The Shattered Crowns

The marketplace in the fourth district was alive with activity. The clamor of voices filled the air as merchants bartered over goods, nobles haggled for luxuries, and laborers hauled crates from the nearby port. Stalls were packed tightly together, displaying wares from across the world: jewelry, spices, silks, strange instruments, and carved trinkets from distant lands.

The salty tang of the ocean was stronger here, mingling with the rich scents of exotic perfumes and the sharp metallic bite of resin being molded into shapes at a nearby smithy. Everywhere Mirak looked, there were colors: vibrant banners hung from the tops of stalls, shimmering fabrics draped over carts, and jewelry that caught the sunlight in dazzling flashes. It was a stark contrast to the mud and grime of the battlefield and the lower districts they had passed through.

And yet, despite the apparent opulence, Mirak felt the invisible chains tightening around him. Every step brought him closer to his fate. He wasn't here to marvel at Koona's splendor. He was merchandise—an object to be sold.

"Publici for sale!" Noom bellowed as they entered the market square. His voice carried over the din, drawing the attention of passing shoppers. "This one knows Kavish—educated and ready for work!"

Mirak stood stiffly as people turned to look at him. Their eyes flicked over his form, some lingering on his scarred arm and the bandaged stump where his left hand should have been. He felt their judgment like a blade pressed to his skin.

"Too thin," one man muttered, shaking his head as he walked away.

"Missing a hand," another whispered to her companion. "Not worth it."

Noom wasn't deterred. He pulled Mirak forward, forcing him to stand straighter. "Ladies and gentlemen, don't let the hand fool you! This Publici is strong, capable, and most importantly, he speaks Kavish! Perfect for scribes, clerks, or assistants."

A woman approached, her sharp eyes scanning Mirak with practiced precision. She was dressed in fine silks, her golden necklace glittering with a chunk of resin at its center. "How much?" she asked curtly.

"Two resin chunks, or one hundred flakes," Noom replied, bowing slightly.

The woman snorted. "Two chunks? For that? He's missing a hand. I'd give you one, no more."

"No, no, no, my lady," Noom protested, his hands raised in mock dismay. "You underestimate his value. He's an educated Publici! You'll make your investment back in no time—"

"An educated Publici is standard for this district," she interrupted, her voice sharp. "You don't get extra for meeting the minimum requirements. One chunk. Take it or leave it."

Noom's jaw tightened, but he forced a smile. "I'm afraid I must decline, my lady. I know the worth of my wares."

The woman huffed and walked away, muttering under her breath about slavers who didn't understand the market. Mirak watched her go, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Noom's face was a mask of barely contained irritation.

The hours dragged on, and more potential buyers came and went. Each time, Noom tried to paint Mirak as a prize, only for his missing hand to lower the price—or drive buyers away entirely. Mirak endured their stares, their whispered judgments, their dismissive comments. He stood silently, the way Noom had instructed, his face a carefully controlled mask. Inside, he seethed.

He was starting to think that no one would buy him when she appeared.

The crowd seemed to part for her as she entered the market square. She moved with an unearthly grace, her steps light and deliberate, as though the very ground bent to her will. Silky white hair cascaded down her back, swaying gently in the breeze, and her pale skin seemed to glow in the fading sunlight. She wore a deep amethyst cloak lined with silver thread, its fabric shimmering like water as she moved. But it was her eyes that held Mirak's attention: pale purple, almost luminous, as if they held the secrets of the world.

Men and women turned to watch her pass, their conversations faltering mid-sentence. She didn't acknowledge them, her gaze fixed on some distant point as she moved through the market. Mirak couldn't tear his eyes away.

She turned suddenly, her amethyst gaze locking onto his. For a moment, the noise of the market faded, and the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes lingered on his for a heartbeat longer than seemed natural. Then, just as quickly, she turned away, continuing her purposeful stride.

"Lady Fell!" Noom called out, his voice eager and obsequious. He stepped forward, puffing out his chest. "I see you've taken an interest in my Publici."

The woman paused, her head tilting slightly as if considering whether to dignify him with a response. When she finally spoke, her voice was cold, sharp, and commanding. "I have no use for Publici. Especially not from the likes of you. Filthy your hands elsewhere, slaver."

Her words carried across the square, and the effect was immediate. The people who had been eying Mirak moments ago suddenly turned away, muttering to themselves. The air around Noom seemed to deflate, his earlier confidence replaced with barely concealed frustration.

