The guilt-market operated in the hours before dawn, when decent people were still asleep and the desperate came to barter with their souls.
The Cartographer led Jiko through Ember's Rest's outer quarter as the sky began its slow shift from black to grey. They passed sleeping forms huddled in doorways, stepped over a drunk who'd collapsed mid-street, ignored the coughing that echoed from the sick-houses. The outer quarter smelled of unwashed bodies, desperation, and something else. Something metallic and sweet that Jiko would later learn was the scent of concentrated guilt.
"The black market for moral weight," the Cartographer explained as they walked, "exists because the official economy is rigged. The Choir Sanctum hoards virtue, the Iron Testimony weaponizes guilt, and the merchant guilds control access to Siphons. If you're poor and you've sinned, your options are: keep the guilt and let it destroy you, sell yourself into servitude to have it removed, or come here."
"And here?" Jiko asked.
"Here, they remove it illegally and store it. Some guilt gets sold to researchers like me. Some gets dumped into carriers, people willing to absorb others' sins for payment. And some..." The Cartographer's expression darkened. "Some gets weaponized."
They turned a corner and entered a plaza that might've been beautiful once. Pre-Severance architecture still showed through. Decorative columns, a dry fountain, benches carved from stone. Now it hosted desperation.
Dozens of people clustered in small groups, huddled around makeshift stalls where operators worked their illegal Siphons. The air hummed with the sound of extraction, a low, resonant vibration that made Jiko's teeth ache. Black smoke rose from some stalls, golden light from others. Memory and morality made visible.
"Stay close," the Cartographer said. "Don't touch anything. Don't accept any offers. And if guards come, run. I can't bribe our way out of being caught in a place like this."
Jiko nodded. They entered the market proper.
The first stall they passed was run by a woman with dead eyes and hands that shook as she operated her Siphon, a crude device made from scavenged crystal and pre-Severance wire. Her customer was a young man, maybe eighteen, sobbing as black smoke poured from his temples into a collection jar.
"What did you do?" the operator asked, her voice flat.
"I killed my brother," the young man whispered. "For his food rations. He was dying anyway. I thought it wouldn't matter. But it does. It does, it matters, oh god it matters."
The operator cut him off. "Hold still. If you move during extraction, I can't guarantee where the guilt ends up."
The smoke thickened. The young man screamed. Not in pain, Jiko thought, but in loss. Like something essential was being torn away. When it was done, he collapsed forward, gasping. The operator held up the jar. Inside, black smoke writhed like a living thing.
"Payment," she said.
The young man pushed a handful of White Shards across the table. Mundane memories, probably everything he had. The operator counted them, nodded, and waved him away. He stumbled off, empty-eyed, the guilt gone but the memory of what he'd done still intact. Jiko understood the economics: you could remove the moral weight, but you couldn't remove the knowledge. The young man would remember killing his brother. He just wouldn't feel bad about it anymore.
"Is he better off?" Jiko asked.
The Cartographer shrugged. "He'll survive. Whether that's better is philosophical."
They moved deeper into the market. Jiko saw all varieties of transaction: A mother selling her memory of her daughter's first words for enough coin to buy bread. A soldier trading his memory of comradeship for combat-skill Shards. An old man having his fear extracted and bottled, leaving him hollow but calm.
And everywhere, the guilt-jars. Hundreds of them, stacked and stored and sold. Black smoke in glass, each jar marked with a label: Adultery. Theft. Cowardice. Murder. Sins made commodity.
"Who buys them?" Jiko asked.
"Researchers, mostly. Studying the nature of guilt." The Cartographer picked up a jar labeled Betrayal. The smoke inside churned violently. "Some buy them for weaponization. There are rituals that let you force guilt into an enemy, break them with their own conscience. And some..." He set the jar down carefully. "Some buy them to absorb. To take on others' sins deliberately."
"Why would anyone do that?"
"Penance. Martyrdom. Or profit." The Cartographer pointed across the plaza. "There. That's who we're here to see."
A stall larger than the others, backed against the plaza's far wall. A sign hung above it, painted in elegant script: Marik's Burden Brokerage, We Carry What You Cannot.
Behind the counter stood a man in his mid-twenties, thin and nervous-looking, with dark hair and darker eyes. His arms were visible beneath rolled sleeves, and they were covered, absolutely covered, in black Marks. Sins upon sins, layered so thick that his skin looked like shadow. But his face was calm. Tired, but calm.
