The first true morning in Al'Rahim arrived with the sound of water. Not the gentle flow of the Seven Veins, but the rhythmic slosh and the vendor's cry from the street outside. "Water! Sweet and cold!" It was a scheduled, reliable sound. Kaelen, already awake and dressed, noted it. First call, just after dawn.
Today, he wasn't a fugitive or a caravan guard. He was a new resident. The role required props, and so he ventured out into the waking city.
The local market was a noisy, fragrant labyrinth two streets over, a tapestry of awnings and shouted prices. He moved through it with a deliberate, observant pace. He bargained for a straw mattress, haggling the seller down two copper pieces. He selected a simple clay brazier, a beaten bronze pot, two wooden bowls. He tested the weight of three different iron locks before choosing the heaviest, its mechanism smooth and complex. At each transaction, he paid from a mixed pouch, counting out dull silver Aspera from the western empire and square-edged Tóng coins from the east.
The merchants' eyes flickered at the mixed currency. Not with alarm, but with recognition. A corridor traveler. A man without a fixed allegiance, who moved between the empires' shadows. It was a useful identity, explaining his solitary nature and his lack of local history.
With his purchases gathered in a rough sack, he took a longer route home, mapping his immediate world. The chatty potter next door was already at his wheel, humming off-key, his hands a blur of muddy precision. Directly across the narrow street, a stern-faced woman with eyes like chips of flint worked a giant loom in her open-fronted shop, the thump-thump-thump of the shuttle a constant, percussive heartbeat. He saw the water-seller make his turn onto the street precisely as the sun cleared the eastern wall. He noted the two houses that stood silent, curtains drawn, possibly empty.
Rhythms, he thought. The potter talks to customers mid-morning. The weaver takes her noon meal at the third bell. The street is empty during the siesta heat, full at dawn and dusk. He filed each fact away, building a schedule of normalcy he could blend into.
The need for information drew him to a public bathhouse near the artisan quarter. It wasn't for luxury. The legion had taught him that steam and running water loosened tongues as well as muscles.
The air inside was thick, cloying, smelling of wet stone, sesame oil, and male sweat. He submerged himself in the hot pool, the heat a shock that seeped into his marrow, and listened. Gossip swirled in the vaporous air.
"...tariffs on southern spice have doubled. Crushing the margin…"
"...heard about the caravan from the Salt Flats? Didn't make it to the gates. Sand-fever took half of them before they turned back. Nasty business…"
This last was met with a round of grim murmurs and the superstitious touch of an amulet. Sand-fever. A polite, terrifying euphemism. Kaelen felt a cold knot form in his gut, unrelated to the steam. Void-sickness. Nul'Thaum exposure.
"...not just merchants. Saw a full cohort of Cerulean Guard at the Western Gate yesterday. Polished helmets. Not a scratch on 'em. Looking for someone, or something."
"Quiet," another voice hissed. "The Lictors have ears in the steam too. They're walking the upper districts, asking about 'historical disturbances.' Like ghosts, they are."
Kaelen sank lower, letting the water lap at his chin. Both imperial powers, active and probing. The air in the bathhouse suddenly felt heavier, charged. He left soon after, the clean feeling on his skin at odds with the new grime of worry in his mind.
His final stop was the neighborhood well, a communal stone circle where the Vein water was drawn for those not directly on a canal. He waited his turn, watching the others. An old man struggled with the full bucket. A woman hauled hers up with practiced, straining effort.
When his turn came, he grasped the rope. His Ascended body, strengthened by the Godclimb's first painful gifts, made the task laughably easy. The muscles in his back and shoulders barely engaged as he hauled the heavy bucket up from the depths, hand over hand, with a smooth, relentless speed that made the pulley barely creak.
He felt a gaze on him. Turning, he met the eyes of a local man leaning against a nearby wall, mending a net. The man's fingers had stilled. His eyes weren't wide with shock, but narrow, thoughtful. They flicked from Kaelen's face to his hands, to the impossibly full bucket he held without a tremble, then back to his face. The man said nothing. He simply gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, as if filing away a curious piece of information, and went back to his mending.
The walk home was shorter, his senses heightened. The weight of the water bucket in his hand now felt like an indictment. He had controlled his words, his purchases, his routes. But his very body could betray him. Strength was a commodity in the desert, but unnatural, effortless strength was a question. And questions drew attention.
Back within his whitewashed walls, he bolted the new, heavy lock. He arranged the humble furnishings. The straw mattress on the floor, the brazier in the corner, the pot on the shelf. He lit a small, careful fire and cooked a simple meal of lentils, the act methodical and calming.
He had done it. He had navigated the day, gathered intelligence, established a rudimentary cover. He had the rhythms of his street, the sounds of his house, the gossip of the city.
Yet, as the brilliant stars emerged once more, Kaelen sat in his silent main room, eating his lentils. The satisfaction was there, but it was thin, brittle. Anonymity in Al'Rahim wasn't a cloak you wore; it was a ditch you dug, every day, with constant, careful labor. One slip of strength, one wrong glance, one hum from the book in the cellar at the wrong moment, and the walls of this fragile, quiet life would crumble like sand. He finished his meal, washed the bowl, and listened to the night. The rhythm was learned. Now, he had to become a flawless, unremarkable part of it.