The soft hums of the midday bartering filled the small square. Many stands were open—some selling food, others hawking foreign and exotic goods from the Sparrow Islands, a newly grafted Echo Land. Trinkets dangled from threadbare ropes, catching sunlight like baubles meant to matter. All these stalls were just the prelude. The true merchants stood behind them—tall buildings dressed in the Zulhalig Empire's elegant architecture . Or, as those bookworms over at Hallowmere Academy liked to call it: Victorian style.
"Oh, good mornin', lad. How's that new mukzle treatin' ya?"
"It's doin' alright for a decrepit artifact, Mr. Ophien. But you really gotta start stockin' the new-grade stuff."
"Come on now, Kai—it's not that easy. That shit's hard to get. Those bastards at MukCom are extortin' like mad. Prices are bloody criminal."
"Ai, I hear ya. Say... you seen a kid runnin' around? Purple hair, skin a bit too pale?"
"New job, eh? Now that you mention it... yeah. Saw a kid like that tryin' to nick some grub from Linkerd's stall earlier. Poor sod looked half-starved."
"'Preciate the tip. Owe you one."
Kai's sluggish strides carried him deeper through the square, nodding here and there, a few lazy waves tossed at other stall merchants. His destination was smaller than most of the merchant buildings around—a crooked place known as The Old Crude's. A tavern owned and run by Mirule. An absolute bastard, that one—famous for scamming rookies and bleeding his hunters dry.
The Old Crude's creaked when Kai pushed the door open, hinges groaning like they hated to be disturbed. Inside, it was dim. Not dark—just the kind of low-lit haze that smelled like burnt bark, old ale, and sweat that never quite washed out. Lanterns flickered with that slow, amber AER glow, held in rust-bitten cages nailed to beams too warped to be level.
A couple hunters were slumped at one corner table, gear tossed carelessly, eyes red-rimmed from a long night or a longer failure. One of them glanced up at Kai, recognized him, then went back to pretending his drink was more important than his debt.
Behind the bar stood Mirule—shirt stained, sleeves rolled up, always looking like he'd just woken from a nap he never wanted. His left eye had that foggy glaze from the injury he never fixed, and his grin had the charm of a broken blade.
"Well well, if it ain't Kai the Crawl," he drawled, voice like gravel soaked in grease. "Thought you'd be somewhere chasing devils and beasts , not gracin' my door."
"Just stoppin' by," Kai muttered, cracking a small, sly grin as he leaned against the bar counter. "Heard you been busy with the old huntin' requests. Fed's been payin' well, eh?"
Mirule snorted, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. "Aye, when they ain't payin' in favors and promises."
"Well, I got a job for ya," Kai said, tapping his knuckles twice against the wood. "Need a kid tracked down. Purple hair, pale skin. Not much else to go on—just some wee lad that sticks out like a sore thumb."
Mirule arched a brow. "That all? Sounds like half the whelps that wash up from the outer Echoes. What're you offerin'?"
Kai reached into his coat and pulled out a small gem, its surface inky, alive—shifting like smoke trapped under glass.
"This."
Mirule's eyes lit up. "Ai ai... now we're talkin'." He plucked it up, rolling it between his fingers. "Fresh stone... pattern's still twitchin'. Ain't bad. Aetherion's dense in this one, real thick."
Kai gave a single nod. "Good enough?"
"More than. Jasper!" Mirule barked, and somewhere behind the bar, a younger voice called back with a grunt.
A lanky guy in patched leathers stepped out from the back, still tightening the buckle on one of his vambraces.
"Round up some of the boys," Mirule said. "Got a track job—lookin' for a kid. Purple hair, pale skin, not from around here. Should be easy to spot."
Jasper gave Kai a quick once-over, then nodded. "You got it. We'll shake the alleys by sundown."
"Good." Kai pushed off the bar, already turning toward the stairwell. "I'll be upstairs. If you find him, don't spook him. Just hold him."
"Oi," Mirule called out, "you got a name for the lad?"
Kai paused at the foot of the stairs. "Nah," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "But somethin' tells me he don't have one either."
And with that, he vanished up into the gloom, the old stairs groaning underfoot once more.
****The copper light of dusk spilled across the city streets, casting long, jagged shadows that swallowed the back alleys. The silence was broken only by heavy breaths and the hurried thudding of multiple footsteps.
A small, frantic boy darted through the narrow lanes—his violet hair dulled by grime, barely visible in the gloom. His silver eyes darted in every direction, wild with panic, searching for anything—anywhere—to escape to.
"Ahh—!"
His foot caught on uneven stone, and he tumbled hard, landing with a pained gasp.
"Oi! Get that brat!"
A voice rang out, rough and cold. Its owner—cloaked in a patchwork suit—had a red tree engraved across his coat's chest. Others dressed like him surged forward, obeying the command with vicious intent.
For a heartbeat, the boy froze. Terrified. Back against the wall. He raised his arms in a weak, instinctive guard, squeezing his eyes shut—
Swwwsh.
A sharp, clean sound sliced through the alley.
It was followed by a chorus of pained groans, the splatter of blood hitting stone, and then—silence.
When the boy dared to open his eyes, a figure stood before him.
A lanky man. Dressed in patchy leather trousers, his black half-sleeved shirt clinging to him like a second skin. At his belt, an empty sheath swayed—but in his hand, the sword it once held gleamed cold and wet with fresh blood.
The thugs lay motionless behind him, bodies crumpled on the blood-streaked stone.
The man turned slowly, his cold, unreadable stare meeting the boy's.
Then, gently, that sharp gaze softened.
"You okay, kiddo?" he said, voice low and calm. "You're safe now. No one's gonna hurt ya."
The boy didn't move at first. His chest rose and fell in shallow, shaky gasps, eyes still wide and glassy. The blood on the cobbles was too fresh, too close. The smell of iron clung to the air like fog.
He stared at the man's blade, still dripping, then at the bodies—twisted, broken, unmoving.
"I didn't… I didn't do nothin'. I just—just didn't wanna go back," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper, hoarse from panting. "I didn't do nothin'. I just… I didn't want to go back."
His small hands clenched into trembling fists, pressed against his knees as he sat there—half sprawled, half curled into himself. The world felt too loud, even in its silence.
"I'm not from here," he added, quieter still. "I didn't ask to come here…"
His silver eyes flicked up, locking with the man's for a moment. And in that second, there was a flicker of something raw—exhaustion, desperation, the kind that seeps deep into the bones.
"You're not gonna sell me, are you?" he asked, voice cracking.
He didn't cry. Not yet. But his lip trembled like the tears were waiting—just beneath the surface, locked behind some last scrap of pride.
Jasper knelt, wiping the blade clean on a dead man's coat without breaking eye contact.
"Nah," he said, voice steady, almost tired. "Already been sold once, haven't ya?"
He reached out a hand.
"C'mon. Let's get you somewhere warm."