The phantom echo of a child’s plea still scraped at Tomas’s ears, even over the din of the Years Market. He pushed through the throng, the human tide pressing in from all sides. The market stretched under the grand glass dome of the Great Exchange, a cavernous space where desperation met decadence. Stalls overflowed with gaudy trinkets, exotic spices, and the pungent aroma of rendered fat from a nearby food vendor. This noise, this crushing, vibrant chaos, was a balm. It fought the silence inside his head, the one that let the other whispers creep in.
He moved with practiced ease, a phantom himself, slipping between the sweating bodies of hopeful sellers and the stony faces of the brokers. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of blood, the faint, sweet scent of newly minted coin, and the cloying perfume of the Yearsmiths’ wards. Every person here carried a price, a visible shimmer around them that Tomas could read, a count of their remaining years. His own felt like a lead weight in his gut, a mere four years, a number that mocked the life he spent trading away.
A young boy, no older than ten, darted past him, clutching a half-eaten candied apple. His shimmer was bright, a vibrant eighty years, untouched by the market’s hunger. Tomas watched him disappear into the crowd, a pang hitting his chest. He envied the boy’s innocence, the vast expanse of time he hadn't yet learned to fear. The market was no place for such bright futures.
He spotted a Yearsmith’s booth, not far from the main thoroughfare. Its dark wood stood in stark contrast to the surrounding riot of color. A single, polished brass scale sat on a velvet cloth, flanked by small, glowing crystals that pulsed with faint, indigo light. This was where the actual transfer happened, the years literally weighed and measured, then drawn out by the smiths. Brokers brought the desperate to these altars, mediating the grim exchange.
The spectral voice, distant but insistent, spoke again in the back of his mind. *"She pleaded, Tomas. Just like Elara."* He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking. He needed to focus, to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of this place, not the ghosts of his past. He hated the market, hated what it represented, but he hated the silence more. He needed the world to scream to drown out his own.
The press of bodies continued, a living river. A woman with a basket of wilting flowers stumbled, nearly knocking into him. Her shimmer was a dim thirty years, already half-spent, her face etched with a quiet resignation that twisted Tomas’s stomach. He offered a quick, practiced smile, a flicker of charm that evaporated the moment she was out of sight. Charm was a currency here, but it bought nothing for himself.
---
Tomas found a niche, leaning against a grime-stained pillar that supported the dome. From here, he had a clear view of the Yearsmith’s booth he’d noticed. A transaction was underway. He watched, detached, as a young woman stood before the scale, her shoulders hunched. Her dress was coarse-spun, worn thin at the elbows, her hair a tangled mess, but the faint glow around her spoke of twenty-seven years, a decent offering.
The broker, a stout man with a greasy waistcoat and a florid face, spoke in low, soothing tones, his hands gesturing with practiced ease. “A small portion, my dear. A fraction of what you possess. Think of the relief. The child will eat. Your sister will have her medicine.” He painted a picture of quick salvation, words that Tomas knew by heart. He'd used those same words, countless times, to countless desperate souls.
The woman’s eyes were wide, red-rimmed. She clutched a small, wooden doll, its painted face chipped. Her gaze flickered to the stern-faced Yearsmith, a gaunt figure whose fingers, long and almost skeletal, hovered over the glowing crystals. The smith wore a ring of black iron, inscribed with ancient glyphs that seemed to draw the light from the air. This was the moment of truth, the final hesitation before the plunge.
“Just… ten years?” the woman whispered, her voice barely audible over the market’s roar. “It’s enough for the rent. For food.” Her eyes darted around, searching for an escape that wasn't there. Her hand trembled as she placed it on the brass plate of the scale, her fingers splayed as if bracing for a shock.
The Yearsmith’s gaze was utterly devoid of emotion, a cold, clinical appraisal. He nodded once, a barely perceptible dip of his head. The broker beamed, a predatory smile that stretched his thick lips. “Ten years. A fair exchange, my dear. For immediate relief.”
Tomas’s stomach clenched, a familiar twist of nausea. He saw Elara’s face, tear-streaked and pleading, reflected in the young woman’s desperate eyes. Elara had clutched a worn wooden bird. The years had blurred the details, but never the feeling. He could almost smell the dust in the air of that cramped room, the stale scent of poverty. His own words echoed back to him, hollow and cruel, promising a future he knew would be bought at too high a price.
The Yearsmith moved, a slow, deliberate motion. He touched one of the indigo crystals. It flared, a brilliant pulse of light, and the woman gasped, a choked sound. A thin, silvery wisp, almost imperceptible, seemed to pull away from her hand, coalescing into the crystal. Her shimmer dimmed, visibly, from twenty-seven years to a faint seventeen. Her shoulders slumped, the doll falling from her grasp to clatter softly on the wooden floor. She looked older, instantly, as if a vital spark had been extinguished.