"That's Marik," the Cartographer said. "He's a professional carrier. Absorbs others' guilt for payment. Been doing it for three years. Most carriers break within months, but he's got a trick: he absorbs the guilt but doesn't internalize it. Keeps it separate somehow. It's destroying him slowly, but he's functional."
"Why does he do it?"
"Family debt. His sister got sick, needed expensive treatment. He sells himself piece by piece to keep her alive." The Cartographer started toward the stall. "Come. I have a proposal for him."
Marik looked up as they approached. His gaze found Jiko first, swept over his unmarked arms with visible surprise, then moved to the Cartographer. Recognition flickered.
"Cartographer," Marik said. His voice was quiet, controlled. "Didn't expect to see you in Ember's Rest. Thought you only worked the Archive territories."
"Business brings me everywhere eventually." The Cartographer rested his hands on the counter. "I have an opportunity for you. Interested?"
"Depends on the pay." Marik's eyes slid back to Jiko. "And on who your friend is. He's blank."
"Observant."
"Hard not to notice. There are maybe two dozen blanks in all the Dominions. Most are dead or locked up. The fact that he's walking free is unusual." Marik tilted his head. "Does he absorb?"
"We're here to find out."
Marik was quiet for a moment, studying Jiko with the intensity of someone evaluating a potential threat or asset. "If he can absorb without marking, if the guilt actually disappears instead of transferring, then he's worth more than everything in this market combined. You know that, right?"
"I do."
"And you're offering to share that value with me? Out of generosity?" Marik's tone was skeptical.
"Out of necessity. You're dying, Marik. I can see it. You're carrying too much. Another year, maybe two, and you'll crystallize or break. But if Jiko can take some of your burden..." The Cartographer leaned forward. "I could offer you a future instead of a countdown."
Marik's jaw tightened. For a moment, Jiko thought he'd refuse. Then the young man looked at his own arms, at the black Marks crawling up toward his shoulders, and something in his expression cracked.
"What do you want in return?" Marik asked.
"Information. Access to your network of carriers. And introduction to the right markets. I need to know who's buying guilt in bulk and why."
"That's Iron Testimony business. Dangerous to ask about."
"I'm paying enough for the danger."
Marik considered. Behind him, Jiko noticed a photograph pinned to the stall's wall. Marik and a young woman, both smiling. His sister, presumably. The woman looked healthy in the photo, bright-eyed. But there was a date written below: three years ago. Before the sickness. Before the sacrifice.
"Fine," Marik said finally. "But the blank absorbs first. If he can't do what you're claiming, the deal's off."
"Agreed." The Cartographer turned to Jiko. "Are you ready?"
Jiko looked at Marik, at the Marks covering his arms like a shroud. "What do I do?"
"Hold out your hand," Marik said. "I'll press my Mark against your skin. If you're a true blank, the guilt should transfer. Either disappear into you, or fail entirely. If you're a false blank..." He didn't finish, but Jiko understood. False blanks were people who'd had their Marks temporarily suppressed. The guilt was still there, buried. If Marik tried to transfer and Jiko couldn't absorb, it would overwhelm them both.
Jiko extended his hand.
Marik reached out slowly, like someone approaching a dangerous animal. His fingers, stained black from wrist to nail, touched Jiko's unmarked palm.
And the world shifted.
It wasn't physical pain. It was presence. Sudden, intrusive, alien. Jiko felt something pour into him like water into an empty cup: Marik's guilt, layered and complex. A hundred sins from a hundred strangers, each carrying its own story, its own weight, its own screaming voice.
I left them to die I left them to die and I knew I knew I could've saved them but I ran.
She trusted me and I lied I lied for money for survival for nothing for everything.
The child was crying and I didn't stop I could've stopped them but I didn't I didn't.
Voices upon voices, memories upon memories, sins compressed into metaphysical density and forced through the point of contact into Jiko's mind. He felt them flowing in.
And then he felt nothing at all.
The guilt hit him like water hitting sand. Present for a moment, then absorbed. Dispersed. Gone. Not destroyed, exactly, but diffused into whatever emptiness lived inside him. The voices faded. The weight vanished. The Marks on Marik's arm, three of them, the ones Marik had been channeling through their contact, simply dissolved.
Jiko looked at his own palm. Still unmarked. Still clean.
He looked up at Marik. The young man was staring at his arm in shock, at the places where Marks had been and now weren't. The black stains had vanished completely, leaving healthy skin behind.
"Oh god," Marik whispered. "Oh god, it's real. You're real."
