The walk from his Steamcottage to the plaza took about five minutes, dawn had crept in.
The Marketplaza smelled like too many things at once, oiled leather competing with the sharp mineral bite of Runepeaks metal, smoke from food stalls mixing with something herbal and medicinal that Alucent couldn't quite place. The whole space was a cacophony of voices, haggling and shouting, the clatter of coin against coin, the grinding scrape of Steamwagon wheels on cobblestone. It was overwhelming in the way he felt only a desperate economy could be.
By now he had walked to a store, it sat wedged between a fabric merchant and someone selling what looked like roasted meat of questionable origin. The stall itself wasn't much, a wooden frame with a faded canvas awning, boards propped on barrels. But goods laid out on its surface told a different story entirely. This wasn't some desperate vendor hawking whatever scraps they could find, this was curated intentionally.
Alucent stood back slightly watching Gryan at the store already.
The big man moved through organized chaos of Jorin's display with surprising delicacy, his mechanical fingers, the ones on his right hand at least were hovering over a set of what looked like pressure Valves. They were small, precisely machined, the kind of thing you'd use for... What exactly? Alucent wasn't sure, perhaps steam regulation, but he thought Gryan would know eventually.
"These are good," Gryan said, not looking up. His voice had that quality it got whenever he was focused on mechanism. Flat, certain, almost reverent. "Real good. Where'd you source them?"
Jorin leaned back against his stall's frame, arms crossed. He was older than Alucent had initially thought, probably fifty, might even be older, with the kind of weathered face that came from years of travel, Alucent could at least guess he's old.
His clothes were practical; a thick leather vest, over a worn linen shirt, trousers that had likely seen better days but were still sturdy, paired with boots that could handle terrain.
"Iron Vale," Jorin said. "I got them off a conclave engineer who was in desperate need, he said money was more important to him at that moment than spare parts. Man was heading east, trying to get his family into Runepeaks before whatever's coming actually comes."
"Is that so?" Gryan said as he picked up one of the valves, holding it close to his face for better inspection.
"They'll work." Gryan finally said, setting the valve back down with care. "How much?"
"For the set?" Jorin tilted his head, considering. "Three old Silverweaves"
Alucent moved forward. "I'll give you two," his voice came out more confident than he felt. "Two old Silverweaves and I'll also throw in four new Silverweaves."
Jorin's eyes shifted to him, Alucent could feel the weight of the gaze, the assessment, the calculation. He knew Jorin wasn't a typical trader based on the previous encounter with him, he knew he read people akin to the way Gryan reads metal.
"You're a Scribe, ain't you?" Jorin asked.
"Yes, I am." replied Alucent.
"The one working on the..." Jorin gestured vaguely at Gryan's pack, where the partially assembled gun chassis was wrapped.
Does he know about the gun project? I thought where we had the meeting was secret and safe, I hope he doesn't.
"Oh that? Yeah, we are preparing an assignment to Hollow Vale," Alucent said carefully, hiding the real intent.
Jorin smiled, but Alucent could tell it didn't reach his eyes. "Right." He pushed himself off the stall frame, reaching under the counter to pull out a small wooden box. He placed it on the counter, opened it. Inside nestled in Weavefibers, were the valves. Six of them, each one gleaming with the distinctive sheen of Iron Vale craftsmanship. "Two old Silverweaves, but you owe me a story when you get back, assuming you get back."
Alucent reached into his coat, fingers finding the small leather pouch where he kept the money Sir Vorn had given him, the old Silverweaves. The feel of each note was distinct, different from the new notes, they felt stable, permanent. When he pulled two out and placed them on the counter, they caught the morning light and glowed a soft, steady luminescent pale silver light that made them so valuable.
Jorin picked up one of the notes, held it up, letting the light pass through it, examining the glow. The light it showed satisfied him. The glow of an old Silverweave. A reminder of when the Runeforce was more reliable.
"That's good enough," Jorin said, tucking both notes into a pouch at his belt. The transaction felt ritualistic somehow, like they'd completed something more significant than a simple exchange for goods. He pushed the box of valves toward Gryan. "You take care with those. Iron Vale doesn't make trash, you know. But it doesn't make miracles either. They'll do what they're built to do, but if you push them past their limits..." he shrugged.
