A sheet of pale fog hung high in the sky—the sun's edge blurred through its filter. Darker clouds wove through like ink spilled on parchment. Phantom drizzle pricked exposed skin. Bitter winds followed, sharp as needles.
Eve walked.
She sized up the path before her. The grey horizon disappeared into the corroded ground. Buildings hunched together—wood leaning on stone, rust bleeding on iron. Mud swallowed boots with each step—a wet gasp where street pretended to be solid.
Navigating the tangling roads with familiar ease, Eve exited the mouth of the road with a sharp left turn. And there she emerged, pouring in to a sea of marching heads.
This was the Southern Bazaar—hub of commerce. Footsteps beat against the street. Vendors lined every nook and cranny. Chatter rose like steam—sharp, insistent.
Eve matched the crowds pace. Her eyes scanned along the curiosities: woven baskets, earthen pots. The smell of wet wool and fried bread lured in victims.
In a corner, a boy stood on a crate, peddling newspaper. A plaid coat hung loose over his scrawny frame.
"Extra! Extra! Facestealer takes another! Clinics overrun! Uppers bleed, Lowers watch!"
Eve walked up, flashing a smile."One copy of the Daily Taint, please."
"That'll be 1 Bronze and 30 Coppers, miss."
She shoved the coins into his palm.
"Three. Keep it." She didn't watch him pocket it—she knew he'd count it twice. Like she would.
The boy's mouth curled at the corners. "Praise the Sun."
Eve unfolded the front page. The bold headlined burned:
THE DAILY TAINT
FACESTEALER CLAIMS ANOTHER— VICTIMS RISE TO 11
Eve recalled Tilda's warning. Her stomach tightened.
"So it was true..."
She never doubted Tilda. Not once. Still, Eve vowed silently—to not cause Tilda worry.
She studied the other headlines:
"Uppers dead in detention, Lightkeeper summoned...huh? Commissioner bribed with potato fries?"
She muttered under her breath, "Must be the recession."
Her eyes lingered at one spot: "Moontouched overrun clinics..."
Her gaze snapped from the paper. A mob surged at a stall—shoving, scrambling.
Eve squeezed past the chaos to stand in a stall drowning in emptiness. The owner perked up at the sound of her footsteps.
"Pleasant Morning, Mikail."
"Eve!" His slump vanished. "You look like the earth wrestled you for once."
His eyes dropped to her hands—calloused, scraped. "Tilda send you, did she?"
"You know her well", Eve replied—throwing a glance at the neighbouring stall. "Business seems slow today. Tough crowd?"
"They'd eat gutter-rat if it wore a gold sticker", Mikail spat.
He jabbed a man at the crowd. "See him? Paid double for stale apples. I've seen two worms eat before he did."
Mikail swayed his arms. "This is fresh from the North you know! Straight from my cousin. Smart fellow. Owns a plot. Big green thumbs. Guaranteed the cheapest in all of Upper", he declared—chest puffing.
"Sounds good to me", Eve said, handing over a jute pouch. "I'm here to get some apples. Only the best."
Mikail beamed.
He packed the bag—holding each apple to the dim sun, inspecting them.
"Here you go." Mikail handed the pouch over. "Thats 11 Bronze and 45 Coppers." His mouth widened—a slyness that didn't reach his eyes. "But for you, my darling, only 11."
Eve smiled. Mikail's prices were fair—unlike most here. She counted out eleven bronze.
"I'll see you around."
Mikail replied with a wave—one hand hovering over his heart.
Apples in hand, she turned toward the southern underpass—her route to work. The crowd thinned as she walked.
Nearing the exit, she stopped. She saw the underpass— a hole punched into stone. Dark. Unassuming. But at its mouth, two figures stood like pillars. Black suits ending at their thighs. An emblem on the right sleeve: a dark sky dotted with stars.
"Nightwatchers..."
Why are they here?
Others threw careful glances— foreheads twisted, sweat beading.
An old priest approached the guards, sun-lamps tied to the waist.
"I apologise, Father. Selected personnel only."
Blocked. She'd have to retrace her steps. A muscle jumped near her temple. The bazaar's noise stabbed at her thoughts.
