In the past few days, Ren moved like a shadow through Verathane's arteries. The city lived on layers, each with its own pulse, and he quickly learned that nothing in it was simple. In the marketplace near the river bridges, open stalls bustled with vendors calling out their wares. Fruits that bled glowing nectar when cut, metals that hummed faintly when struck, bottled mana swirling like smoke in glass. Yet beneath the noise, Ren noticed quiet figures who never raised their voices. They sold no goods, only silence, and those who approached them left with faces pale or hardened.
One morning he trailed one such exchange. A cloaked woman handed over a shard of crystal carved with symbols that writhed faintly, as if alive. In return she received a folded slip of parchment sealed with black wax. Ren felt the air thicken as the parchment changed hands. Nyxa's voice curled low. "Not trade. An oath, perhaps. Or a warning. This city's heart beats with more than commerce."
