Market Sparks

The next morning started earlier than Elior expected. A soft knock sounded just after dawn, and before the second tap landed, Kaelen stepped into the room. He looked the same as always—black cloak, light armor, dark hair falling near the scar on his jaw—only now a linen satchel hung from one shoulder.

"On your feet," he said, steady but not harsh. "We have supplies to buy before the crowd gets thick."

Elior pushed aside the blanket and stood, still half‑sleeping. He splashed water on his face from the basin, pulled on the academy tunic, and laced his boots. When he turned, Kaelen handed him a small cloth purse. It clinked softly.

"Silver crescents," Kaelen explained. "Enough for a novice gauntlet, a universal core, and basic study gear. Don't lose it."

Elior slipped the purse into an inner pocket and followed Kaelen into the hall. The guest wing was quiet at this hour; footfalls echoed in neat rhythm as they reached the main doors. Outside, fresh morning air carried a trace of wood smoke and something floral—maybe the tiny violet buds planted in rows along the walkway. Lamps set high on stone posts still glowed from the night, their crystals fading as daylight took over.

They crossed a modest plaza and reached the main avenue. Kaelen kept a brisk pace, weaving past early vendors arranging baskets of fruit and bread on low tables. A pair of armored watchmen passed in the opposite direction, nodding to Kaelen but barely sparing Elior a glance. He felt thankful for that—curious eyes still made him tense.

As they walked, Elior tried to memorize details: the way the upper floors of buildings jutted slightly over the street, the colored banners that marked different guild shops, the narrow channels cut into the stone curb where water flowed clear and quiet. Everything looked orderly, purposeful. Not perfect, but built with care.

They rounded a corner, and the wide market square opened before them. Dozens of stalls formed neat lines across sun‑warmed flagstones. Traders already called to one another while apprentices unloaded crates from small wagons drawn by shaggy six‑legged pack beasts. Overhead, strings of paper charms fluttered from post to post, each stamped with a simple warding rune against spoilage.

Kaelen slowed, scanning the stalls. "Gauntlet vendors are along the east row. Universal cores two stalls beyond them. Stay close." He paused, then added, "Keep quiet unless you need to speak."

Elior nodded. Even in the morning calm, the square felt alive—voices overlapping, metal tools clinking, the low hum of crystals waking as merchants touched runes to open-lock boxes. He walked a step behind Kaelen, clutching the purse inside his tunic, an anxious pulse beating against the coins.

They passed a booth where lengths of leather lay in tidy stacks. A craftsman trimmed strips with a curved knife that sparked faintly each time it met the cutting board, a sign of a minor reinforcement rune etched into the blade. Next came a stall hung with dyed jackets and belts, then another filled with glass jars holding pastel powders that glowed in soft waves.

Finally, Kaelen stopped at a table covered with leather cuffs—plain, practical, each fitted with a small empty socket of brushed steel. Behind the table, a gray‑haired woman greeted them with a measured nod. She wore thick spectacles and a leather apron dusted with fine shavings.

"Morning, Sentinel," she said. Her voice carried the ease of routine. "New student?"

"Something like that," Kaelen answered. "He needs a novice gauntlet. Twelve years, small build."

The woman gestured for Elior to place his forearm on a padded board. She measured wrist to elbow with a thin rope, marked the length with a dab of blue chalk, then selected a cuff from a side shelf. The leather was dark brown, subtle grain visible near the seam. She loosened the buckles and slid it onto Elior's forearm. It felt firm but not stiff.

"There," she said, tightening a final strap. "Plenty of holes to adjust as he grows. Socket's tempered steel—won't warp when you swap cores." She tapped the small metal ring at the gauntlet's center. "Standard training hardware."

Kaelen accepted the quoted price and counted crescents onto the table. The woman wrapped the spare straps in cloth, set them in a small linen pouch, and handed it to Elior. "Keep the leather oiled," she advised. "Dry climate's no friend to fresh hide."

Elior muttered a shy thank‑you and flexed his wrist. The cuff moved with him, lighter than it looked.

Kaelen inclined his head to the woman and moved on. "Next stall. Universal core."

They had barely taken two steps when a glyph on Kaelen's gauntlet flickered once in a sharp pattern of light. He frowned.

"Change of plan," he said. "I'm needed at the Aegis office—paperwork error. Ten minutes, no more. Stay here, speak to no one, touch nothing."

He pointed to a shaded corner near a stack of crates. Elior nodded, though his chest tightened. Kaelen held his gaze a moment longer, then strode off, cloak snapping behind him.

Elior exhaled slowly and shifted to the shade. Morning noise rolled over him—voices, hoofbeats, the distant hiss of steam from a boiling pot. He clenched his hand around the coin purse, waiting.

Ten minutes, he told himself. Nothing will happen in ten minutes.

