The stench hits Tomas first, a sour current of damp earth, stale cooking oil, and unwashed bodies. It clings to the narrow alleys of the Lower Wards, a stark contrast to the perfumed air of the Upper. Anya’s directions, delivered in a low rasp, feel more like a riddle than an itinerary: “Follow the run-off from the tanneries, then look for the bridge with the broken railing. East from there, past the three-legged dog, a hovel with a red door near the old canal lock.” He navigates the labyrinth. Each turn brings another dead end, another shadowed passage reeking of desperation. The cobblestones here are slick with grime, not polished by rain. He steps over a discarded fish head, its eye cloudy with decay, and his boots crunch on something brittle and unidentifiable. This is the part of Ashcourt he actively avoids, a place where the air itself feels heavy with stolen time. His silver ring, usually a comfortable weight, feels strangely cool against his skin here, an odd reversal from its usual warmth when he senses danger or vast years. It’s as if the sheer volume of dwindling lifespans in this district overwhelms its subtle pulse, rendering it numb. He tries not to focus on the individual counts around him, the fleeting sparks that wink out with every passing breath. The total despair is too much to bear. He spots the bridge, its iron railing bent inward like a broken rib. Below, the canal water is thick and sluggish, reflecting only the grey sky. Anya’s clues lead him deeper, away from the faint hum of the Great Exchange, into a silence punctuated by distant coughs and the occasional wail of a child. He passes a woman hunched against a wall, her face gaunt, her eyes distant. He knows the look. It’s the shadow of the market, the slow, lingering drain of years. The three-legged dog is curled in an alcove, its fur matted, a raw wound on its missing limb. It lifts its head as Tomas passes, a low growl rumbling in its chest. He doesn't meet its gaze. He pushes on, his coat brushing against mildewed brick, the chill seeping into his bones. His own four years feel heavier here, a ticking clock in a place where time is currency and life is cheap. Seraphina’s words echo in his mind, the implied threat of his past in the Under-Market. He has no choice but to find this artisan. Each step is a conscious effort, a descent not just into the Lower Wards, but into a grim reality he tries to wall off. The air grows colder, sharper, a cutting wind whipping through gaps in the buildings. He can feel the market’s tendrils even here, the invisible threads connecting these lives to the gilded cages of the Upper Ward. He tightens his grip on the collar of his coat, the fabric thin against the chill, a small, futile barrier against the encroaching despair. He needs to find this hovel, perform this chore, and escape this place before it consumes what little time he has left. --- The alleys narrow further, becoming mere cracks between leaning structures. Overhead, lines of tattered laundry crisscross the sky, blocking out the meager light. The smell intensifies, a raw, organic rot overlaying the metallic tang of unwashed humanity. He passes a doorway where a woman nurses a baby, her eyes vacant, her breast barely visible beneath a threadbare shawl. The baby makes no sound, simply sucks weakly, its tiny hand clutching at the empty air. Tomas looks away, a knot forming in his stomach. The walls here are a patchwork of crumbling plaster and rough-hewn timber, patched with scavenged metal sheets. Moss clings to every damp surface, thriving in the perpetual gloom. He sees children playing in a puddle of stagnant water, their laughter thin and brittle, their clothes stained with dirt and unknown fluids. They kick a misshapen ball of rags, their limbs too thin, their faces too pale. He wonders how many years they have left, how many have already been traded away by desperate parents. His gaze catches on a small handprint pressed into the damp mud of a wall, still visible despite the grime. It’s a child’s print, small and perfect, a fleeting mark of innocence in this desolate place. He imagines the child, perhaps the very one he saw playing, leaving their mark before the harsh realities of Ashcourt erase them. The thought makes his jaw clench. He is part of this system, a broker in stolen futures, and the weight of that truth presses down on him with a physical force. He sees the flicker of a fire through a grimy window, a brief warmth in the pervasive cold. People huddle together in doorways, sharing sips from a single earthenware flask. Their faces are etched with resignation, their eyes holding a dull sheen of illness. He passes a small, makeshift shrine in an alcove, a chipped ceramic figurine surrounded by wilting wildflowers. A silent prayer for what, he wonders? For more years? For a quick end? The air carries a constant undertone of coughs and sniffles, the unmistakable sound of a widespread sickness. A thin man, his skin translucent, leans heavily against a wall, his chest rattling with each breath. Tomas can almost see the years peeling away, like flakes of old paint. His ring gives a faint thrum, a whisper of countless dwindling reserves. The Years Market may be under the polished dome of the Great Exchange, but its true marketplace is here, in the bodies and lives of these forgotten people. The faces blurred past him, each one a testament to the brutal exchange. He tries to keep his own gaze forward, but the misery pulls at the edges of his vision, a