CHAPTER 2: The market

The Satellite Cities of Aurelion (I) — Excerpt

To the north of Aurelion lies Rivain. Mist, steam, and metal form the rhythm of its breath. Rivain lives by heavy industry and warriors. Bordering the Western frontier, danger is a constant presence—ever near, ever watchful. In return, the city is rich in ore veins and metallurgical craft, resources that have shaped both its resilience and its temper.

꧁꧂

A Morning Greeting

Rivain wakes to the sound of machinery grinding against mist.

Low clouds hang like a thin film of oil spread across the air, reflecting the city's signature dull white glow. Every morning is the same: the sky does not know dawn—only the shift from darkness to a slightly colder shade of gray.

Sinhara stood by the attic window, watching steam rise from the pipes running along the rooftops. Clatter—click—buzz echoed without pause, like Rivain's uneven heartbeat when it is forced awake too early.

The street below still slept. Only a few early-shift workers dragged their feet along in silence, heavy coats soaked through with dew.

Beside him, Celles stretched. In his cat form, the black fur along his spine bristled faintly against the morning chill, his ears twitching as if trying to shake off the strange vibrations lingering in the ground from the night before.

Sinhara was about to ask him something when—

Knock! Knock! KNOCK!

The pounding was so sudden that both of them jolted. Celles sprang upright, claws scraping against the wooden floor to steady himself. Sinhara's heart lurched; he nearly dropped the teacup before even taking the first sip.

It was barely past six in the morning.

Who would come at this hour?

The knocking came again, more urgent now, as if the person outside could not wait another second.

"Sinhara! Are you in there?"

Oh—

A woman's voice. Slightly hoarse. Warm. Very familiar.

Sinhara rushed down the stairs, nearly slipping on the last step. Celles—already folded back into his cat form—leapt onto the stair rail, clinging with his claws and peering down with the instinctive wariness of his kind.

Sinhara turned the lock. The door swung open.

A rush of cold mist spilled inside along with a woman wrapped in a deep red scarf wound discreetly around her head. The cloth was thick, a little worn at the edges, but tied with the practiced neatness of someone long accustomed to heading to market before sunrise.

Madam Lira of Sixth Alley.

In Rivain, people called her a cheerful wanderer—because she almost never walked straight. The moment she spotted a stall selling rare ingredients, she would veer toward it, turning a ten-minute errand into a two-hour detour.

Today, she carried a wicker basket brimming with mushrooms. Not common ones, but Eastern brocade-cap forest mushrooms, the sort that rarely made it into Rivain. Tucked beside them were several bundles of dried herbs, thin as strands of hair, carrying the clean bite of wormwood mixed with the faint sweetness of wind-cured blossoms. One sniff was enough to know: this was a woman who cherished food as dearly as her own hands.

"Oh thank the skies, you're finally open!" she exclaimed, as if greeting a grandchild returned from a long journey. "Sinhara, come here, come here. Just like you asked the other day—look."

She rummaged through the basket and drew out a fish nearly the length of her forearm. Its silver scales shimmered in the morning mist like scattered glitter.

"The biggest Mộng Luyến on the boat! I waited at the Eastern Port since last night. The moment it was unloaded, I grabbed it for you!"

Sinhara's eyes lit up. He bowed deeply.

"Thank you so much, Madam Lira!"

"Oh, nonsense." She waved him off, dimples deepening despite the cold. "You sent word two days ago. If I hadn't saved it, how could I ever face Sil?"

At the mention of his grandmother, Sinhara smiled, a little awkwardly.

"She... she'll be back soon."

"Is that so?" Madam Lira beamed. "That's wonderful! Be sure to send her my regards. Tell her I'm still keeping a few mushrooms that are 'a bit overripe,' but wonderfully soft—perfect for someone coming home from a long road."

She winked playfully, then pulled her scarf tighter as a gust of wind cut through the alley.

The basket of mushrooms swayed lightly against her thigh as she turned, her hunched but decisive figure slipping back into the pale gray mist crawling down from Rivain's rooftops.

Only a few seconds passed before she vanished completely.