---
The woman stumbled away from the booth, her face pale, the broker already turning to the next potential seller with a practised smile. Tomas pushed off the pillar, the scene having dug its claws deep into his gut. He needed to move, to shake off the phantom cold that settled over him whenever he witnessed these transactions. It was business, he told himself, the way the world worked. But the rationalisation felt thin, brittle.
The market continued its relentless churn. Merchants shouted, children cried, a minstrel plucked a discordant tune on a three-stringed lute. He threaded his way through a cluster of nobles, their silks rustling, their faces smooth and unlined despite the centuries many of them carried. Their years were stolen, bought cheap from the likes of the woman he’d just seen. He despised them, yet he served them, his hands stained by the same grime.
His eyes, scanning the crowd automatically, snagged. Across the bustling thoroughfare, near the entrance to the exclusive High Arcades, stood Elder Kael. The Yearsmith was unmistakable, even from this distance. Kael was a legend, one of the oldest, most powerful smiths in Ashcourt, rumoured to have lived for over four centuries. His frame was impossibly gaunt, his robes of deep indigo almost swallowing him, but there was an unsettling power in his stillness.
Kael’s face was a roadmap of wrinkles, a parchment of ancient secrets. His eyes, the color of burnt amber, were fixed directly on Tomas. There was no casual glance, no accidental meeting of gazes. This was deliberate. A cold dread seeped into Tomas’s veins, colder than the phantom chill from the transaction. Kael's gaze was knowing, assessing, a predator sizing up its prey. It felt like a probe, piercing his own carefully constructed facade.
He felt exposed, suddenly, utterly vulnerable. Kael knew. How could he know? Tomas had been meticulous, careful. But the Elder Yearsmith was famous for his uncanny ability to discern the truest value, the deepest secrets, of the years themselves. Kael’s lips, thin and bloodless, curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It wasn't a smile of greeting or amusement. It was the smile of a man who held a secret, a secret that could shatter Tomas’s already precarious existence.
The market noise faded, replaced by the frantic hammering of his own heart. Kael held his gaze for a long moment, an eternity in the cacophony, before slowly, deliberately, turning his head. The spell broke. Tomas drew a shaky breath, forcing himself to move. The market no longer felt like a balm, but a trap. The spectral voice whispered again, closer now, *“They know, Tomas. They always know.”*
---
Tomas stumbled back, bumping into a merchant’s display of polished gourds, sending one clattering to the flagstones. The merchant swore, but Tomas barely heard him. Kael’s knowing gaze had lodged itself in his mind, a cold splinter. His fear, a gnawing, constant companion, had just found a face. His years were dwindling, and now, apparently, the most powerful people in Ashcourt were taking notice.
He needed air, space. The press of bodies felt suffocating, each jostle a reminder of his dwindling time. He pushed towards a less crowded exit, the one leading to the shadowed alleys behind the main Exchange. His usual swagger was gone, replaced by a desperate urgency. He just wanted to disappear, to outrun the impossible knowledge that now burned in Elder Kael's ancient eyes.
Just as he reached the mouth of a narrow passage, where the light of the market gave way to perpetual gloom, a figure detached itself from the shadows. The messenger was cloaked in heavy, dark fabric, the hood drawn low, obscuring their face. They moved with a silent, almost unnatural grace, appearing from nowhere, their presence chilling despite the market's heat.
The messenger stepped directly into Tomas’s path, blocking his exit. There was no greeting, no word spoken. A hand, gloved in dark leather, shot out, holding a heavy, sealed scroll. The parchment was thick, an expensive cream, secured with a wax seal the size of a pigeon's egg. Imprinted into the wax, bold and unmistakable, was the sigil of House Valerius: a rearing griffin clutching a sundial in its talons.
The messenger shoved the scroll into Tomas’s numb fingers. The weight of it was surprising, almost alarming. Before Tomas could utter a sound, before he could even process the sudden, ominous delivery, the cloaked figure melted back into the deeper shadows of the alley, vanishing as silently as they had appeared. He stood there, the heavy scroll in his hand, the Valerius sigil a stark, blood-red mark against the cream parchment. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. The spectral voice was silent now, replaced by a crushing certainty that whatever lay within this scroll, it was not good news. It was urgent, and it was for him alone.
It was an invitation, or perhaps a summons, from the most opulent, most ruthless House in Ashcourt. And he had only four years left to answer it.