Araveth after dark was not quieter—it simply changed its skin. Merchants dragged canvas roofs low and lit rows of paper lanterns that swayed in the wind. Somewhere, a two-stringed fiddle tangled with the beat of a hand drum, punctuated by clapping palms. Children in fur collars chased each other through the streets, their laughter rising in clouds of breath. Beneath the churn of feet and sledges, the glowing veins in the stone pulsed a steady white-blue.
Ryne slowed when she spotted a food stall tucked beneath a timber beam. A red curtain marked its entrance, a narrow counter stretched before it, and six stools gleamed smooth from years of use. Steam curled from the gap in the curtain like a beckoning hand.
"Oh," she breathed. "That one."
Nameless followed her gaze. "It's crowded."
"It's perfect."
She pushed the curtain aside, and warmth spilled over her. The stall was a world in miniature: a scrubbed counter, blackened pots steaming, bowls stacked like coins, and jars of pickled roots gleaming in amber light. The man behind the counter—middle-aged, hair tied back, beard trimmed close—worked with practiced grace. His hands moved like part of the fire's rhythm. When his eyes met theirs, he slipped two new bowls into his dance without breaking pace.
"Evening," he said. "Two?"
"Two," Ryne answered quickly, dropping onto a stool. Nameless sat beside her, angled so he could see the slit of door.
"What's good?" Ryne asked.
The vendor's lips twitched, as if he enjoyed the question. "Depends on you. Buckwheat noodles in bone broth. Trout belly simmered in pine oil. Or the mountain stew—venison, roots, mushrooms. Slow-cooked. Honest."
Ryne narrowed her eyes, as if choosing were a sacred task. "Noodles for me. But that trout… I can smell it."
The vendor gave a small nod. "Then noodles with trout on top."
Nameless said, "Same. No trout."
The man acknowledged him with a glance, then set to work. He ladled broth the color of old gold, slid in noodles with a practiced twist, laid slices of tender, browned meat on top, and flicked a drop of oil that hissed as it sank. The steam smelled like comfort—even for strangers who had never called this place home.
Ryne cradled her bowl in both hands, eyes half-closed at the warmth. "If I die right now, bury me here."
"You're not dying," Nameless said flatly.
"I said if," she shot back, grinning—then slurped her first mouthful. A muffled groan escaped her. "Okay. I'm definitely not dying."
The vendor placed Nameless's bowl before him with a respectful dip of the head. Nameless ate without sound, tasting with the quiet precision of someone weighing the meal against thought itself.
The curtain stirred, and two young men in University grey stepped in, laughing. Their voices cut short when they saw Nameless. Not fear—just the sharp quiet of recognizing something that did not laugh. They chose stools farther down and began muttering about spear forms.
The vendor poured tea into two small cups and set them down. "On the house," he said. "Cold enough to bite the tongue out of your mouth."
Ryne blew across hers, glancing at the little charms nailed beneath the beam—metal birds, a carved fish, a scrap of cloth stitched with four crooked lines. "What are those?" she asked.
"Old things," the vendor said. "Some just make you feel safer. Some actually do." He tapped the cloth. "This one's my wife's. She stitches for the lower halls."
Quiet settled—the good kind, made for food.
Then it shattered.
From the five spires a chord rang out—high, cutting, answered by a lower tone, then a deeper one still. The charms trembled. Conduits in the street veins flared white-blue. Above the market, horns of thin metal unfolded from a tower like flowers blooming at night.
The city spoke.
"All residents. By decree of the Council of Masters, the Final Circle of the Apex Laureate Trials convenes at first bell tomorrow. Venues: the Bowl of Stone, the North Gallery, the Chain Yard. Spectators will be admitted by tier and token. Competitors, report to your halls."
The stall shifted. Someone outside shouted. Someone else swore softly, fondly.
"Apex Laureate?" Ryne asked.
The vendor's eyes glinted. "Finals."
"What's the prize?" Nameless asked, voice low.
The vendor leaned across the counter. Steam curled between them. "Three rewards, always three. This year they've set the cup heavy."
He raised a finger. "First: The Champion's Seal. One year under the Grandmaster's wing. Training, patronage, and the right to challenge anyone in the city without refusal."
A second finger. "Second: The White Archives. One night alone. You ask a question. If the answer exists, you walk out with it."
A third finger. His voice dropped. "And last—the Ascendant Core. A crafted heartstone. If you can bear it, it fuses to yours and blooms into something greater. Some break. Some rise. No one stays the same."
Ryne's eyes lit. "So the prize is a fight, a secret, and a piece of power with a risk."
The vendor smiled faintly. "That's one way to put it."
Outside, the horns began rattling off crowd rules and street closures, but inside the stall, the air had shifted. It smelled less of broth, more of blood waiting to be spilled.
Nameless finally spoke. "A trial worth watching."
The horns left the city buzzing, every stall keeper talking at once. Ryne tapped her empty cup. "Alright. One more snack before we go. If I die tomorrow, I refuse to do it hungry."
The vendor passed her a steaming skewer. She bit into it, chewed twice—then her face twisted. "Spices. Why is it always spices?" she wheezed.
Nameless plucked the skewer from her hand and finished it without a blink. "You'd die before the Trials even began," he said.
"Shut up," Ryne coughed, smacking his arm, but she was laughing as they stepped back into the frost-lit street.
They slipped out into the night with bellies warm and the vendor's last words still clinging to them. Lanterns swayed overhead, spilling fractured gold across the veins in the street. The air had sharpened; you could taste the cold.
Ryne folder her arms. "So—different sword forms, spear drills, duels... You think we'll get to see them all tomorrow?"
Nameless's gaze tracked a patrol marching across the square, boots ringing in rhythm. "We'll see what we're meant to see."
"That's a boring answer." She nudged him with an elbow. "Come on. You don't even wonder what kind of techniques they'll pull out? Half those students have trained their whole lives just for this."
"Half of them will fall in the first bout," Nameless said. "A sword swing is still a sword swing. The ones who survive tomorrow won't be the ones with the prettiest forms."
Ryne laughed despite herself. "You're impossible. But admit it—it'd be nice to watch something that isn't trying to kill us for once."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "A contest built to break bones is not different from a battlefield. Only the applause is louder."
"Exactly," Ryne said with mock solemnity. "Finally, someone who understands how to have fun."
They passed a group of greys running forms under the frost-lit arches, steel flashing in half-shadow. Ryne slowed, watching the blades whirl and snap, sparks flying as metal kissed metal. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the motion. "Tell me that doesn't look exciting."
Nameless watched too, but his eyes were unreadable. "Exciting," he echoed. A pause. "And temporary."
By the time they reached their lodge, the city had settled into its deeper hours—less laughter, more footsteps, the sound of shutters clapping shut against the cold. Ryne stretched like a cat at the door. "Tomorrow we eat, we watch people try not to die. Feels like a perfect day for me."
She slipped into the room and collapsed onto the bed without another word. Within breaths, she was asleep.
Nameless did not follow. He pulled a chair to the window and sat with arms folded, stretching his legs into the open frame. His gaze lingered on the veins of white-blue light that pulsed through Araveth's streets, steady as a heartbeat, alive in the dark.