"I know how to work metal," Gryan said, already picking up the box with reverence.
Jorin didn't argue and shifted his eyes to Gryan's mechanical right arm, fully replaced from shoulder to fingertips with intricate construction of brass gears and hydraulic pistons. It was beautiful, but it was also loud, Jorin had been observing this since they started talking, whenever Gryan moved, it made a soft whir and click of gears, the subtle hiss of pressure release.
"Iron conclave work, your arm," Jorin said, nodding at the arm. "Good Steel, well engineered but it's loud." he tilted his head slightly, "You can hear a man with one of those coming from a mile away in the wilderness. It's something to keep in mind."
Gryan's jaw tightened slightly, not quite anger, but irritation. He was sensitive about the arm. Alucent had learned. Not because he regretted getting it, he'd needed the replacement after an accident in the Forge years ago, but because it marked him. Made him visible in a world where visibility could be dangerous.
"Better loud than useless." Gryan said.
"True enough," Jorin agreed. Then his gaze shifted back to Alucent, and there was something different in his expression now, something appraising, almost curious. "You Scribes are the opposite, though. Quiet. Always quiet, right up until the moment the world changes shape around you."
What's this man talking about? Alucent felt a chill run through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. There was something unnerving about how casually Jorin had said that, like he understood what was happening.
Trying to change the subject, Alucent said "You seem to know a lot about the Vales, I remember our first encounter."
Jorin reached down, picking a piece of dark glass from his display. Wraithglass, Alucent realized after a moment. Shadow Vale material, nearly black but with subtle translucence when you held it to the light. Jorin began polishing it with cloth.
"A trader has to," Jorin said, his voice taking on a different quality now, still friendly but with an edge of something harder underneath. "And so shall you, while on your journey as a Scribe working the continents, you'll learn quickly that a Runepeaks artisan values precision over price. They'll pay triple for something if it's made to exact specifications, but they'll also walk away from a bargain if the measurements are off even if it's by a hair.
"You furthermore learn that an Iron Vale foreman only respects things that can survive a boiler explosion, they don't care how pretty it is or how clever the design, they only care if it works when everything's going to hell."
He paused, holding the wraithglass up to the light, examining it critically before continuing to polish.
"And well, you learn that folks in the Verdant Vale..." he trailed off, his eyes drifting past them to the crowd in the Marketplaza — the anxious faces, the quick transactions, the way people kept glancing towards the gates as if they're expecting something to come through at any moment. "...are starting to value faith more than food, and that's bad for business."
"..."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.
Faith more than food. Alucent thought about the Hollow Vale mission, about the religious factions and their preaching to convince people to embrace the new change. If people started prioritizing belief over survival, it meant they'd already lost hope in surviving through practical means.
"We're heading into the Vale," Alucent heard himself say. He wasn't sure if this was a good idea, sharing this info, but something about the trader's frank assessment of the world made him want to be equally direct. "Hollow Vale to be precise, investigating some... Irregularities."
Jorin nodded slowly, setting the wraithglass back down. "Then you'll want to understand something about faith and fear. They look similar from the outside, but they move in opposite directions. Faith makes people gather together, build walls, create rituals. Fear makes them scatter." He looked at Alucent directly. "Right now, the Verdant Vale is building a lot of walls, think about what that means."
Before Alucent could respond, Gryan cleared his throat, a subtle signal that they needed to move on. They had other supplies to gather, and standing in the Marketplaza discussing philosophy with a trader wasn't productive use of their limited time.
"I appreciate the valves," he said, tucking the box into his pack with careful precision. "And the advice."
Jorin waved them off with a slight smile. "Stay alive long enough to tell me that story. That's payment enough."
———————
The Silver Quill was nothing like Jorin's stall.
Alucent expected that, he knew one didn't specialize in Scribe supplies without cultivating a certain atmosphere. But the contrast was still striking. Where the Marketplaza had been chaos and noise and desperate energy of survival commerce, this shop or rather stall was... Quiet, ordered, almost as if it's a sacred place.
