Aethelgard, it would fetch three hundred, easily.”
“This isn’t Aethelgard.” Goris’s voice was flat, final.
“This is banditry!”
“Boy, even a treasure becomes a curse if you lack the strength to protect it. Hehe!” The old man’s cackle scraped against Kaelen’s nerves. Kaelen felt an urge to strike the ancient face, to wipe that knowing smirk away. But reason, cold and clear, held him back. Subduing Goris would be simple, but the consequences would be catastrophic. Goris, the old-timer, undoubtedly had allies, perhaps even amongst the Awakened guards of the Gloom-Quarry. The old man’s calm, his complete lack of fear, spoke volumes. He held an undeniable power here.
Kaelen, for the first time in a long while, felt small, diminished. He exhaled slowly, a long, defeated sigh. All that effort, all that risk, for this tiny shard of earth-blood, now stripped of most of its value. It felt like a mockery of his struggle.
“Why did I bother…” The words escaped him, soft with despair. He held out the Fen-Stone. Goris snatched it with surprising speed.
“Hehe! Don’t look so down, lad. I’m not so cruel, nor so ignorant. I won’t bleed a newcomer dry on our first acquaintance.” Goris counted out a small pouch of dull, chipped Gloom-Shards. “Here, ninety shards. Keep them safe. This place swarms with pickpockets and thieves.”
“A cat warning a mouse,” Kaelen muttered, stuffing the pouch into his pocket. The old man merely chuckled, gesturing towards the cluttered back of his stall. “For our first transaction, a gesture. Choose an item from the pile. A gift.”
“That junk?” Kaelen asked, his lip curling.
“If you’d rather not…” Goris let the words hang.
Kaelen pushed himself up. He wouldn’t walk away empty-handed. Not after being so thoroughly fleeced. He needed to claim *something*, however worthless, to assuage the sting of defeat. Not that he expected anything of value among the accumulated refuse. Everything worthwhile, Goris had said, went to Aethelgard proper. This was the leavings of the hopeless.
He sifted through the dusty, tangled heap. Broken tools, tarnished metal, worn leather straps, fragments of stone, unidentifiable rubbish. “Nothing but refuse here. What am I meant to take?”
Goris watched, a faint amusement playing on his ancient features. Kaelen, for all his visible annoyance, exuded a raw, untamed energy. Most who came here were already broken, or soon would be. Kaelen, however, retained a defiant spark, a belief in his own resilience. This worn-out place devoured all, yet this one still shone with a stubborn, verdant light. Goris’s smile softened, a rarity.
Kaelen’s refusal to accept a loss, even a small one, was almost endearing. His fingers brushed against something smooth, cold, hidden beneath a tangle of rusted wire. He pulled it free.
He held out a tiny hourglass, its glass cloudy, a few grains of sand still clinging to the bulb. “This? It’s not… why is it here?”
“No one wanted it,” Goris said, shrugging. “So it remained.” Goris had acquired it years ago, from a caravan, an oddity among more useful wares. It had found its way into the junk pile, a trinket with no purpose in this world. Who would carry such a thing now? Only the wealthy, the frivolous of Aethelgard proper, and they never graced this place with their presence. “Perhaps choose something else, boy?”
“No.” Kaelen shook his head. “I doubt anything else here is as intact as this.” He left the stall, the small hourglass clutched in his hand.
“Hehe! Come by again, youngling!” Goris called after him.
“I fear our paths may cross again too often,” Kaelen mumbled, a sour taste in his mouth. He walked on, then stopped, turning back just as he reached the edge of the market.
“Then, Root-Gaffer Goris,” Kaelen said, his voice carrying clearly across the dusty stalls. “Let us not meet again.” He turned, striding away without a backward glance. Goris merely chuckled, the dry, rustling sound echoing in the silent morning, watching until Kaelen’s dark form vanished into the pale light of the quarry-town.