Night, a rare solace, had offered its silent reprieve. Miners assigned to the deeper veins remained within the earth's maw, their arduous shifts stretching over cycles of sun and star. Thus, Vorlag found the cramped dormitory empty, a stark luxury he had not anticipated. He slept, not in the true slumber of mortals, but in a profound stillness, his crystalline form settling into a quiet hum. He rose, a tremor of latent power stirring beneath his obsidian skin. Fatigue, a phantom sensation for one such as he, was absent. A peculiar clarity resonated through him, a sharpened edge to his senses, an echo of the silent wilderness. His unique nature, a burden elsewhere, felt almost a companion here, unobserved. Dawn had yet to fully break, but already, a searing glare sliced through the distant, jagged peaks. The Marches themselves seemed to absorb the nascent light, reflecting it back with cruel intensity. Once, before his awakening, such brilliance might have scoured his eyes. Now, it merely registered, another facet of this harsh world he was bound to. He moved through the makeshift settlement clinging to the Obsidian Quarry’s edge. Dust, fine as powdered crystal, gritted beneath his boots. Ramshackle dwellings, cobbled from scavenged metal and flaked rock, clustered like desperate barnacles on a titan’s hide. Each structure defied the crushing weight of the Marches, a testament to raw, stubborn will. He needed information. The whispers he’d gleaned from Wayfarers spoke of endless labor, of Core-Crystal veins deep enough to swallow daylight. But rumor was a fractured thing, a weak echo. Firsthand observation, a principle he had carried from the shadowed quiet of his solitude, was the only truth. He would see, he would learn. Morning had barely stirred the settlement. A sparse few figures, hunched against the biting air, moved with weary purpose. The market, a collection of rough-hewn stalls nestled amongst larger, more stable structures, lay mostly deserted. Miners, consumed by the depths, had no need for daily provisions. They descended with rations for days, weeks even, their lives measured by the extraction of luminous Core-Fragments. Such a life. A miserable cycle of toil and darkness, far from the desolate beauty he commanded. He would not be bound by its rhythm. He would find another path, forge a different destiny. But first, a basic need gnawed at him. Sustenance. He had not eaten since his forced meal amongst Kaelen’s Wayfarers. Vorlag turned towards a plume of acrid smoke, a savory scent struggling against the pervasive mineral tang of the Marches. A stall, crudely fashioned from corrugated metal sheets and ancient timbers, offered skewers of sizzling meat. A solitary figure presided over a smoking brazier: an old man, skin like dried parchment, etched with a thousand sun-blasted lines. His beard, a tangled white cascade, framed a face where one eye peered from behind a cracked lens, the other a rheumy, knowing glint. He approached, his presence causing a momentary ripple in the air, a silent displacement. The old man, though, barely twitched, merely offering a faint, knowing smile. “What manner of beast is this?” Vorlag’s voice, a low rumble, seemed to vibrate the very ground. “Better not to ask too closely, Wayfarer.” The old man’s voice rasped, dry as bone. “Some truths are best left undisturbed. Heh.” Vorlag took a skewer, the unfamiliar meat surprisingly tender. He chewed slowly, assessing the taste, the texture, the lingering spice. “Fresh quarry, are we?” The old man’s good eye narrowed, fixing on Vorlag with unsettling acuity. “You carry the scent of the unsettled wastes, survivor of the Crystalline Lurker’s bite, yes?” Vorlag paused, the skewer still in hand. News travelled faster than light through these fractured lands, it seemed. “Aye,” he grunted, a flicker of irritation passing through him. “Has word spread so swiftly?” “Whispers here are sharper than any blade, Wayfarer. Within a cycle’s turn, they’ll know the cut of your boots, the depth of your pockets. And a new face, unscarred by the Quarry, is a beacon for hungry eyes.” A low, dry chuckle escaped the old man’s throat, a sound like grinding stone. Vorlag’s crystalline jaw tightened. He held himself still, but a minute vibration ran through his obsidian plating, barely perceptible. “A refuge, you imply? I came to earn my keep.” “Earn?” Cinders, for that was the name etched on the rough sign above his stall, scoffed lightly. “No pickaxe at your hip, no worn leather on your hands. You walk like a monarch, not a miner. This is no haven for kings, boy.” Vorlag shifted his gaze to the piles of strange, derelict items stacked in the shadowy recesses of Cinders’ stall. Tarnished metal, fractured tools, peculiar trinkets — a graveyard of forgotten ambitions. “You have collected much, old one,” Vorlag observed, changing the subject. “Aye. Since the first vein was breached. The old-timers call me Cinders. These are the remnants of those who came before you. Those who resisted the deep, just as you might.” Cinders’ gaze swept over the junk pile, a profound sadness in his cracked lens. “They arrived with hopeful eyes, with a handful of coin or a trinket from the outside. They traded, they haggled, they tried to find a way to avoid the Descent. First, the worthless baubles, then the tools, then the very clothes from their backs. Until nothing remained but the choice: the mines, or oblivion.” Cinders’ voice lowered, a dry whisper. “These… these are the leavings. The useful things were sent to the Sky-Citadel, no doubt. The rest, a monument to broken dreams.” A coldness settled over Vorlag, colder than the deepest vein. He looked at the half-eaten skewer in his hand, his appetite gone, replaced by a grim understanding. He forced the last morsel down, the taste suddenly bitter. “A curious price for this meat,” Vorlag stated, his voice flat. “Ten Obsidian Shards? For a single skewer?” In the Sky-Citadel, a hundred such shards would buy a small Core-Fragment, enough to