One by one, Devvyn ticked off all the items on Maelis's list until only steel sheets remained. He wasn't sure what seller to get those at. Silko's didn't have them and they were the only store his grandmother trusted for steel.
He headed down the market, where lesser-known hardware stalls were tucked between food stalls and some obscure shops. A few minutes later, he stopped outside a narrow store wedged between a spice trader and a secondhand optics stand. The inside was dim, cluttered with strange-looking tools and stacked panels of questionable material.
Devvyn lingered at the entrance, squinting past the greasy windows. The vendor behind the counter had a blank expression and was picking at his nails with a screwdriver.
Yeah… no thanks.
He turned and kept walking.
He moved through two more aisles, dodging vendors who called out prices and special deals until the shops thinned out. The end of the market was quieter, less polished, and more chaotic. Tarpaulin tents flapped in the wind, and wires dangled across wooden frames. There, tucked into a shaded corner, he spotted another stall with a large sheet of steel propped up against a post. It looked solid.
Devvyn stepped under the canopy of the stall.
The vendor—a short man with a messy beard and grease-stained hands—looked up from his workbench.
"Need something, kid?"
"Yeah," Devvyn said. "Steel sheets. Good quality. You have any?"
The man grunted and walked to a large box at the back. He pulled off the lid, rummaged through for a moment, then brought out three large steel sheets one by one and laid them out with a dull clang.
"It's three silvers per sheet and I've only got these left," he said, wiping his hands on his oil-stained apron. "Three sheets. How many do ya want?"
Devvyn pulled out Maelis's list and scanned the bottom. Four.
He looked up. "I need four."
The vendor shrugged. "Then ya one short. Everybody's low on sheets these days. Between construction orders and scrap runners hoarding material, it's slim pickings."
Devvyn frowned. "You sure there's nowhere else that might have one?"
The man gave a pointed look and leaned slightly closer. "Not anywhere legal, if that's what you mean. But if ya head east past the outer fence, down by the broken rail line... well, let's just say the black market is always in stock. Might be a bit more than I would charge though." He smirked. "Just watch ya pockets."
The vendor squinted at Devvyn as he began rolling the sheets and packaging them. "What's a kid like you need steel sheets for, anyway?"
"I'm building a machine. For Lord Pyrethorn." Devvyn said as he brought out coins to pay him.
The man paused, then burst into a rough, barking laugh. "That's rich. Lord Pyrethorn, huh? What, he needs a machine and went knocking on some kid's door in the Lower City?"
Devvyn crossed his arms. "I'm serious."
The vendor gave him a long look, still grinning, then shrugged. "Alright, alright. Kids these days and their imaginations. Can't say I wasn't the same once." he said as he collected the money from Devvyn and dropped it in a tin can.
"Is it ok if I leave the steel with you and come back when I'm done? I don't want to lug it around."
He stepped out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag. "Sure. Come on. I'll show ya a shortcut to the market."
Devvyn followed him out of the stall and down a narrow alley. The vendor pointed ahead, where the edge of the market gave way to rusted fencing and a slope of cracked concrete.
"Head that way, past the broken rail line," he said. "You'll see an old tunnel entrance with red tape across it. Go past that. Follow the steam pipes on the left wall until you smell metal and burnt oil. That's where the steel sellers hang around. Don't flash too much coin and don't mention my name."
"Um. I don't know your name."
"Old Sam Wyvil, now ya know." He smirked again and turned back toward his stall. "Good luck, Mr. Pyrethorn Machine Builder."
Devvyn rolled his eyes. "Right. Thank you."
Still gripping the folded list in one hand, he turned toward the broken rail line and followed the directions. The farther he went, the quieter it got, with just the low hum of steam lines and the soft hiss of leaking pipes following him.
He passed the tunnel entrance with the red tape and kept to the left like the vendor had said. He could hear the occasional clink of metal in the distance, like someone fiddling with tools or junk. Every step further made his skin itch.
His pace slowed. Maybe I should turn back, he thought. The black market wasn't exactly known for being safe, especially not for teenagers walking around with coin pouches. If anything went sideways, no one would come looking for him.
But then he imagined having to trek all the way back to the market later just to get one more sheet. Nope, he decided. In and out. Quick.
He rounded another corner where the air turned thick and acrid. Burnt oil. The unmistakable chemical scent clung to the inside of his nose. Up ahead, clustered around rusted barrels and makeshift stands, were the steel sellers. Some leaned over crates. Others stood watchfully, arms crossed or eyes half-lidded, tracking every movement.
Devvyn tightened his grip on the pouch of coins and approached the first vendor in line.
