Old man Zepp handed us fresh clothes before we left.
Gary became a block of solid brown tweed; Ashlynn, a streak of crimson silk and leather, sharp as a blade; I slipped into black wool, a silhouette heavier than the shadows clinging to the walls.
And now, we blend in with our surroundings. The streets welcome us as if we're always part of the city.
Gary leads us along the eastern road to the northern outskirts.
Cobblestones, slick with coal dust, reflect the pale gray light. Children in patched coats dart between merchants, clutching rocks instead of coins. Their mothers whisper prices, eyes flicking to city patrols that move like careful predators. Across the street, polished carriages wait for tradesmen in tailored suits; polished rocks flash in their hands while the poor watch, ghostlike, like spectators at a show they cannot afford.
I eye a nearby bakery.
A man approaches the clerk with handfuls of rocks.
"Two loaves, please," he says.
The clerk counts carefully, then sets two loaves before him.
"Thanks for your patronage," the clerk says.
The man moves on as though nothing extraordinary happened.
Gary and Ashlynn glance at me.
"Excuse me," I murmur.
I bend, picking a palm-sized rock from the gutter by my feet.
I look at it. It's a rock.
Turn it over. Still a rock.
I approach the bakery as the clerk turns his head toward me.
"How much for this?" I hold it up.
"Four loaves," the clerk replies, lifting four fingers.
"I'll take three," I say, lifting mine.
Three loaves and a few rocks are placed in my hands. I toss the rocks back into the street, careful not to hit any children.
"Monsieur, your change!" the clerk shouts.
"You can keep it," I shrug, walking back to Gary and Ashlynn and giving them a loaf each.
"Where did you get that much money?" Ashlynn asks, confusion can be heard from her tone.
I shrug again.
We arrive at the northern outskirt, finishing our breads.
The crust is tough, the inside still warm; it tastes like something I used to know, but the memory stays just out of reach.
We walk some more as morning turns to noon.
Eventually.
"Follow me," Gary says.
We walk a few steps, then—
"This way," he turns.
The alley swallows us. Soot-stained brick presses our shoulders, jettied tenements leaning close like conspirators, leaving only a sliver of leaden sky. The air tastes of sulfur and iron, like blood-fuel. In shadow, a man huddles over gravel, polishing a rock with wide, greedy eyes.
The alley spits us into a plaza of scrubbed stone.
"We're here," Gary says.
At its center stands a red-brick bastion: rigid, symmetrical, three story high, crowned by a clock tower stabbing the gray sky in the middle. Windows march across the facade in disciplined rows. Three grand doors are visible. One for the center and two others for each wings. Above the grand doors, an emblem: a stylized bird nested inside a glowing lantern, framed in laurel.
Gary leads us inside.
The shift is immediate: grit replaced by stifling, clinical opulence. Polished white marble stretches underfoot, reflecting Ashlynn's crimson silk like spilled blood. Footsteps echo sharp, demanding silence.
Clerks in deep black uniforms moved with the precision of clockwork, each brass-buttoned sleeve catching the muted light. A small emblem—bird inside glowing lantern—gleamed on their chests as they counted rocks with the same reverence one might give to gold.
Above, the chandelier hummed, glass containers glowing steadily, no flicker, only pressurized light.
I wondered if anyone ever stumbled here, and whether a single misstep was noted immediately, cataloged as a distraction.
Gary guides us to the lobby. Heavy mahogany benches host desert travelers, silk rags, mountain tribesmen—waxen skin, hollow eyes, all equally muted by the Order.
At the clerk's desk stands a woman, long dark hair, blue eyes. She looks at Gary first, then at me and Ashlynn.
"Welcome to Hearthlight Order," she says. "It's been months, Gary."
"Marg, where's Master Veyr?" Gary asks.
"He went to Concord Order," she replies.
"I see," Gary says. A beat. "These two are in your care," he adds, pointing at us, then leaves.
The woman turns to us.
"Hi, I'm Margaret Evans. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to join your order. Hearthlight, is it?" I ask.
"Please wait a minute," Margaret says, rifling through papers under her desk. After a moment, she hands me a sheet. "Fill this form out, please."
I take the form, fill it, and return it.
Margaret scans it, her smile polite but sweet. "Let me check your paperwork."
A woman approaches the desk, standing next to us. Skin and bone, black wool clinging to her frame, parchment-thin flesh revealing a web of blue veins. Deep-set eyes hover over hollow cheeks, her neck a corded stalk with the collar gaping around it. Blonde hair like Ashlynn's; eyes emerald green.
Ashlynn freezes.
The woman smiles faintly.
"Tanya?" Ashlynn asks.
"Yes?" the woman replies. "Do we know each other?"
"We grew up together down south," Ashlynn says, eyes wide. "Duenchester."
The woman responds. "I've never set foot outside Tauran."
"But Belmont is rich and influential down south," Ashlynn insists.
"There's no Belmont outside Tauran," the woman says, flat tone.
"There's no Belmont outside Tauran," Margaret repeats, looking at Ashlynn with flat tone.
Ashlynn blinks, the words leaving her mouth like they're not her own. "There's no Belmont outside Tauran."
Then the three turn to me.
I echo it carefully. "There's no Belmont outside Tauran."
A moment.
Margaret checks the form again. "All set. Come by tomorrow before noon."
"Thanks," I say.
Ashlynn and I leave the Hearthlight building after.
Into the street. To find a place to stay.
Yes. To stay.