Sinhara stood in the doorway, the Mộng Luyến fish still cold in his hands, steam rising from it like breath.

Behind him, Celles hopped down softly, touched his nose to the fish's head, and blinked his golden eyes.

Sinhara laughed.

"Not for you."

Celles flattened his ears, flicked his tail once, then turned to lick the dew clinging to his black fur—a small gesture, but enough to draw warmth back into Rivain's morning.

Sinhara gazed at the shimmering fish in his hands, then suddenly remembered.

"Wait..."

He straightened. One ingredient was still missing.

A spark of excitement flashed in his eyes—light and buoyant, like a morning that still held something to look forward to.

"There's time," he muttered, glancing back at Celles with a faint smile.

"An hour before opening. I'll run to the market for Psalm leaves and be right back. Watch the shop, Celles."

Celles—in cat form—stood on the counter chair, tail curling into a question mark. He tilted his head, golden eyes glinting. But he didn't object. He only blinked once, then tucked himself in, ready to steal a bit more sleep from the morning.

Sinhara shrugged into his thick cloak and grabbed the worn leather bag from the corner. The surface was smooth, the edges frayed, but the clasps were solid.

It was a premium Rivain fireproof satchel—the only kind that wouldn't scorch when embers spat from exhaust vents.

As he slung it over his shoulder, the familiar weight settled him. The shop brightened faintly as he cracked the door, mist slipping inside.

"I'll be back soon," Sinhara said, then closed the door, leaving Celles curled in his warm nest.

꧁꧂

The Steamlight Market

The street leading down to the Steamlight Market was a long corridor pieced together from overlapping sheets of old metal. Every step Sinhara took rang out with a clang, as if he were walking through the belly of an aging iron beast.

Steam burst from the pipes lining both sides, sometimes hot enough to force him to dodge aside. In the pale morning light, a weathered metal bridge stretched over a canal of ash-colored vapor. It had been welded together from scarred steel plates, its sides streaked with rust-red stains, its iron veins ready to peel away if anyone stepped too hard.

Sinhara paused. One look told him it wouldn't last another winter.

He inhaled and stepped on. The bridge groaned. He kept going, even hopping over a loose plate poised to drop into the canal below.

"Two years and still no repairs..." he muttered. "The Emperor loves showing off metallurgy, but Rivain lives with collapsing bridges and toilets that won't flush."

A gust of wind shoved white steam across the bridge. Sinhara pulled his scarf tighter and quickened his pace.

Ahead, the Steamlight Market emerged from the thinning mist.

Stalls were built from dismantled machines of a bygone century, torn apart and welded into new forms: some displayed goods atop old steam-engine housings, others hung baskets from piston rods, and a few used broken motors as tabletops.

Everything was old—

yet vibrant, alive, like a heap of scrap that had learned to breathe.

The smells of smoked meat, morning greens, machine oil, and mist blended into a scent that was unmistakably Rivain.

Sinhara threaded through the aisles, hand tight on his fireproof satchel. Just a few more rows, and he would reach Madam Brios's stall—the one famed for selling everything fresh... so long as there was enough light left to see it.

Then—

"Soldiers! Soldiers are here!"

The shout slammed through the market like a stone striking metal. Sinhara froze. Heads snapped up all around him.

A man clambered onto a shelf, face drained of color.

"It's—the Silver-Helms!"

One heartbeat.

Then the market transformed into a familiar, chaotic machine, driven by the survival instincts of Rivain's people.

Vendors moved with astonishing speed: a pure-gold timepiece was shoved into a sack of rice, hollow energy shells buried beneath wilted vegetables, forbidden mechanical parts swept under tables and covered with torn cloths.

In seconds, all that remained on the counters were cheap goods and ordinary food.

This was Rivain's darker side—a quiet form of self-rule that lived in the cracks of the system. Poor, crowded places that belonged to the city and yet stood apart from it. The safest places to earn a few coins from expired goods.

"Damn it..." someone muttered. "What are they doing here this early?"

Before anyone could answer, the ground trembled—heavy movement.

Thud, thud, thud...

