Steam still rose from Riven's plate when he finally got to sit down. His fingers twitched toward the spoon, stomach contracting painfully, but Ulric and Kellen had already scraped their dishes clean.

  Ulric's chair screeched against the floor as he stood, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "We're leaving," he said, the words carrying the weight of an order rather than a suggestion. "Now."

  A slow burn radiated through Riven's gut, hunger transformed into something crueler. For one fleeting second, he stared at the hot food, his hand trembling near the wooden spoon. He considered speaking up, demanding the five minutes he needed to quell the tremors in his limbs.

  Then he caught Ulric's cold stare and dismissed the thought. It wouldn't change anything. He pushed the plate away, the bowl scraping harshly against the table's surface.

  Lya opened her mouth, as if to say something. Her eyes moved from Riven to his untouched plate, then to Ulric's impassive face. She closed her mouth again and lowered her gaze. She hadn't eaten either.

  They stepped outside the tavern, leaving the warmth behind. The muffled chatter from inside was instantly drowned by the roar of the Grand Markets—a tidal wave of shouting merchants and pressing crowds.

  The world exploded into riots of scent and sound, and strangely, the agonizing burn in Riven's stomach began to recede. His mind, accustomed to the gray monotony of stone and iron, struggled to categorize the impossible variety of stalls. Everything felt too bright, too strange, aggressively alive.

  They passed a merchant selling Star-Shells—purple-husked nuts stacked in wicker baskets. When one was cracked open, the flesh inside glowed faintly, streaked with soft neon lines that pulsed like a living thing.

  A few steps further, the air grew heavy with the smell of blood and exotic spices. A butcher carved slabs from a Gravelhorn, the marbled meat layered with stone-gray fat that shimmered in the sunlight. Beside it lay massive ribs from an Ashback Boar, still smelling of deep forests and the smoked lower layers.

  Women with crimson-stained fingers sorted through piles of flat mushrooms the size of dinner plates, their edges rippling with electric blue. A child no older than six sat cross-legged beneath a merchant's table, methodically extracting luminescent seeds from fruit that resembled elongated pears, her tiny fingers precise and practiced. The seeds went into one bowl, the husks into another. Neither she nor the merchant above acknowledged each other's existence.

  But the dream was cut short. Ulric didn't stop to admire the exotic displays. He moved with cold efficiency, stopping only at a stall selling travel-ready rations. He didn't buy the gleaming fruits or fresh steaks. Instead, he pointed to rows of Dustrunner Hare—specifically Dried Back Fillets—and the long, salt-encrusted Leg Strips of Cinder Goat.

  The heavy cloth bag filled with nuts hard as rock hit Riven's chest, the impact bringing his hunger back with a sharp, sudden twinge. The salt-encrusted strips of Cinder Goat already made his mouth feel dry just looking at them.

  Great! Nice food. Unless we're planning to dine on jerky with a side of dehydration, we're pretty much screwed without water.

  He glanced toward Lya, walking with her usual composed, serene demeanor. Maybe Lady Miracle will tell me there are relics that piss fresh water or something.

  The subsequent transactions passed quickly. Lya handled the merchants with practiced ease, her quiet voice somehow cutting through the market's chaos.

  They stopped before Valen's Reliquary, a high-end establishment that made Riven feel like a dirt stain on clean linen. Inside, the air was fresh, smelling of polished wood and expensive metal. Assistants in tailored suits moved with clinical precision between glass display cases, treating survival tools like fine jewelry.

  Lya stepped forward to deal with the merchant. An assistant presented a dark gray flask etched with runes. Six liters, spatially compressed. It filled itself with ambient moisture when empty.

  Of course. A bottle that pisses water. Why not.

  When they finally left, they had the flask and an eternal flame lantern for a total of twelve Lirs. For Kellen, Ulric, and Lya, who divided the cost, the purchase was routine—simple tools for the road ahead.

  Riven didn't see it that way. He stood in the corner, arms trembling under the weight of provisions, making calculations in his head.

  They looked damn pleased. Six Lirs for a water-spitting flask. And only one for me. He looked at the polished metal of the bottle, then at his own scarred, dirty hands.

  The contrast stung worse than the hunger. He shifted the weight of the provisions, trying to distribute the strain more evenly across his shoulders. His stomach growled audibly, but no one turned to look. In the reflection of a nearby shop window, he caught a glimpse of himself—hollow-cheeked, eyes sunken, clothes hanging loosely on a frame that had grown thinner over weeks of half-meals and missed dinners.

  The others walked ahead, discussing routes and schedules, their voices steady and unhurried. The gap between them and him seemed to widen with each step, not just in physical distance but in something more fundamental. They were travelers, adventurers. He was cargo.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  As they moved through the crowded marketplace, people parted naturally for Ulric's broad shoulders and stern expression. Those same people bumped and jostled Riven without apology, knocking his burden and causing fresh waves of trembling through his overworked muscles. Each impact was a reminder—he wasn't seen, not really. Not as a person deserving of space or consideration.

  Six Lirs for water. One for me.

  The equation repeated in his mind as he trudged forward, eyes fixed on the backs of his captors, the heavy sack digging into his shoulder, a physical manifestation of the weight pressing down on his spirit.

  Outside, evening was settling over the city. The setting sun cast a warm golden light across Argel, painting marble streets and rooftops in soft amber hues.

