The biscuit sat like gravel in Alucent's stomach, but it was something. The water had helped more, it lingered on his tongue like cool wind, floral and mineral and oddly clean. His body still ached, but his brain was kicking in again. Hunger had dulled, replaced by something more familiar: curiosity.
And money. Or whatever passed for money here.
He followed the sound of voices, a rising tide of clamor beyond the trees and rooftops. Smoke from chimneys twisted skyward, and the Steamcottages became less isolated, closer together now, nestled around a clearing like huddled teapots. The path beneath his feet turned smoother, more worn. Not just cobbled, but swept.
Eryndral's heart. The Marketplaza.
It hit him like a burst of sound and scent. He stopped at the edge of it, black curls brushing across his eyes as a gust of warm air pushed past. Voices overlapped, dozens of them, maybe hundreds, speaking in a tongue he couldn't understand, but full of rhythm and life. Children shouted. Vendors barked offers. Steam hissed from small carts shaped like bugs or bells. A chime rang out from somewhere near the center, signaling… something. A trade complete? A cycle passed?
His blue eyes darted, taking it all in.
Tents and kiosks, some built into wagon frames, others permanent. Everything was hand-crafted. Nothing mass-produced. He saw gears embedded into stall awnings, powered by thin copper tubes that puffed steam at regular intervals. A meat vendor carved glowing red slivers from a creature that looked like a skinned eel with feathers. Another hawked etched copper bracelets that sparkled with inner light.
Currency exchanged hands, small, glowing discs no bigger than poker chips. Some blue, some red, a few gold. They shimmered faintly and clicked when handled. He watched as one woman handed over three to purchase a bundle of bright green ferns tied with copper wire. The vendor tested each disc on a circular device, something like a scale, but runic, and then nodded in approval.
Runetokens. That was obvious.
But something else caught his eye.
Thin spools, shimmering and soft, like metallic thread or spider silk, being handled with gloves and reverence. Weavefibers. These weren't traded casually. They were weighed with tools that looked sacred. He saw one passed between hands, and it sparked, just a flicker, like static, but it set his teeth on edge.
Alright, Alucent thought. If I'm stuck here, I need to learn how this game works.
And that means starting with whatever I've got.
He patted his coat. His fingers brushed the plastic pen in his breast pocket. Cheap. Clicky. He pulled it out. Held it up. Nothing fancy. Just a standard black ballpoint.
In this world? Alien tech. So he thought.
He glanced around, zeroing in on a stall. Modest. Brass trinkets, spools of dull fiber, and a few lengths of chain. The vendor was middle-aged, her hair in metal pins that steamed gently in the heat. She saw him. She frowned. Her eyes flicked to his hair, his pale skin, then to the ring.
Alucent approached slowly. Smiled. Held up the pen, twirled it between his fingers, then offered it in his palm.
She blinked at it. Took it. Clicked the top once. Flinched.
He pointed to her goods. Raised a brow.
The woman called over someone.
A man.
Stocky, velvet-caped, and sharp-eyed. Thread-scar scars stitched across his cheek and into his beard, like someone had tried to reweave his face.
This would be Jorin.
He arrived with the slow, confident walk of someone who owned more than his stall. Alucent pegged him instantly: merchant class, possibly corrupt. Maybe even charming.
Perfect.
Jorin took the pen. Studied it. Clicked it twice. His brows rose, very slightly. He turned it over in thick fingers, muttering in the local tongue. Then he looked at Alucent, smiled broadly, and said something that sounded like a price.
Alucent couldn't decipher it. But he caught the tone.
Lowball offer.
He narrowed his eyes. Held up three fingers. Then four.
Jorin snorted. Countered with one.
Alucent shook his head. Took the pen back. Made to walk away.
Jorin held up a hand. Two fingers.
Pause.
Alucent hesitated. Then gestured to a small set of Runetokens sitting near the register stone. Pointed. Raised a brow.
Jorin grinned. He said something sharp, sarcastic. But he nodded.
Trade.
Alucent handed over the pen. Jorin weighed it like he was holding a relic. Then he produced two Runetokens from a pouch and dropped them into Alucent's waiting palm. They tingled. Not warm, not cold. Just...alive, somehow.
He closed his fingers around them.
First currency.
He turned to go, but Jorin stopped him. The merchant leaned in slightly, lips close to Alucent's ear. He spoke softly, a short phrase, the last word sharp and punctuated.
Alucent caught only one syllable: "Weave."
He stepped back.
Jorin's grin widened, but his eyes didn't smile.
Behind them, Gryan stood by the edge of the Marketplaza, arms folded. He wasn't watching the market. He was watching Alucent.
The ring on Alucent's hand pulsed once.
He looked down.
The Runetokens in his fist shimmered faintly in response. A delicate vibration buzzed through his palm. It wasn't pain. Just presence. Awareness.
The ring was… acknowledging them?
His heart beat faster.
He shoved the tokens into his coat pocket, the metal clinking faintly against the brass buttons sewn there. He turned and walked quickly, pushing past a woman carrying spools of colored steam-thread. A child with mechanical wings flapped overhead, laughing.
Alucent didn't laugh.
He found a quiet bench near a pipe-coiled sculpture that spat steam like a breathing dragon. Sat. Watched.
From here, he could see the rhythm of trade. Movement, bartering, shifting alliances. Senele's economy wasn't just about goods, it was reputation, display, cleverness. Like a bazaar crossed with a casino.
But what chilled him wasn't the system.
It was how quickly he understood it.
Money was universal. Value even more so.
And if this place had tokens and fibers and hidden rules… he'd learn them.
Jorin was still watching him. Not closely. Casually. Like a man who'd just made a small bet on a horse with strange shoes.
The Weave Anchor Ring pulsed again.
Alucent stared at it.
You know something, he thought.
And so do they.
He turned the ring slightly. Just to see how the light caught it. It shimmered, not visibly to others, but to him. Like the shimmer pressed inward. Not magic. Not exactly.
A link.
He remembered Jorin's voice. The smirk. The whisper.
Weave.
Whatever this world was, whatever "Weave" meant, the ring belonged to it, And somehow… so did he.
Behind him, the dragon-pipe exhaled another burst of steam.
Alucent leaned back, eyes closed. It wasn't a victory. But it was a start.