The purchase was quick. He didn't bother haggling with the seller. He checked the steel quality and saw that it was good and handed over the coins and nodded his thanks. He just wanted to get out of there.
But as he turned to leave, a toy ship on a nearby table caught his eye. It was small, wooden, with metal sails and little rotating wheels underneath. The kind you could wind up and watch scoot across the floor. Orryn would lose his mind over this, Devvyn thought, and before he knew it, he was at the table.
The table was cluttered with other toys, too—old and dusty but interesting. A miniature wind-up giraffe. A brass spinning top that was rainbow-colored. A broken glider bird with patchwork wings. A puppet with mismatched eyes and movable fingers. And a puzzle cube made of interlocking gears.
Devvyn leaned over, examining the ship more closely. The seller had their back turned, rummaging through a chest of parts behind the table.
"How much for the ship?" he asked.
"2 silver." The seller turned to answer.
Devvyn's breath caught in his throat. He had to physically stop himself from gasping. His fingers gripped the edge of the table.
The man's face was half-melted, skin clinging in twisted, sagging patches. One eye was gone entirely. An empty socket above a ruined cheek. His fingers, what was left of them, were scorched and fused in places, as if the fire had tried to swallow them whole.
Devvyn looked away sharply. His gaze dropped to the table, to the toy ship he'd come for.
"I'll give you five bronze," he said quickly.
"Six," the seller said.
Devvyn nodded. "Okay." He reached into his pouch, counted out the coins, and looked up to hand them over, only to quickly avert his gaze again.
The man chuckled, a dry rasp. "You can look, kid. I don't bite."
"I'm sorry," Devvyn muttered. "I didn't want to be rude by staring."
"It's fine. Really." The seller took the coins. "It's my fault, anyway. Thought I could bond with a Six-Lux Echo."
Devvyn's head snapped back up. "A failed bonding did this to you?"
The man gave a crooked smile, the unburned half of his face twitching. "Lucky, believe it or not. I should be dead."
"Lucky, huh," Devvyn repeated, still staring at the burns and warped skin. He couldn't understand what was lucky about nearly being killed by an Echo. He glanced back at the table, and something else caught his eye. A whistle, shaped like a delicate shell, made of smooth glass that shimmered faintly in the light.
"How much for this one?" he asked, picking it up.
The seller looked at it, then waved a hand. "You can have it. No charge."
"Cool." Devvyn grinned, genuinely pleased. He held the whistle to his lips and gave it a quick blow. There was no sound.
He frowned. "Is it busted?"
The man leaned on the table. "Nope. Blows at a frequency humans can't hear. Back when Remnants roamed Thaloria, the Valorians used whistles like that to subdue them. Or so the stories go."
Devvyn raised a brow. "Right," he said, clearly not convinced, but he slid the whistle onto the cord and slung it around his neck anyway.
The seller's eyes followed the movement. "Tuck it under your shirt," he said, more serious now. "Things like that draw attention."
Devvyn slipped it beneath his shirt, even though he felt the man was being dramatic. The glass was cool against his chest. A sudden wave of heat surged through his body like he'd stepped into a furnace. He gasped and staggered slightly, his hand going to his chest. Then, just as quickly, the heat vanished, replaced by an icy chill that made him shiver from head to toe.
He touched his forehead. It was burning hot. Sweat beaded at his temples, soaking into his collar.
"You okay, kid?" the seller asked, noticing his pallor.
"I…yeah," Devvyn said, though his voice trembled. "… feel a little sick. I should get home."
The seller raised a brow but didn't ask questions. Instead, he reached for the toy ship and carefully wrapped it in cloth. "Here. And remember what I said. Don't go about showing off that whistle."
Devvyn nodded weakly and took the package.
On the way back, his head still spinning and his stomach tight, he stopped by Old Sam Wyvil's shop to collect the sheets.
Sam looked up as Devvyn approached. "Ah, back already?"
"Yeah, thanks for your help." Devvyn mumbled as he collected the sheets from him.
"Ya don't look good. Get some rest at home, boy and leave all this machine building stuff that ya playing about with."
Devvyn gave a tired nod and headed home.
The more he walked, the sicker he felt. His head throbbed in pulses, and his skin prickled like it was both too hot and too cold at once. His legs felt heavier with each step, and his vision blurred slightly around the edges.
It was weird. He hadn't been sick in years.
Not even a sniffle during the dust storms last winter. Not even when half the neighborhood kids came down with cough fever last year. Maelis always said he had a stubborn immune system. Something wasn't right.
His free hand moved instinctively to the glass whistle hanging under his shirt.
