The first lanes pressed tight, noise crawling across stone ribs and iron rail. Kaelen kept his shoulders square, head down, though the urge to watch everything clawed at him. Sparks glimmered in glass, runes flared faintly on steel, and a hundred trades whispered past like currents under water.
"Don't drift," Taren said. He moved like he belonged here, weaving through bodies with the same restless ease he had on the streets above. Kaelen matched his pace, though the Market seemed to bend around them, levels folding into levels until direction meant less than gravity.
Taren finally slowed near a stone pillar etched with faint scales. "All right. You'll lose me before the night's over if you don't know how this place runs. So, listen."
Kaelen nodded once.
Taren gestured with his chin. "Southeast quarter, whisper stalls. That's where your broker sits, under Scales' eyes, and where you'll pay more coin than sense for anything worth hearing. West galleries, Sparks. Unregulated stock. Half'll fry you; the rest will limp along long enough to ruin you slower. South side is steel and runes, artifacts, trinkets, gear. Don't touch anything unless you plan to buy it. East galleries handle labour. Contracts, muscle, smugglers. Most of them won't care what you need, just whether you can pay."
"And the parts you're not mentioning?" Kaelen asked.
"North pit." Taren's grin tilted, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You won't walk out if you go down there. Black trade runs deeper than you can afford, Kael. Cores with too much bite left in them, Sparks that carry whispers, things pulled from Soulfire zones raw. That's not for you."
Kaelen kept his face still. "But it's for someone."
"Always."
They moved again, following the curve of the gallery. The lamps here burned lower, wardlight pulling long shadows across the stalls. Taren dropped his voice. "Factions hold this place the same as the city above. West is The Auric Syndicate, East is Black Cord, South shifts with the season. But Central?" He tapped his chest. "Neutral. The House of Scales keep the Market balanced. Everyone pays, everyone trades. That's how it breathes."
Kaelen risked a glance toward the far railing. A group of men leaned against a stall, cuffs stitched thick with black thread. They weren't selling. They didn't need to.
"You heard of the Black Cord?" he asked quietly.
"You could say that" Taren said, voice lower now. "They're not like the Syndicate. Their roots are in East Central and East Docks. Black Cord doesn't just trade Sparks, they believe in them. In what they leave behind. They take the ones no one sane touches, and they use them anyway. Like it means something more than coin."
Kaelen frowned. "Belief?"
Taren shrugged, though his eyes didn't leave the crowd. "Call it devotion. Call it madness. Either way, they dress it up in contracts and coin, so most folk don't look too closely. But if you scratch the surface," He broke off, shaking his head. "Best you don't."
The lane curved, narrowing as they passed between two high stalls where ore-smoke curled against the stone ribs. Sparks glimmered in glass, each shard bottled like a dying star. Sellers barked their wares with sharp voices:
"Mobility Spark, Tier Two! Pulled from a riptalon core, clean for three hours of glide!"
"Manipulation spark, Soulfire dense, stable burn, 50 crown a vial!"
Kaelen slowed despite himself. He'd seen Sparks traded in slips and whispers on the surface but never piled so openly.
Taren's hand caught his arm. "Don't drift. West quarter, Syndicate stock. Half of it will cook your marrow faster than it lights. The other half will limp long enough to ruin you slower."
Kaelen kept his face still, but his thoughts turned. He knew some of it, Sparks cut from monster cores carried echoes of what birthed them, corruption clinging under the skin. Others were dragged raw from Soulfire pools, dangerous just to collect. The Guild had methods to scrub them clean, bind them stable, but nobody else knew how. Nobody the guild would leave breathing anyway.
His eyes caught on a brighter shard in a case, marked with thin glyphs of Guild script.
"Stolen issue," Taren muttered. "See the tags? Monitoring seals, same as the ones you got on your sparks. "Use one of those, the Guild will know when, maybe where. And they don't like surprises. Gamble with your marrow if you like, but you won't be gambling long."
They moved on, into the southern galleries where steel glinted under rune banners. Blades laid across felt cloth, short swords and daggers humming faintly with etched glow-lines. A seller slashed one through the air, the edge smoked red for a heartbeat. Another rapped a shield until it shimmered faintly, then went dull.