  Riven's thoughts wandered as they walked—as they had all day. Could he escape? He'd spent each hour searching for a crack in their guard, a single moment of distraction. But every time his heart began to race with thoughts of flight, he felt the cold pressure of the relic against his skin. Ulric wore the controlling ring. Riven had played through a dozen scenarios trying to steal it, but each one ended the same way—with his own blood on the pavement.

  Ulric was a wall of a man. His bulging muscles and severe, inflexible expression were enough to send shivers through Riven just by standing in his shadow. Kellen, the quieter and stranger of the two, never said much, but kept an eye on him nonetheless. Then there was Lya. She didn't ignore him, didn't mock him—she just spoke to him like a normal person. But in this group, that was enough to make her stand out.

  Riven turned his gaze away from her, focusing instead on the heavy rhythm of his own footsteps.

  He continued to follow in silence, still uncertain where they were headed. He supposed they were making their way to an inn to spend the night. Though night had nearly fallen, the streets remained brightly lit. Lampposts lined the main road, casting a soft, bluish glow that washed over the marble, keeping shadows at bay. The city seemed just as alive as it had been during the day, only colder.

  He trailed several paces behind the others, the weight of the provisions making each step an effort. His shoulders burned, the muscles twitching involuntarily from hours of strain. The fabric of his shirt was damp with sweat despite the evening chill, and the coarse material chafed against his skin with every movement.

  He had learned to compartmentalize discomfort, to file it away in some distant corner of his mind, but the exhaustion was becoming harder to ignore.

  On their way, they crossed paths with another group of Climbers. They were more numerous, already fully equipped, moving with a sharp, disciplined purpose—as if they intended to challenge the Ascension before the hour was out. Their weapons gleamed in the blue lamplight, and they spoke in low, confident tones of routes and strategies. Professional. Prepared.

  But it wasn't the warriors that caught Riven's attention. It was the three figures trailing silently behind them. They were laden with bags overflowing with provisions, their heads bowed. They wore exactly the same clothes as Riven—the same torn, dirty white shirt, the same simple beige pants, the same worn boots. Around their necks, metal relics caught the blue light, marking their status as clearly as iron chains ever could. Riven watched them pass, his gaze lingering on their hollow eyes and hunched shoulders.

  Is that what I look like?

  The thought cut through his mind like a jagged blade. It hurt to admit, but there was no difference between them. Just as miserable, just as broken.

  His face, reflected in the polished shop windows they passed, was a mask of pure exhaustion, bone-deep.

  One of the slaves stumbled slightly under his burden, quickly righting himself. The Climber nearest him didn't even turn to look. The invisible line that separated them was palpable—the slaves weren't just subordinate—they were unseen. Background elements, like the lampposts or cobblestones.

  Riven's arms, pushed beyond their limit for hours, finally betrayed him. A sharp tremor ran through his muscles. The heavy bag of dried meat slipped from his fingers. The sound of the bag hitting the marble floor was like a gunshot in the quiet street.

  Everything seemed to freeze. Heads turned. Well-dressed passersby of Argel stopped, judging eyes falling on the disheveled boy who had dared to disturb the peace of their city.

  The silence didn't last long.

  The group of Climbers they had passed earlier was still close by. Some turned around, observing the scene. Ulric felt their gazes. His jaw clenched.

  Ulric was on him in an instant. The man didn't waste a breath on words. He swung his heavy, calloused hand. The blow connected violently with Riven's jaw.

  The force was stunning, sending him spinning. He crashed to the ground, his cheek slapping against the cold, merciless marble floor.

  His vision blurred and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

  Above, he could sense Ulric's imposing rage, a shadow blotting out the stars.

  "What are you doing?!" Lya's voice cut through the buzzing in Riven's ears.

  Before Ulric could strike again, she was already at Riven's side. She dropped to her knees, ignoring the dust on her own clothes, extending a hand to help him up.

  Ulric stopped, looking down with a sneer of pure incredulity. "What?" he spat, his eyes flickering from the kneeling girl to the fallen bags. "You want to do his job, girl? Fine. Carry the damn bags yourself if you care so much about him."

  He didn't wait for a response. With a look of pure disgust, Ulric turned his back. Kellen followed, his expression unreadable but his pace just as quick.

  They walked away without looking back, their backs stiff with silent, burning shame—as if being associated with a clumsy slave and a soft-hearted girl was a stain on their reputation.

  Lya didn't let go of Riven's arm until he was back on his feet. She looked at his bruised jaw, the small trail of blood at the corner of his mouth.

  "We're close, Riven," she murmured, though her eyes remained fixed on the dust at their feet.

  Riven didn't answer. He wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, forcing his legs to move. Lya bent down, picked up the fallen bag of meat, and slung it over her own shoulder. He didn't try to stop her—he had no strength left for pride, and his jaw pulsed too much to speak.

  His hand drifted to his chest, fingers locking around the collar, squeezing the cold metal until it bruised his palm.

  Okay. I understand now.

  They despise slaves. Not just indifference—active contempt. I'm nothing to them. I thought maybe... but no. I'm sure of it now.

  And they don't plan to keep me alive.

  They won't hesitate to use me for their own good.

  They walked in silence through the streets, two shadowed figures trailing far behind the men. Riven's knuckles remained white, his grip never relaxing as he fixed his gaze on the ground.