constant, nagging demand. He feels a familiar bitterness rise in his throat. He is no better than any of them, just better at surviving, for now. --- The alley twists one last time, opening onto a small, muddy square. A single, gnarled oak stands in its center, its branches bare against the sky. The canal lock is visible beyond, its heavy wooden gates dark and weathered. Anya’s directions click into place. He scans the hovels clustered around the square, each one a ramshackle collection of salvaged materials. There, to his left. A door, painted a faded, chipped red. It stands out barely, a dull ember in the gloom. He approaches slowly, his boots sinking slightly into the churned mud. A single window, thick with grime, looks out onto the square. No light emanates from within, only deeper shadow. His eyes drift to a small, hand-knitted scarf hanging on a bent nail beside the doorframe. The wool is a soft, faded blue, with a tiny, unraveling knot in one corner. A familiar knot. A knot he remembers from a freezing morning, wrapped tightly around a small neck. Elara’s scarf. A cold dread washes over him, a colder chill than the biting wind. The scarf is unmistakable. His gut clenches with a sudden, sickening jolt. Seraphina’s problematic artisan. The woman whose life she wants transferred, irreversible and complete. It can’t be. Not here. Not this woman. He stares at the scarf, the small, tangible proof. The blue wool, the tiny knot. It’s too specific, too personal. His mind races, piecing together the fragmented clues from Anya, Seraphina’s veiled threats, and Elara’s desperate plea. The boy had spoken of his sick mother, of needing money for medicine, for food. He had traded three years of his young life for her. Three years, sold to Tomas, in a desperate bid to save her. His silver ring, which had been numb, now pulses with a frantic heat, a sharp prickle against his skin, warning him of a profound convergence, a terrible truth. The irony is a bitter bile rising in his throat. He, Tomas Vell, the broker of years, had bought a child’s future, thinking he was offering a mercy, a temporary reprieve. And now, the very woman that child sacrificed his years for is the target of House Valerius. The cruel, elegant cruelty of Lady Seraphina. She knew. She must have known. He runs a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm. His four years feel less like a countdown now, and more like a crushing burden. He had thought himself cynical, immune to the raw tragedies of this market. But this. This is a special kind of hell, a trap sprung not by a stranger, but by the very threads he himself had woven. He raises a shaking hand, reaching towards the red door, towards the truth he now knows he cannot escape. --- Tomas hesitates at the door, his fingers brushing the rough wood. He can’t bring himself to knock. The truth, now laid bare, feels too heavy, too final. Instead, he moves to the grimy window, tilting his head to peer through a crack in the glass. The pane is thick with dirt, but enough light filters in from the outside to make out the scene within. The room is small, barely more than a single space, lit by the weak glow of a single candle flickering on a makeshift table. A narrow cot sits against the far wall. On it lies a woman, thin and pale, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. Her face is gaunt, her hair spread like a dark fan against the thin pillow. She is Elara’s mother, undeniably. The same delicate features, only now ravaged by sickness. Her years, Tomas knows, are barely a flicker now, fading fast. And beside her, perched on a stool far too tall for him, sits Elara. The boy is wrapped in a coarse blanket, his small frame visibly thinner than Tomas remembers. His skin looks clammy, almost translucent in the dim light. He leans close to his mother, his hand, small and frail, clasped tightly around hers. His head rests against her shoulder, and a faint, tuneless hum escapes his lips, a childish lullaby. The sound is barely audible, a fragile whisper in the quiet room. It’s the sound of a child trying to soothe the unsoothable. Tomas can see the tremor in Elara’s small body, a faint shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. The candlelight catches the sweat on his forehead, making his skin glisten. His eyes are half-closed, heavy with fatigue, the dark circles beneath them stark against his pale face. Tomas stares, his breath catching in his throat. The boy’s skin holds a tell-tale pallor, the faint, waxy sheen that he knows too well. He sees the visible strain in Elara’s posture, the way his shoulders slump, the tremor that runs through him. The boy is struggling. He is unwell. The illness that claimed his mother is now taking root in him, or perhaps, the loss of his years is accelerating its grip. His own silver ring throbs, a violent pulse against his finger, confirming the terrible sight. Elara’s eyes flicker open for a moment, unfocused, before closing again. His humming falters, then continues, a little weaker than before. He looks so small, so utterly vulnerable, clinging to the last vestiges of his mother’s warmth. And Tomas knows. He sees it in the boy’s fading color, in the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The boy is not just tired; he is fading. Rapidly. As Tomas approaches the hovel, he sees Elara clutching his mother's hand, humming a lullaby, his small frame trembling with fever, and Tomas's heart clenches – the boy is fading fast.

Chapter 6: The Artisan's Refuge