Chapter 3 – A Spark in Karakum Pass
The square at Karakum Pass was too still for late morning. Stalls stood under shrouds of coarse cloth; the air was thick with incense smoke that seemed reluctant to rise, curling in on itself. Somewhere beyond the stone façades, muted footfalls retreated into houses, bolts slid home. The sound here travelled poorly, as though the streets themselves didn't trust it.
Aras paused at the edge of the square, the compass warm in his palm. The cracked glass caught a glint of sun, highlighting the thin arc and three lines beneath—more vivid than before, as if the emblem itself had felt the tension in the air. Lira eased an arrow onto her string without raising it, while Kovan let his cloak fall back just enough to free the hilt of his sword.
They had agreed to stop for supplies before tracking the compass's pull further east, but the Pass was sending them a different message: leave before nightfall. Chalk lines adorned most thresholds; some fresh and bright, others scuffed and fading. The ash‑grey dust along the flagstones whispered underfoot, and for the first time, Aras thought he could make out the cadence: it was counting with him.
At the far side of the square stood a long, low building of dark stone—the market‑house. Its heavy door was shut, but in the shadowed eaves above, three deep coal marks echoed the compass's emblem. The sight pulled at him like a current, though he forced himself to glance at his companions.
"Something's under this place," Lira murmured. She had the bow canted slightly, listening through her fingertips to the faint vibrations in the string. "Breathing slow. But it's not sleeping."
Kovan's gaze tracked the rooftops and alleys. "If there's an open Uğrak here, it explains the quiet."
Aras nodded, though the word open lodged uncomfortably in his mind. Since leaving the city gates, he'd been aware of the Veins under the road—faint, willing to be accompanied. Here, the sensation was different: the note was sustained and heavy, like a drawn‑out chord waiting for resolution.
He stepped toward the market‑house. The air cooled with each pace, the incense scent thickening into something metallic. Two paces from the door, he hesitated—the ground beneath felt hollow, and the wire within him drew taut without his bidding.
From behind the shut door came a voice, male, unhurried. "You've brought the compass."
Not a question. The words were shaped around certainty.
The door swung inward, revealing a narrow‑shouldered man with ash‑grey hair tied back. His eyes were sharp, assessing without hostility. "Inside. Talk is a poor shield out here."
Lira and Kovan exchanged a look, then followed Aras inside.
The Market‑House
The interior was dim, lit by narrow slits of daylight and the slow curl of incense from a dozen small clay burners. Stalls and benches had been pushed back against the walls, leaving the centre clear. In the middle, a wide trapdoor lay flush with the stone floor, its outline traced in soot. Around it, the dust had settled in circular patterns, as though drawn by breath.
"I'm Hazer," the man said, moving to one of the benches. "And you've stepped onto the kind of road that rarely lets you back off."
Aras rested a hand on the compass. "We're looking for answers. The rings. The creatures."
"Uğrak," Hazer corrected gently. "They're not rings. They're gates—or tears, depending on how you see the Veins. This one opened two nights ago in the waterway under us. So far, nothing's come through that couldn't be… handled." His eyes flicked to Lira's bow and Kovan's sword.
Aras crouched beside the trapdoor. The hollow feeling intensified; the wire in him wanted to hum. He placed his palm flat on the wood—cool, but with a pulse in it.
"You hear it," Hazer said quietly. "Most can't, not unless they've been… marked. The compass is one mark. The pendant you carry—another. Put them together and you're already halfway to stepping through."
Aras looked up sharply. "Through to where?"
Hazer's mouth curved, though not quite into a smile. "Through to where the Veins run closer to the surface. But that's not always a place."
Descent
They pried the trapdoor open; a steep stairway led down into shadow. The air that rose was colder, tinged with the scent of wet stone. Aras felt the cold line in his arm quicken its climb.
The stair ended in a low tunnel, its walls slick. In the distance, a dim light pulsed in time with the deep note thrumming through the floor. As they advanced, the tunnel widened into a cistern—dry now, its centre dominated by an obsidian ring set into the floor. Faint fissures webbed its surface, glowing the same muted grey as the veins on the Ash Road.
"This one's small," Hazer said, circling it. "But the pattern's wrong. It's not closing."
Aras approached, the compass in one hand, the pendant in the other. The needle wavered, then aligned perfectly with the ring. The mark beneath the glass flared.
The wire in him thrummed, eager. Accompany, he reminded himself. He knelt, placing his free hand on the ring. The cold was immediate, reaching up his arm, but under it was heat, like something alive resisting his touch.
"Three long, one short," Lira whispered behind him, as if reading his thought.
He matched his breathing to it. The fissures brightened, then dimmed, the rhythm faltering as if unsure. Aras shifted his palm, not pressing harder but changing the note. The glow thinned, drew inward, until only the emblem at the ring's centre remained lit—thin arc, three lines.
Then, with a sound like an exhale, the light vanished.
Aftermath
Silence filled the cistern, heavier than before. Aras withdrew his hand slowly; his fingertips tingled, the wire slackening. Hazer let out a slow breath. "You've done what I couldn't. That makes you useful. But it also paints you on the maps of things that travel through these."
Kovan's gaze was steady. "So where's the next one?"
Hazer hesitated, then moved to a side alcove, returning with a roll of vellum. He spread it on the stone: a map marked in red and black lines, each red ringed with coal marks like those above the market‑house door. "Three days east," he said, tapping a mark at the foot of a range labelled Ruined Crown. "Ayven lives here. Convince him to help you, and you might see the Sea of Shadows with your own eyes instead of in the compass."
Aras traced the route. The next stretch of the Ash Road ran parallel to a braided line of grey—Veins, drawn as if they were rivers. He felt the pull in his arm again, less a demand than an invitation.
When they climbed back into the market‑house, the square was quieter still. But at two thresholds, new chalk marks had appeared since they'd gone below: three lines, fresh and unscuffed.
Lira noticed too. "We were heard."
"They'll know the name soon enough," Kovan said.
Aras slid the compass into his coat, the pendant warm against his chest. Outside, the Ash Road waited—grey, unyielding, and listening.
---