"Blocks like this means bodies later." A voice rang like plucked string—carried with smoke. "Nightwatchers don't cordon for air—they cordon for silence"
Eve traced the voice to a quiet stall. Forgettable. The woman manning it was anything but.
Tall. Ebony skin. White eyes like two moons. Dull, blue cloth hung over her like curtains. Her hair coiled like smoke. In her hand, a pipe, smelling of something sweet.
Dark squiggles—letters—crawled down her face. Looked foreign. Alive.
"I bet I can turn that frown around", the woman said. "Love potions. Palm readings. I do it all. Fate is a dastardly thing. But for my customers? I pry it open like a book."
Eve hesitated. "I don't believe in luck."
"Now, now. Don't be like that. Moats today?" Her white eyes narrowed. "That detour's longer than the scars on your knuckles."
Eve rubbed her hands—the grooves on her knuckles still tender.
The woman broke into a chuckle.
"No need to stare daggers. I read the future, not minds."
Eve stepped closer. "How did you know?"
"Your face is rough. Olive. Callouses on your pads—shaved down, but still there." Fingers traced Eve's palm. "Wax seals on your boot. Three layers—like you're used to it."
Smoke drifted between them.
"There's only so many things that come to mind when you put it all together. The rest was luck."
"Not as scary as I look, am I. Humour me. Since you're my first customer today, its on the house."
Eve locked eyes—unflinching. "I never said you were scary."
The lady smiled to her ears. A deck of cards shot up her palms from her sleeves. She shuffled—then laid them flat.
"Pick five. Any five."
Eve slowly extended her arms, picking cards at random. The lady turned them up and cleared the rest.
"Let's see...the Shade of Time, Grave of Sun. Oh, Boat of Life? You should learn to swim, if you can't already."
The lady paused on the final card, looking intently. Her eyes met Eve's.
"Mark of Kings." Her voice dropped. "You'll live long. Long enough to see the sun die. Riches? None. But fame will find you. Even the Dead God's bones will remember your name."
"Aren't you glad? Now you know you'll die known by many."
"I'd rather die with my name." Eve's thumb rubbed her tightened fist. "Not some Sun-blessed title."
Eve stared back. Her eyes unblemished, voice steady.
No one spoke. Silence built tall like a wall. Suddenly, a commotion rang out like a sledgehammer. Behind them, by the exit, a woman lay flat on the ground—arched over a small child. Sobbing. Trembling. Not from the cold, but fear.
A man loomed over them.
He stood taller. Feet firmer. The coat swallowed daylight—tapering near the knees. A man carved from stone—spirit from steel. The stars studded the sky, but it wasn't a dull and dark. Instead, it looked like the dawn. It carried the symbol of the sun, like Tilda's painting.
Shoulders hunched, eyes racing—no one looked directly at him.
Eve's jaw tightened. Her hands curled into fists—nails digging into skin.
"Blackcoats", the lady murmured—her voice laden with poison. "Torn limbs, faceless bodies. The monster wreaking mayhem got under their rotten skin. So they want to climb into ours."
Eve peeled away, her voice cutting through the air.
"Monsters? I thought we called them Nightwatchers."
The lady leaned closer to whisper.
"Don't meet their eyes" Her hand tightened on Eve's wrist. "They hunt the ones who remember what they've done. I don't need cards to read that."
Eve didn't pull away. Her voice carried frost. "I sling rot for a living."
Besides, the real monsters don't wear just stars.
The woman's slyness vanished. lips curling. Her posture loosened, becoming familiar. She shook her sleeves again. A crescent-shaped biscuit landed on her palm.
"From beyond the Wall. It sees." At some point, deck disappeared into her sleeve. "Tastes sweet. Like a serenade at Night."
The biscuit pressed into her hand.
Eve nodded—half bowing. "Thank you."
Before long, Kala saw her disappear into the crowd.
Kala's lips moved in silent prayer—Raats' blessing for the hunted. 'May the Night be with you.'
Eve pried the biscuit open—hollow, with a thin string of paper inside.
"Nothing in life is promised. Only the Sun rises with certainty."
She turned it over:
"A short life, well-lived, is better than a long one marred with fame and Uncertainty."
Eve frowned. The paper crumbled in her fists.
"What the hell? That's totally different!"
She ate the biscuit. It tasted like choking anger. Like that of a mother and her child.