"Artifacts," Taren said. "Some will save your skin. Some will drink your hand dry. "All of them'll cost more than you've got. And the ones you can afford aren't worth keeping."
Kaelen let his eyes linger on a slim dagger traced with reinforcement runes. The stallholder smiled too wide. Taren tugged his sleeve. "First rule here, the first thing that catches your eye is already baited."
They kept moving.
A notice board loomed against a pillar, parchment nailed over parchment: contracts for smugglers, mercenaries, dockhands willing to vanish for a price. A smaller section offered services with no names: tether release. mark-scrub. quiet work, fair rates.
Taren only spared it a glance. "East quarter," he said. "That's Cord business. Contracts and muscle. Best keep walking."
Kaelen did. But the eyes clung as they passed, dragging across his shoulders like ink soaking into paper. He didn't need to look back to know the Cord had seen him.
Taren's hand brushed his shoulder, steering him left before the weight could settle deeper. "Eyes ahead. East quarter's theirs, and they don't like to be stared at. You'll breathe easier once we're in Central."
The lane opened onto a wider gallery where the noise thinned into a sharper murmur. Stalls here weren't stacked with Sparks or steel. They were bare tables, benches, even crates turned on their sides, the only trade was words. Men and women sat with slates and slipcases, some leaning close over quiet conversations, others letting would-be buyers stew in silence until coin appeared.
"This is where I leave you," Taren said. His grin was gone now, voice low. "Whisper quarter. House of Scales runs it. Rules bite harder here than anywhere else in the Market, which means you're safer. For a price."
Kaelen scanned the benches. Faces blurred together in the wardlight, too still, too patient. A place where mistakes didn't echo, they vanished.
"You'll be looking for Greyhand" Taren went on. "Tell him I sent you. Don't haggle unless you want to pay double. Don't lie unless you want to disappear. And don't wander. This is Central, the Scales see everything."
He paused, tilting his head. "You'll manage?"
Kaelen's mouth was dry, but his voice stayed level. "I'll manage."
"Good." Taren clapped him once on the arm, sharp and quick, then turned back into the Market without waiting.
Kaelen stood alone at the edge of the whisper stalls, the air thick with murmured trades. The weight of unseen eyes pressed close again, not just the Cord this time, but the Market itself, watching to see how he'd move.
Kaelen crossed the quarter, keeping his pace even. The benches nearest the walkways were loudest, men leaning across cheap tables, trading names and rumours like dice rolls. Too many ears close enough to catch stray words. He pushed past them, toward the north wall.
That's where he saw him.
Greyhand sat at a table that could have belonged to anyone. Plain coat, plain boots, hair cropped close. Nothing to mark him, nothing but the eyes. Pale, steady, fixed on Kaelen the moment he came within reach, as though he'd been expected.
"You walk like a man trying not to be seen, Taren sent you?" the broker said softly. His voice carried only to Kaelen, though it never rose above a whisper. Kaelen Nodded.
"Sit."
Kaelen did. The bench felt colder than the rest of the Market, though he knew that was his nerves talking.
Greyhand studied him for a moment, then gestured with a fingertip. One of the alcoves behind him shifted, its curtain swaying open just enough to show a narrow space within, rune-lines faint along the stone. Private.
"Open or closed?" the broker asked.
Kaelen's mouth was dry. He thought of Taren's words, pay for the dark.
"How much?"
"One crown," Greyhand said. "That buys you a curtain and silence. If you want truth instead of silence, that costs more."
Kaelen weighed the coin in his pocket, the Market pressing around him like ink in water.
Kaelen slid a crown across the table. Greyhand didn't touch it, not yet. He only looked at Kaelen until the silence felt heavier than the Market's press. Then he laid one pale hand over the coin and made it vanish.
The curtain shifted.
"Inside," Greyhand said.
The alcove was little more than stone walls and a bench, but the faint runes along the edges gave the air a close, muted feel. The market's hum dulled the moment Kaelen stepped through. Greyhand followed, drawing the curtain shut with a slow flick of his fingers.
"Better," he murmured. "No stray ears. Just mine."