The city of Veylin was alive with light.
It wasn't the kind of light born of simple lamps or neon bulbs, though there were plenty of those too. It was a living glow that pulsed in rhythm with the heartbeat of its people, a shimmer that filled the marketplace like fireflies caught in glass. These lights floated within crystalline vials, sealed tight with silver stoppers and stamped with the official sigil of the Council of Sentiments. They were not decorations, but commodities. They were emotions, distilled and preserved, the true currency of the city.
Every morning, as dawn broke in muted gray above the steel towers, the square of Veylin's market came alive with traders' cries:
"Joy, pure and strong! Five hours of laughter—make your life golden again!"
"Anger for strength! Burn brighter than the forge, stand fearless in battle!"
"Serenity, calm and deep! Soothe your restless soul, find peace in chaos!"
Each voice competed with the next, promising salvation in glass. Each stall gleamed with colored light—crimson jars that throbbed like veins, amber globes that shone like hearth fire, ocean-blue bottles that rippled with tranquil waves. And the people came in crowds: men and women in work coats and fine suits, children clutching their parents' hands, elders shuffling with desperate eyes.
Mira had learned to walk among them without looking too closely.
She kept her hood pulled low, her satchel clutched to her chest. Inside it clinked three small vials of contentment, the kind of emotion that tasted faintly of warm tea and lazy afternoons. They were weak, nearly worthless in the grand market, but they were all she had left.
As she passed the stalls, the merchants' pitches washed over her. She ignored them, focusing instead on the path ahead, toward the eastern row where rarer trades sometimes appeared. Her boots scuffed against the cobblestones slick with last night's rain. Above, the city towers loomed, their windows glowing like watchful eyes.
Veylin was a city built on hunger—the hunger for feeling.
Some bought emotions to heal: grief traded for calm, despair for hope. Others purchased for performance: confidence for business deals, fury for the gladiator pits, patience for a mother raising children. The wealthy collected emotions like jewels, flaunting their extravagant stockpiles at banquets. And always, behind it all, the Council taxed every transaction, ensuring the economy of feelings never faltered.
Mira hated this place, but she needed it.
Her brother, Jalen, was slipping further into the dark.
She saw him in her mind as she walked: lying motionless in bed, curtains drawn, the walls of their one-room flat pressing in like stone. His eyes had lost their light months ago, swallowed by a depression so deep that even the doctors could do little. He hardly ate. He rarely spoke. And when he did, it was only to whisper that he felt nothing.
Mira had tried everything. She had given him small vials of serenity, of hope, of comfort. They eased him for a few hours at best. But happiness—the true golden elixir—was out of reach. It was rarer than diamonds, more precious than gold. Only the wealthiest nobles or most ruthless merchants could afford it. A single drop might cost a fortune.
Yet Mira had heard whispers.
She had heard of the Exchange that operated in shadow, away from the sanctioned stalls, where desperation bought what coin could not. There, they said, you could pay with more than vials—you could pay with yourself.
She had resisted believing it for weeks. But now, watching her brother fade, Mira was ready to consider what once seemed unthinkable.
She turned down the eastern row, past a stall where a gray-haired man sold envy bottled in emerald glass, past a group of street performers juggling vials of excitement that sparked like fireworks when cracked open. The crowd thinned here, and the merchants' cries grew quieter, more secretive.
A small booth caught her eye. Its shelves were lined with hope, glowing blue and steady. Mira hesitated, then stepped closer.
The vendor was a squat woman with sharp eyes. She glanced at Mira's satchel, as if reading the worth of her pockets.
"Looking for something, girl?" the woman asked.
"Happiness," Mira said before she could stop herself.
The woman barked a laugh. "Happiness? Do I look like a miracle worker? You can't buy that with scraps of contentment. It costs more than you could ever dream of."
Mira's cheeks flushed. She started to turn away, but the woman's gaze lingered on her, softened for just a moment.
"There are places," the vendor murmured. "Not here. Not for everyone. But if you're desperate enough, you might find them."
Mira's breath caught. "Where?"
The woman only shook her head. "Careful, child. Some trades take more than you're willing to lose."
She waved Mira off, turning to another customer.
Mira stood frozen for a moment, the warning heavy in her chest. But desperation burned stronger. She would give anything to save Jalen. Anything.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Mira walked the market until the crowds grew unbearable, then slipped away into the quieter streets of the city. She returned to their apartment just as dusk bled into the sky, painting the towers in crimson and gold.
The air inside was stale, curtains still drawn. Jalen sat hunched on the bed, his eyes blank.
"I brought food," Mira said softly, setting down a parcel of bread. He didn't look at it.
She sat beside him, heart aching. "Jalen… I'm going to fix this. I swear it."
He turned to her slowly, and for a fleeting moment, his lips curved in a faint shadow of a smile. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
That night, after he had drifted into restless sleep, Mira sat at the window, staring at the city lights. Somewhere beyond the sanctioned markets, beyond the Council's rules, there was an Exchange that dealt in what she needed. She would find it.
The thought both terrified and thrilled her.
And when, near midnight, she saw a faint symbol scratched into the alley wall below their building—a broken heart stitched with golden thread—she knew she had found the first step.