The old well in the lower ward looked abandoned, choked with weeds and debris. Its stone lip was cracked, and a rusted bucket lay overturned beside it. No one lingered near it. Not in this part of Greyholt.
Alaric crouched at the edge, peering into the darkness below. The faint rush of water echoed up from the depths, mingling with the smell of damp stone. His fingers tightened around the rope tied to the side.
Midnight. Just as Corren had said.
He lowered himself in.
The descent was longer than he'd expected. His boots scraped against the rough stone, rope burning against his palms. The water sound grew louder, and soon a faint orange glow flickered below him.
When his feet touched the damp floor, he realized he was in a narrow tunnel. A lantern hung from a hook in the wall, casting long shadows over faded murals — scenes of rivers and serpents twisting together.
The tunnel sloped downward, and with each step, the air grew warmer and thicker.
He emerged into a cavern so vast it stole his breath.
Stalls and tables lined the edges of the chamber, draped in tattered cloths and lit by braziers that smoked with strange herbs. The people here were unlike those above — faces hidden by masks or scarves, clothes in layered silks and leather armor.
This was the Dust Market.
The air was heavy with the scent of spices, oil, and something metallic beneath it all. Voices murmured in a dozen tongues, deals struck with the press of palms or the passing of small, gleaming coins.
A hand clapped his shoulder.
"You made it," Corren said, stepping into view. He was dressed differently now — his cloak lined with gold stitching, a curved dagger at his hip. "Good. I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost."
Alaric scanned the crowd. "What is this place?"
"The lungs of the Vein," Corren replied. "This is where it breathes. You can find anything here if you know where to look — or if you're willing to pay the price."
Before Alaric could respond, a sudden commotion erupted near the far wall. Two masked figures were arguing in sharp, clipped tones.
Then steel flashed.
A scream cut through the chamber as one of the figures crumpled, blood pooling quickly beneath them. The other melted back into the crowd as though nothing had happened.
Alaric swallowed hard. "Does no one care?"
Corren's expression didn't change. "Care? No. But notice? Everyone did. The Dust remembers debts. And blood."
They moved deeper into the market until they reached a low archway marked by a symbol — a serpent biting its own tail.
Corren stopped. "If you want to walk the Vein, you need to prove you belong. That means surviving the Dust Rings."
Alaric frowned. "What's that?"
Corren's smile was thin. "A fight. Not to the death… unless the other man decides otherwise."
The Dust Rings were an open pit carved into the stone floor, surrounded by shouting spectators. The arena's sand was stained dark in patches — not all of it old.
A man stood in the center, shirtless, muscles corded like rope. His eyes locked on Alaric the moment he stepped in.
Corren leaned in. "You win, and people start listening to you. You lose… well, the Dust eats its own."
The fight began fast.
Alaric barely had time to raise his guard before the man lunged, swinging hard. The blow slammed into his ribs, driving the air from his lungs.
He staggered, grit crunching under his boots. The mark on his palm flared with sudden heat, and the next strike he caught without thinking — fingers closing around his opponent's wrist.
The man jerked, eyes wide. "What—?"
Alaric twisted, shoving him back. The crowd roared.
The fight was a blur of motion and pain. Alaric ducked, rolled, took a punch to the jaw that left him seeing stars. He hit back with raw desperation, every move fueled by the memory of Hollowmere's flames, of running through streets choked with smoke.
And when his opponent lunged again, Alaric's palm met bare flesh.
The mark flared — and something passed between them.
The man screamed, stumbling backward, clutching his side.
Alaric didn't press the advantage. He simply stood there, chest heaving, until the man collapsed to his knees.
The crowd was silent for a moment, then erupted into cheers and jeers.
Corren stepped into the pit, clapping him on the shoulder. "Not bad. You even managed to keep him alive."
Alaric's stomach twisted. "What did I do to him?"
"You reminded him the mark isn't just for show," Corren said. "You're learning."
They left the arena through a side passage, the roar of the crowd fading behind them. The tunnels here were narrower, darker, the air thick with dust.
Corren led him to a door reinforced with iron bands. Inside, a long table was spread with maps, scrolls, and a scattering of strange objects — bone charms, glass vials, coins stamped with unfamiliar faces.
"This," Corren said, "is where the real work happens. And where you learn who your enemies are."
Before Alaric could speak, the door burst open.
Three figures in black hoods stormed in, blades flashing.
The first came at Alaric, and instinct took over — he ducked low, sweeping the attacker's legs. The second lunged for Corren, who parried with a snarl, steel ringing in the close space.
The third attacker grabbed Alaric's arm, dragging him toward the door. He twisted, shoving back hard. The mark burned hot enough to make him gasp, and the attacker jerked as though struck by lightning.
When it was over, two lay unconscious, the third bleeding out on the stone floor.
Corren kicked one of the bodies aside. "Dust Wolves," he said. "Mercenaries. Someone doesn't like that I brought you here."
"Why?" Alaric asked, breathless.
Corren's eyes darkened. "Because the mark is worth more than your life. And if you don't learn fast, someone's going to claim it — and you — for themselves."
They didn't stay in the room. Corren led him deeper still, through a maze of passages until the air grew dry and the stone turned to compacted earth.
They stepped into a smaller chamber where the dust hung thick in the air, coating everything in a fine, reddish layer.
"This is the Dust's heart," Corren said. "Everything that flows through the Vein passes here. And once you've touched it, you're never free of it again."
He knelt, drawing a line in the dirt. "Blood in the dust binds you to it. Forever."
Before Alaric could respond, Corren drew a knife and cut his own palm. Blood dripped onto the earth, darkening the red. He handed the knife to Alaric.
"Your turn."
Alaric hesitated. The mark throbbed, hot and insistent.
Finally, he took the blade and drew it across his skin. Blood welled and fell, mixing with Corren's.
The ground seemed to shift beneath his feet.
The dust stirred — impossibly, as though breathing — and a voice whispered in his mind:
Welcome, heir of the eclipse.
Alaric staggered, gripping the table for support. "What was that?"
Corren's smile was grim. "The Vein knows you now. And it won't let go."
They left the chamber in silence, the words echoing in his mind. Above them, the city slept, unaware of the blood pact sealed beneath its streets.
But in the Vein, nothing slept for long.