The Cartographer was smiling. "How do you feel, Jiko?"
Jiko examined himself. The guilt had been there. He'd felt its entry, recognized its nature. But it had left no impression. No emotion. No moral weight. It was like he'd absorbed information without attachment, data without meaning.
"Fine," Jiko said. "It didn't affect me."
"Can you still sense it? Inside you?"
Jiko turned his attention inward, searching. And yes, there, buried in whatever void served as his conscience, he could sense the guilt. Not as feeling, but as presence. Like three small stones dropped in deep water, sinking but still existing.
"It's there," Jiko said. "But it's not mine. It's just stored."
"Can you return it?" the Cartographer asked.
Jiko considered the question, then focused on the guilt. Could he push it back out? He concentrated, imagining the stones rising, the water flowing backward.
Marik gasped. The three Marks reappeared on his arm, exactly where they'd been.
"Stop," Marik said quickly. "Stop, I feel it coming back. Don't."
Jiko stopped. The Marks faded again.
The Cartographer was grinning now, wide and unrestrained. "Perfect. You're not just absorbing it. You're storing it. Reversibly." He turned to Marik. "How much can you offload?"
Marik was still staring at his arm. "I'm carrying about forty Marks right now. Heavy ones. Murder, betrayal, abuse. If he can take even half..."
"Try," the Cartographer said. "Slowly. We don't know his capacity yet."
Marik looked at Jiko. "This might hurt. For me, I mean. Transfer trauma is real. Some carriers black out when too much leaves at once. If I collapse, just let me."
"Understood," Jiko said.
Marik took a breath, steeling himself. Then he pressed both hands against Jiko's forearms.
The flood was immediate. Twenty Marks, Marik was being conservative, testing limits, poured through the contact like a dam breaking. Jiko felt them: murder, rape, theft, abandonment, cruelty, cowardice, treachery. Sins heavy enough to break most people, each one carrying fragments of memory and emotion from its original bearer.
They hit him. They entered him. They disappeared into the void.
Jiko stood unmoved. Unaffected. As empty as before.
Marik, on the other hand, collapsed.
The young man fell backward, caught himself on the counter, breathing hard. Tears streamed down his face. Not from sadness, Jiko thought, but from relief so intense it manifested physically. His arms were nearly clean now, only twenty Marks remaining instead of forty. He looked at them, then at Jiko, then back at his arms.
"I can breathe," Marik whispered. "I haven't been able to breathe in a year. I forgot what it felt like. I forgot." He laughed, a sound caught between joy and breaking. "You just gave me my life back."
"Don't celebrate yet," the Cartographer warned. "We don't know if this is permanent. The guilt might return. It might manifest differently. You might experience delayed trauma." But even as he said it, he was watching Jiko with fascination. "How do you feel? Any different?"
Jiko assessed himself. He was carrying forty Marks worth of guilt now. Sins that should've made him a monster or a Saint of suffering. Instead he felt exactly as he had before: empty, functional, unburdened.
"I'm fine," he said.
"No intrusive thoughts? No nightmares? No sense of moral weight?"
"Nothing."
The Cartographer pulled out a notebook and began writing furiously. "Remarkable. You're not just immune to guilt. You're a perfect storage medium. The guilt exists inside you but can't interact with your psychology because you lack the psychological structures it needs to cause suffering. You're a void. A bottomless pit."
"Is that valuable?" Jiko asked.
"Valuable?" The Cartographer looked up from his notes. "Jiko, if word gets out about what you can do, every faction in the Dominions will want you. The Iron Testimony will want to study you. The Choir Sanctum will want to kill you. And the carriers..." He gestured at Marik, who was still catching his breath. "Every carrier in the world will want your help. You're a cure for a disease we thought was incurable."
Marik straightened, wiping his eyes. "He's right. Do you know how many carriers are out there? Hundreds, maybe thousands. All of us dying slowly, crushed by weight we chose to bear. If you could..." He stopped, then started again. "I'll pay. Whatever you want. Just help us."
Jiko looked at Marik's remaining twenty Marks. "Take the rest."
"What?"
"The rest of your guilt. Transfer it. I can hold it."
Marik stared at him. "That's do you understand what you're offering? These aren't just sins, they're trauma. People's worst moments. Their worst selves. And you want to carry all of it?"
"I won't feel it," Jiko said. "So yes."
For a long moment, no one moved. Then Marik, slowly, extended his hands again. "Thank you," he whispered. "I don't know what you are, but thank you."
