The next morning came slow, like the city itself was reluctant to wake. Hollow Deep never really had a sunrise — just a shift from the heavy black of night to a damp, lighter gray that pooled in the streets. The rain had stopped, but the air still hung wet in Zayway's lungs, thick with the smell of iron and old brick.
He slept in the same corner he had for weeks now — a shadowed archway between two buildings that leaned together like conspirators. The walls dripped from last night's downpour, drops splattering onto the threadbare blanket beneath him. His dreams had been strange: whispers under the cobblestones, the silver mist curling into shapes before fading.
The sound that pulled him awake wasn't birdsong — Hollow Deep didn't have much of that — but the grating scrape of wood on stone.
Old Mare was moving her cart again.
⸻
Zayway rolled up his blanket and tucked it into his pack. He didn't own much else — a half-loaf of bread, a small knife, a metal button he kept for reasons he didn't quite understand. He slung the pack over one shoulder and followed the sound.
Old Mare's cart was as crooked as the streets. Its iron wheels squealed unevenly with each turn, the left one catching every other rotation. She didn't seem to mind; the sound was almost a signature, a way to announce herself without saying a word.
Her stall was a patch of warped wood bolted to a crumbling wall at the mouth of a narrow lane. No sign hung above it anymore — the paint had flaked off years ago, leaving only the faint shadow of letters no one could read. Mare didn't need a sign. People who needed her always found her.
⸻
She was already unpacking crates when Zayway arrived. Bent-backed but sharp-eyed, Mare moved like someone who knew the exact weight of every object she owned. She sold everything — bruised fruit, scraps of cloth, bits of wire, lockpicks worn smooth from years of use. The market around her shifted constantly, but Mare was a fixed point, like one of the city's old boundary stones.
"You've been staring at shadows again," she said without looking up, her voice rough as the cobblestones underfoot.
Zayway blinked. "I wasn't—"
She cut him off with a snort. "Don't bother lying. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one people get when they see something they shouldn't have. The city leaves a mark when it shows you a piece of itself."
⸻
He hesitated. "I… saw mist. Coming from the cracks in the street."
That got her attention. She paused mid-motion, an apple in one hand, and turned her gaze on him. Her eyes were cloudy but sharp, like river stones polished by time.
"Mist?" she asked slowly.
He nodded. "Silver. It curled up when I touched the cobblestone."
Mare set the apple down gently. "And did it feel like it saw you back?"
Zayway frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means," she said, leaning closer, "you stay away from it. The street remembers the ones who stare too long."
⸻
The words stuck with him, heavy and unpleasant. He wanted to ask more, but the sound of boots interrupted. Not the clumsy, heavy stomp of Hollow Guard — this was softer, faster, more deliberate.
Three figures emerged from the narrow lane beside the stall. They moved with a kind of practiced quiet, the sort that made Zayway's chest tighten. Each wore layered coats, hoods drawn low, and a strip of black cloth tied around their left arm.
Iron Veil Hunters.
Mare's hands stilled. Even the usual clamor of the market seemed to fade, as though the city itself was holding its breath.
⸻
The leader stepped forward. He was tall and lean, his coat swaying with each controlled step. When he looked at Zayway, it was like being caught in a snare — no sudden movement, no noise, but complete capture. His eyes were black, polished like obsidian, and just as cold.
"You," he said simply. His voice was smooth, almost quiet, but it carried. "Come with us."
Zayway didn't move. "Why?"
The man's lips curved — not into a smile, but into something too sharp for comfort. "Because you touched the street."
⸻
Mare shifted slightly, placing herself halfway between them. "He's just a boy. Go hunt your ghosts somewhere else."
The man didn't even look at her. "It's not a request."
Zayway felt every muscle in his body coil tight. He knew the stories about the Iron Veil — they didn't take people for questioning. They took them because the city told them to. Some came back different. Some didn't come back at all.
He could run. He was fast, faster than most street kids his age. But running from them in Hollow Deep was like trying to outrun the rain — pointless.
⸻
The second figure, shorter and broader, stepped forward. She kept her hood up, but Zayway could see the edge of a scar tracing from her chin down her neck. Her voice was low and deliberate.
"You saw the mist, didn't you?"
He hesitated. "Maybe."
"That's enough." She nodded at the leader.
Before they could close the distance, Mare slammed her palm down on the stall counter. The sound cracked through the air like a whip.
"You take him," she said, "and you answer to me. And I still have friends in places you can't walk."
⸻
For the first time, the leader's gaze shifted to Mare. His expression didn't change, but there was a pause — a beat of stillness that felt longer than it should have.
Then he said, "We'll be back."
They turned in unison, disappearing back into the narrow lane they'd come from. The market noise returned slowly, like a tide creeping back in.
Zayway let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
⸻
Mare's eyes stayed on the lane for a moment longer before she turned to him. "You're in it now, boy. Whether you wanted to be or not."
"In what?"
"The Veil's game." She shoved a bruised apple into his hands. "Eat. You'll need the strength."
Zayway looked down at the apple, then back at the empty lane. The silver mist from last night flashed in his mind. He didn't know what game she meant — but he had the sinking feeling the rules were older than the city itself.