From the far end of the market, shapes emerged through the bright mist:

Rivain squirrels—massive, muscular creatures nearly shoulder-high, wrapped in thick fur against the cold, hind legs powerful enough to bound across rooftops like the wind. They were ridden almost exclusively by the military, prized for their ability to charge through Rivain's narrow terrain.

On their backs sat soldiers of the Silver-Helms. The largest wore white-silver armor, a polished silver helm smooth as a ground moon, the crest of Aurelion engraved on his chest. His gaze was arrogant, as though the market's poverty offended him.

One squirrel leapt down near Sinhara, the force of its landing scattering scraps of paper. The rider swept his eyes across the crowd, voice cold and imperious.

"This market is under sudden inspection. Everyone—stand still."

The air thickened. A few elders bowed their heads. Sinhara stood rigid, heart pounding, his hand tightening instinctively around the satchel strap.

The Steamlight Market—the liveliest place in Rivain's mornings—fell silent, like metal flash-frozen in place.

Another soldier whispered to his comrade. A nearby vendor trembled as he asked,

"What are they doing here at this hour?"

No one answered. All Sinhara knew was that the appearance of the Silver-Helms was never a good sign. And if they were here now, then something had begun the night before—something Rivain had not been ready for.

A soldier stopped in front of Sinhara, white-and-gold boots clanging sharply against the metal floor.

"Boy." He shoved a sheet of paper close to Sinhara's face.

"Have you seen this man pass through here?"

Sinhara looked for one second.

Just one—but it was enough to send a chill down his spine.

"No, sir. I've only just arrived."

The soldier frowned, suspicion digging into Sinhara's throat as if to root out a lie. But he said nothing more.

Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pink candy, bit down hard—and shouted:

"By order of the Emperor!"

The sound tore through the air, making several vendors clap hands over their ears.

"A cunning thief skilled in disguise has stolen a Royal artifact.

A great reward is offered for any information. Anyone who shelters or conspires with him will..."

The soldier lowered his voice—but the final words rose, sharp as a silver blade.

"...be granted an audience with Vaedran Noct."

The market seemed to lose its breath.

The Droughtkeeper.

The name was worse than death. No one truly knew what he did—only that the punishment did not end with oneself, but reached everyone one loved.

Someone whispered, voice cracking like glass.

"It's come to this..."

The soldier stood unmoved, eyes hidden behind the rim of his silver helm. He raised the notice high and barked across the market:

"He is hiding in Rivain! Search everything!

No one leaves this market until he is found!"

The air grew suffocating. Mist, oil, scorched metal—all fused into a single choking layer.

Sinhara tightened his grip on the satchel, heart racing. Not because he feared the soldiers—but because something about this order felt... wrong.

Without hesitating another second, Sinhara ducked low and slipped between two stalls being searched. A mechanic hurriedly shoved contraband beneath a table, accidentally casting just enough shadow for Sinhara to slide through.

"Sorry... excuse me," Sinhara whispered, barely louder than breath, and kept moving.

A shout rang out somewhere:

"Stop that one!"

He held his breath. His chest lurched. But the pursuing footsteps veered in another direction. He seized the moment—and ran.

When the vegetable stalls came into view, he skidded to a halt. Madam Brios's stand—but she wasn't there. Likely detained like the others.

On the damp wooden counter lay a bundle of Psalm leaves, untouched, green edged with pale violet like spilled ink.

"Thank you in advance..." Sinhara murmured, heart hammering.

He grabbed just enough for the stew, then slipped a small Lumen coin from his pocket and set it on the wet wood. The sound it made was so soft it felt like an apology.

Behind him, shouts and armored footsteps thundered through the market. A Rivain squirrel scrambled onto a rooftop, claws screeching, sending sheets of tin clattering down.

There was no more time.

Sinhara tightened the strap of his worn satchel, cast one last glance around—and bolted from the market, cutting through the bright mist like a metal sprout breaking free, heading for the narrow street that would take him back to Antonia.

The metal bridge shuddered beneath his feet as he crossed, iron bars clanging as if ready to tear loose.

Only one thought managed to surface in his mind:

I was just getting ingredients... how did this morning turn into this?

But at least—

tonight's stew would still be done properly.

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