They clasped hands. The final twenty Marks transferred.
And Marik became, for the first time in three years, clean.
They left the guilt-market as dawn broke properly, sunlight spilling over Ember's Rest's walls and turning the dusty streets golden. Marik walked with them, moving differently now. Lighter, freer, like someone who'd been carrying chains for so long they'd forgotten what walking felt like.
"I need to see my sister," he kept saying. "I need to, she hasn't seen me without Marks since this started. I need to show her."
"Later," the Cartographer said. "First, we talk business."
They found a quiet corner in a tea-house that catered to early risers. Merchants mostly, planning their day's trades. The Cartographer ordered breakfast for three and waited until they were alone before speaking.
"Marik, I need you to understand something. What Jiko did for you, that was a demonstration, not charity. If we're going to work together, I need you to be clear-eyed about what he is."
"A miracle," Marik said.
"A tool." The Cartographer's voice was gentle but firm. "Jiko doesn't feel guilt or compassion. He helped you because I asked him to, and because it was efficient. Not because he cared about your suffering. You need to understand that."
Marik looked at Jiko. "Is that true?"
Jiko considered lying. It would be more comfortable for Marik. But the Cartographer had asked for honesty. "Yes. I don't understand why carrying guilt hurt you. I know it did, intellectually. But I don't feel it. I helped because it was the logical choice."
He expected Marik to be hurt. Instead, the young man smiled. Sad, but genuine. "I don't care. You helped. Motivation doesn't change the result." He turned to the Cartographer. "What do you need from me?"
"Information about the guilt-trade. Who's buying in bulk? Who's weaponizing it? And most importantly..." The Cartographer leaned forward. "Who's hunting blanks, and why?"
Marik's expression darkened. "The Iron Testimony, mostly. They believe guilt is sacred, the price of moral consciousness. Blanks are heresy to them. And lately..." He paused. "Lately, they've been buying guilt-Marks in massive quantities. Way more than before. My contacts say they're building something. Something big."
"A weapon?" the Cartographer asked.
"Maybe. Or a prison. Or both." Marik shook his head. "I don't know the details. But I know where to find someone who does."
"Who?"
"My sister. Ven." Marik's smile returned, this time with pride. "She's not sick anymore. That was a cover story. She's an information broker. Works the Forgetting Depths, trades in secrets and memory-Shards. If anyone knows what the Testimony is building, it's her."
The Cartographer sat back, pleased. "Then that's our next destination. After you've had a proper reunion."
Marik stood. "Thank you. Both of you." He looked at Jiko specifically. "I know you didn't do it out of kindness. But I'm still grateful. If you ever need help, anything, you ask. I owe you my life."
Jiko nodded. Gratitude was another thing he didn't fully understand, but he recognized its social function. "Noted."
Marik left to find his sister. Jiko and the Cartographer sat in silence for a moment, drinking tea that tasted like burned flowers.
"You did well," the Cartographer said finally. "Better than I expected."
"What happens now?"
"Now we test your limits properly. See how much you can carry. See if there are side effects. See if you can be weaponized." The old man smiled. "You're valuable, Jiko. More valuable than you know. The question is: who gets to use that value? You, or someone else?"
"You want to use me," Jiko said. It wasn't an accusation, just a fact.
"I want to understand you. And yes, use you, but use you well. Better me than the Testimony or the Choir. At least I'm honest about it." The Cartographer finished his tea. "You're carrying sixty Marks now. The sins of dozens of people. How does it feel?"
Jiko turned his attention inward again. The guilt was there, a weight he could sense but not feel. Sixty lives' worth of suffering, stored in whatever void he'd been born, or made, with. He imagined it like a jar filling with dark water, slowly rising but never overflowing.
"It feels like nothing," Jiko said.
"Good," the Cartographer said. "Because if we're going to break this world's economy, we'll need that nothing. We'll need your emptiness."
Jiko looked at the old man. "Is that why you made me? To break the world?"
The Cartographer's smile faltered. Just for a moment, something like guilt crossed his face. Real, genuine, human guilt. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual calculation.
"Ask me that again," the Cartographer said, "when you're ready for the answer."
They left the tea-house as Ember's Rest woke fully to morning. A settlement of desperate people trading pieces of themselves to survive, unaware that the man walking among them carried more sin than all of them combined.
And somewhere in the shadows between buildings, Syla watched and giggled. Her favorite toy was getting stronger. Soon, he'd be strong enough to play properly.
Soon, the real fun would begin.