power a small lantern for a full cycle. Cinders merely shrugged, undisturbed by Vorlag’s thinly veiled outrage. “Here, Wayfarer, everything holds its own precious weight. Food, warmth, a sturdy tool. Each shard is earned through grit and sweat. You pay the price, or you go hungry.” “And if I refuse?” A faint shimmer passed over Vorlag’s crystalline skin, a warning in the air. Cinders’ smile widened, a network of wrinkles deepening. “A helpless old man like myself, you might think. But I’ve carved a niche in these Marches for longer than you’ve drawn breath, Wayfarer. And that, in itself, speaks volumes.” Around them, the few other stall-keepers, hitherto preoccupied, suddenly turned their heads. Their gazes, sharp and unforgiving, settled on Vorlag. A silent challenge, an unspoken agreement. He was an outsider, standing against their collective will. An invisible net tightened around Vorlag. He was powerful, yes, but isolated. His fury, though potent, was useless against such ingrained unity. He understood now. Cinders was no mere merchant. He was the root, the silent, unyielding heart of this desperate marketplace. To cross him was to cross them all. “I have no Obsidian Shards,” Vorlag admitted, his voice rough. The admission felt like a surrender. “Perhaps a Core-Fragment, then?” Cinders’ eye glinted. “A sliver of the deep. I give fair prices, of course.” Vorlag grit his teeth. He had sought to protect his last remaining Core-Fragment, a precious reserve of energy, a hidden strength. To give it up for a mere meal… it galled him. His very essence pulsed with resentment. “The tale of your Core-Fragment, Wayfarer, would spread faster than a dust-devil in the waste. Within the hour, every pickpocket and cutthroat in this settlement would know its weight. Do you truly believe you could keep it safe then?” Cinders’ words, soft as a rustle of dry leaves, carried the force of a battering ram. The old man did not need to state the origin of such a rumor. Vorlag glared, his obsidian eyes burning with contained fire. He had faced monsters of crystalline scale, survived the crushing embrace of earth. Yet, this frail, ancient man, with his broken lens and knowing smile, possessed a power entirely different, born of endless shrewdness and primal cunning. Compared to Cinders, Vorlag felt like a callow youth. Slowly, reluctantly, Vorlag reached into a hidden pouch within his rough tunic. He withdrew a small, palm-sized Core-Fragment, its facets glinting with a faint, inner light. It pulsed with harnessed energy, a piece of the world’s very heart. Cinders’ good eye widened, a flash of genuine interest. “Ah. A decent piece. I’d offer… ninety Obsidian Shards.” “Ninety? It’s worth three hundred in the Sky-Citadel!” Vorlag’s control frayed at the edges. Obsidian shards vibrated in the stall’s rough timbers. “But this, Wayfarer, is not the Sky-Citadel.” Cinders was implacable. “This is… highway robbery!” “A treasure, Wayfarer, is only as safe as the hand that holds it. Without the strength to defend it, it becomes a burden. A magnet for misfortune. Heh.” Cinders chuckled, a sound that grated on Vorlag’s nerves. The urge to lash out, to unleash a storm of obsidian shards, was a raw, primal thrum in his chest. But the consequences… the sheer weight of Cinders’ connections, his silent network, held him back. This was not a fight of physical might. He sighed, a sound like grinding stone. All the dangers, all the risks he had taken to preserve this fragment… for this. To be fleeced by an old man with a cracked eye. He placed the Core-Fragment on the rough counter. Cinders took it, his gnarled fingers surprisingly swift, and pressed a pouch of clinking Obsidian Shards into Vorlag’s hand. Ninety, precisely. “Heh. Do not despair, Wayfarer. I am not entirely without mercy. As our first transaction, choose a keepsake from my collection.” Cinders gestured to the mountains of junk. “That… refuse?” Vorlag’s voice was incredulous. “If you prefer not to…” Vorlag pushed past, entering the gloom of the stall. He would take something. Anything. A silent declaration that he was not utterly defeated. He knew there would be nothing of true value, only the cast-offs of desperate men. But his pride, a rigid shard within his core, demanded recompense. Cinders watched him, a slow smile returning to his face. Most newcomers, once stripped of their illusions, would crumble, their defiance extinguished. But Vorlag, despite his silent fury, held an unyielding spark. An untamed energy, raw and vital, resonated from him. He was a force, even if currently bridled. His determination to extract some small gain, even from this humiliation, was… endearing, in its own way. Vorlag’s hand delved into a pile of corroded metal and shattered ceramics. He extracted a small object, coated in layers of dust and grime. It was an hourglass, crafted from dark, volcanic glass, its fine sand long since solidified into a single, unmoving mass within its slender chambers. Time, arrested. Eternity, captured. “That?” Cinders’ voice held a note of surprise. “A useless bauble. No one wanted it. Why that, of all things?” “It remains unbroken,” Vorlag stated, its surface cool beneath his touch. It was a fragment of a forgotten age, a silent testament to cycles long past. He liked its quiet finality. Its refusal to yield to change. He departed the stall, the hourglass clutched in his hand, the small pouch of shards heavy at his hip. He did not look back. “Heh. Come again, Wayfarer. I have a feeling we shall meet often.” Cinders’ voice followed him, dry and knowing. “An unfortunate thought,” Vorlag grumbled, the words barely audible. He did not slow his stride. Cinders watched the towering figure disappear into the shifting dust of the market. His smile lingered, a flicker of ancient amusement in his eyes. “Then, Cinders, old one,” Vorlag muttered to himself, the words lost to the wind, “let our paths remain sundered.” But even as he spoke, a premonition, cold as obsidian, settled upon him.

A Price in Shards