It was located in one of the older districts near the Scribe's Tower, Tucked between a bookbinder and a small tea house that catered to tower academics. The building itself was narrow but deep, with tall windows that let in clean afternoon light. The door was heavy wood with brass fittings, and when Raya pushed it open, a small bell chimed. A pure, clear note that seemed to linger in the air.
The smell hit Alucent immediately; amber ink and treated fabric, the distinctive sharp-sweet scent of Ironvine Fabric that had been properly cured. It was the smell of his profession, the smell of the tower workshops where he'd spent the last three weeks learning the theory and practice of Threadweaving.
Stepping inside, the shop was organized with an almost obsessive attention to detail. Rolls of Weavefiber lining were stacked along one wall, sorted by grade and type — copper-threaded for basic work, silver-threaded for precision applications.
An elderly man sat behind the counter, hunched over a piece of parchment with magnifying lens and a fine brush. His fingers were stained deep black with years of ink work, the kind of staining that never quite washed out. He looked up as they entered, and Alucent caught the brief flash of recognition in his eyes. He had noticed that this was a fellow Scribe.
"May I help you?" the old man asked. His voice rough but not unfriendly.
"Yes sir, I need Weavefiber lining," Raya said, moving past Alucent toward the wall of materials. "Silver-grade. High purity."
The old man set down his brush, standing with movement so careful of someone whose back didn't quite work the way it used to. "For what application?"
"it's a personal project."
The old man's eyes narrowed slightly, not suspicious exactly, but curious. Professional curiosity. "Darling, Silver-grade is expensive for personal work. Copper would be more cost-effective for most applications."
"I am not looking for cost-effective," Raya said, and there was an edge to her voice that Alucent recognized. "I am looking for purity."
The old man studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly, with respect for kindred spirit, perhaps. "The third roll from the left. Woven last month by a Runepeaks artisan, certified at ninety-eight percent channel integrity."
Hearing that, she moved to the indicated roll, pulling it down from its shelf with careful hands. Alucent watched as she closed her eyes, running her fingers along the fabric. Checking for flaws that would be invisible to normal perception.
Alucent felt a familiar twist of inadequacy watching her work. He was still at Thread 3, still learning, still having emotional instability ruining his etchings. He slightly looked away with a feeling that was akin to shame or embarrassment.
She stood there for what felt like a long time, her fingers moving slowly across the fabric. Her face completely still in concentration, the old man watched her with approval and nodded.
Finally, Raya opened her eyes. "I'll take one meter."
"That'll be one old Silverweave and five new Silverweaves," the old man said, moving back behind the counter to retrieve his cutting tools.
Alucent watched Raya's face as the old Scribe carefully measured and cut the fabric, watching for any mistake or sign of reaction to the price. But her expression remained neutral, controlled. Only the slight tension in her jaw gave away anything, and even that was subtle enough that you'd have to know her to notice.
She was building something she considered heresy. Using her knowledge of Threadweave, her respect for purity and traditional methods, to create a weapon that violated everything those traditions stood for. The conflict must be crushing her. And yet here she was, buying the highest-grade materials, ensuring that if this abomination was going to exist, it would at least be built correctly.
The old Scribe wrapped the cut fabric in plain paper, tying it with string. "You're doing precise work," he said.
"Yes," Raya said quietly.
"Good," He handed her the package. "Too many young Scribes these days rush things. Forgetting that the Weave has its own tempo." He met her eyes. "Respect the material. It'll respect you back."
Raya took the package, holding it carefully, but her knuckles tightened on it. For a moment, Alucent saw something cross her face. Pain maybe, or regret. But then it was gone, replaced by her usual composed professionalism.
"Thank you," she said, and there was something in her voice that suggested she meant more than thanks for the transaction.
Outside, back on the street, Raya stood for a moment holding the package.
Alucent waited, unsure if he should say something.
"It's good material," Raya finally said, breaking the silence, not looking at him. "Whatever we're building... At least it'll be built right."
It wasn't approval. It wasn't even acceptance. It was something else. An acknowledgement that they were committed now.