One woman, dressed in fine robes, shook her head. "Lady Fell is right. A Publici of this kind would tarnish my house's reputation. I'll take my leave."

Noom turned toward her, his face flushed with anger. "Then go," he snapped in Kavish. "We don't need you."

The woman left with a haughty toss of her head. Noom's fists clenched at his sides, but he didn't dare shout after her. Mirak, meanwhile, couldn't take his eyes off Lady Fell as she disappeared into the crowd.

She was gone as quickly as she had appeared, and yet the memory of her lingered. Mirak's heart pounded in his chest. She had looked at him. Just for a moment, but she had looked at him.

And then the doubt crept in. Why would someone like her care about a Publici? He was nothing—less than nothing. She had dismissed him without a second thought. Of course, she had. She was a noble, a figure of elegance and power, while he was a chained, broken man destined for slavery.

A quiet laugh escaped his lips, bitter and self-mocking. He had no right to yearn for anything—least of all a stranger's kindness. He was a slave. His life wasn't his own.

"Why are you grinning, Publici?" Noom snarled, yanking on the chain. Mirak stumbled forward but didn't answer. He didn't need to. Noom's fury was satisfaction enough.

It was nearing dusk when a man approached the stall. He was older, with streaks of gray in his hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. His clothing was fine but practical, with only a modest amount of embroidery at the cuffs. His sharp eyes studied Mirak with the practiced air of someone appraising livestock.

"How much Kavish does he know?" the man asked in a clipped tone.

Noom stepped forward eagerly. "Ah, sir, I assure you—"

"I wasn't asking you," the man interrupted. His gaze remained fixed on Mirak. "Well, Publici?"

Mirak hesitated for only a moment before responding in rough Kavish. "Hetalp bet alp tet."

The man nodded, his expression unreadable. "Not fluent, but passable. He'll do."

He pulled out two resin chunks and handed them to Noom and Brog. They scrambled to take the payment, their faces lighting up at the sight of the polished resin.

"Where will you be taking him?" Noom asked, his tone feigning curiosity.

The man pocketed the chain without answering. "It's none of your concern."

"Ah, but—"

"No." The man's tone left no room for argument. He turned to Mirak, giving the chain a firm tug. "Come, Publici."

Mirak followed, the weight of the shackles digging into his wrists. As the market faded into the distance, his thoughts churned with uncertainty.

Where was this man taking him? And more importantly, what awaited him there?

The streets of the fourth district faded into a quieter stretch as the man led Mirak away from the bustling marketplace. The din of trade and bartering softened, replaced by the steady clinking of Mirak's chains and the low hum of distant waves. The man didn't speak as they walked, his grip on the chain firm but not rough. Mirak's mind raced with questions, but he bit his tongue. There was something about this man—a controlled precision, a deliberate air—that made Mirak wary.

The narrow streets gave way to a winding road that led toward the cliffs overlooking the sea. The air grew cooler, the sharp tang of salt carried on the breeze. Mirak stumbled once on the uneven path, and the man stopped abruptly, turning to look at him. His sharp, hawkish eyes met Mirak's, and for a moment, there was only silence.

"Keep up," the man said flatly. "I have no patience for stragglers."

Mirak wanted to snap back, but the weight of the man's gaze stilled his tongue. He nodded silently and quickened his pace.

The road twisted through a rocky outcrop, the path narrowing as the cliffs loomed higher on either side. Shadows stretched long across the ground, the setting sun casting an amber glow over the landscape. It was quiet here—unnervingly so. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks far below was the only reminder that the ocean was still nearby.

Finally, Mirak couldn't hold his tongue any longer. "Where are you taking me?"

The man didn't answer right away. He walked a few more paces before stopping at a bend in the road. He turned to Mirak, his expression unreadable. "Do you know why you're still alive, Publici?"

Mirak frowned, caught off guard by the question. "Because I'm valuable to slavers," he said bitterly. "That's the only reason."

The man's lips twitched, almost forming a smile, though it was more cold than kind. "Partially true. But that value will only take you so far. Do you know what they call Publici who fail to live up to expectations?"

Mirak didn't respond, his jaw tightening.

"They call them fodder," the man said. "You exist because someone believes you might be useful. If that belief changes, so does your fate."

"Then why bother buying me?" Mirak shot back, his voice laced with frustration. "You could have left me to rot in the market like everyone else."