Elior waited in the shade, watching people drift between stalls. Merchants raised canvas awnings, apprentices stacked crates, and the air warmed by small degrees. His new leather gauntlet felt strange—light yet solid. The empty socket sat at its center, a neat little circle of metal that caught the sun. He kept his arm close to his side, half‑worried someone might demand he prove he belonged in it.

Voices rose nearby—boys about his age, judging by the pitch. The group turned down the aisle and spotted him almost at once. Four of them, all wearing neat gray training coats trimmed in blue, each with a plain leather gauntlet similar to his, though theirs already housed dull white cores. The leader moved with easy confidence, pale blond hair tied at the nape of his neck, family crest pinned just above the heart.

He strode up, stopping two paces away. "Well, what have we here?" He looked Elior up and down, eyes pausing on the academy tunic. "Did they start hiring janitors in uniform?"

Snickers rippled through his entourage.

Elior felt heat climb his cheeks. He kept his voice level. "It's a student uniform."

The blond boy lifted a brow. "And who let a Rift‑rat enroll?" He placed a hand on his own chest and gave a shallow, exaggerated bow. "I, Lorian Arkess of House Arkess, welcome you to Caedor. We keep the stones swept and the gutters clean. You'll do fine."

More laughter.

Elior tried to steady his breathing. "I didn't choose to come here," he said. "I'm just trying to learn."

"Learn?" Lorian echoed. He tapped the empty socket on Elior's gauntlet with a knuckle. "With no core? You'll be sweeping classrooms, not casting spells." He looked at his friends. "Care to see how a real student handles Aether?"

The others backed up a step, giving him room. Lorian raised his gauntlet. White light flickered inside his training core. He formed his fingers into a loose fist, muttered a short phrase, and a pale bolt—no larger than a clenched hand—shot toward Elior's chest.

Instinct jerked Elior's arm up, but the defense didn't come from his sleeve. A shard of translucent energy—no bigger than a buckler—flared in front of him, twenty centimeters off his chest. The bolt smashed into the fragment, fizzled, and died. The barrier dissolved a heartbeat later, like steam fading in cool air.

The square fell silent. A nearby cloth merchant froze mid‑fold. Lorian's friends stared, mouths half‑open.

Lorian's face reddened. "Lucky twitch." He drew deeper, core light brightening. Crackles snapped in the air as he gathered something hotter.

A black cloak sliced between them. Kaelen—returned faster than Elior expected—raised his gauntleted hand. A tight green arc of energy leapt from his fingertips, snuffing out Lorian's forming spell before it left the gauntlet.

Kaelen spoke low, every word sharp. "Enough. House Arkess won't want an assault inquiry."

For a long second Lorian didn't move. Finally he lowered his arm. "I was only testing the Rift‑rat's reflexes."

Kaelen's stare didn't waver. The surrounding merchants eyed the scene, some pretending to rearrange goods while clearly listening.

Lorian straightened his coat. "Sleep light, outsider," he told Elior. "This world doesn't welcome drifters." With a curt gesture he turned, and his friends hurried after him, whispering as they vanished into the crowd.

The square's chatter resumed, softer than before. Kaelen rounded on Elior.

"I said wait and talk to no one." The words landed like stones.

"They came to me," Elior answered, voice tight. "I didn't start anything."

Kaelen blew out a slow breath, anger settling into caution. "That shield was reflex. Good instinct, but don't rely on it. Those boys tossed a toy spell. Anything stronger and that shard would have shattered. Next time step aside—or call me."

Elior nodded, throat dry.

Kaelen scanned him once, then tilted his head toward a nearby booth. "Come on. Let's finish before more trouble finds us."

They reached a stall lined with small wood trays, each holding thumb‑sized crystals. A middle‑aged vendor in a plain vest looked up, recognizing Kaelen.

"Training core?" she asked.

"Universal," Kaelen confirmed.

She plucked a stone from a tray marked with a leaping hare emblem—a glimmer‑hare core, soft white with faint inner threads. She set it on a velvet square, then handed Elior a short brass pin.

"Seat it and twist until it locks."

Elior slid the pin into tiny alignment holes in the socket ring, pressed the crystal flat, and turned. A gentle click sounded. Light seeped from the core, hesitant, then brightening. The glow pulsed stronger than anything he had seen in the other kids' gauntlets—steady, healthy, more than a flicker yet not blinding.

The vendor lifted an eyebrow. "Good resonance for a first fit," she said, mildly impressed.

Kaelen paid in crescents. The vendor wrapped a slate and quill set in a cloth kit and handed it over. Elior stowed it in his satchel, then examined the gauntlet. The core's pulse synced with his heartbeat—soft heat spreading through the leather.

Kaelen nodded toward the main road. "Lesson's over. Time to eat."