The man's expression hardened. "You were bought because you were noticed. And because someone higher than me is curious to see what you'll become."

"Noticed by who?" Mirak asked, his voice rising. "What does that mean?"

The man tugged sharply on the chain, cutting off Mirak's words. "You'll learn soon enough. Or you won't. Either way, it's no longer my concern."

The cliffs eventually gave way to a flat expanse of land overlooking the ocean. The road curved down toward a narrow valley, where a small, weathered outpost stood. The structure was made of dark stone, its walls lined with torches that burned faintly against the encroaching night. A single tower jutted up from the outpost, its top adorned with a glowing resin lantern that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.

As they approached, Mirak noticed a group of figures waiting outside the outpost. They were chained together, much like he was, their faces pale and drawn. Two armed guards stood nearby, their weapons glinting in the torchlight.

The man led Mirak toward the group, handing off the chain to one of the guards. "Mark him," he said simply.

The guard nodded, retrieving a thin, needle-like object from his belt. He approached Mirak and pressed the needle against his shackles. There was a faint hiss as the device activated, carving a symbol into the metal: two jagged lines mirrored on either side of a circular mark. Mirak winced as the shackles heated briefly, the warmth searing against his skin.

The guard stepped back, examining his work. "Sixth sector," he muttered. "Another for the mines."

The mines. The words hit Mirak like a blow to the chest. He had heard rumors of the resin mines—dark, suffocating tunnels carved deep into the earth. Publici sent there rarely returned. Those who did spoke of endless labor, the air thick with choking dust, and the suffocating weight of stone pressing down from all sides.

Mirak clenched his fists, his stomach twisting with dread. "The mines? You're sending me to die."

The man who had bought him turned back, his face impassive. "If you die, you weren't worth saving."

Before Mirak could respond, the man walked away, disappearing into the outpost without another word.

The guards led the chained group down a narrow path that descended into the earth. The torchlight from the outpost faded quickly, replaced by the dim glow of resin lanterns mounted along the walls of the tunnel. The air grew colder, the faint scent of damp stone mixing with the metallic tang of resin.

The group moved in silence, the sound of chains clinking echoing off the walls. Mirak's thoughts raced, his mind desperate for answers. Who had "noticed" him? Why had he been marked for the sixth sector? And what was this growing sense of unease gnawing at the edges of his awareness?

It wasn't just the mines that frightened him. It was something else. Something... watching.

He had felt it before, faintly, during the Lunar Storms. A presence, distant yet inescapable, as though eyes he couldn't see were fixed on him. Now, that feeling was stronger—almost suffocating. The farther they descended, the heavier it became, pressing down on him like a weight.

The tunnel opened into a large cavern, the ceiling lost in shadows. The resin veins lining the walls pulsed faintly, their glow casting eerie, shifting patterns across the stone. Workers moved through the space like ghosts, their faces gaunt and hollow. Most were Publici, their shackles glinting faintly in the light, but a few guards stood watch, their weapons ready.

Mirak was pulled toward a side chamber, where a small group of newcomers was gathered. Standing at the center of the group was a woman—tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and piercing green eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the resin light. Her hair was cropped short, and she wore a simple gray tunic belted with a strip of leather.

She turned as Mirak was brought forward, her gaze sharp and assessing. "Another one?" she asked, her voice low and measured.

The guard nodded. "Marked for the sixth sector."

The woman—Sanni, as the guards called her—sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "He doesn't look like much. You sure he's fit for the work?"

"Doesn't matter," the guard replied. "If he's not, the mine will sort him out."

Sanni's gaze lingered on Mirak for a moment longer. Then she stepped forward, her expression unreadable. "What's your name, Publici?"

Mirak hesitated, then muttered, "Mirak."

"Mirak," she repeated, as though testing the weight of the name. "I'll make this simple. If you want to survive here, you listen to me. You follow orders, keep your head down, and don't do anything stupid. The mine doesn't care who you are or where you came from. It will chew you up and spit you out if you let it."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, Mirak thought he saw something in her gaze—something deeper than the hardened exterior she wore. But whatever it was, it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Get him a spot with the others," she said to the guards. "And make sure he knows the rules."

The guards nodded, dragging Mirak toward a cluster of workers huddled near the far wall. As they chained him to the line, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched—not just by the guards or Sanni, but by something else. Something vast and unseen, lurking just beyond the edge of perception.

It whispered to him, faint and formless, like the storm had done before. A single word echoed in his mind: Soon.