—I’m sorry— Selena managed to say, the words coming out clumsy and hollow against the enormity of the tragedy she had just heard. It wasn't enough. Nothing would be.

  Lykos only nodded, a slight movement of his gaunt head. There was no reproach in his eyes, only that deep, ancient resignation that seemed to have been chiseled into his bones.

  —It’s not your fault, miss— he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. —Rolus and I have managed on our own these six years. Don’t you worry— He relaxed his expression, a flash of pride peeking through the illness. —The first few years, when we were children, the Church of the Eternal Sap gave us bread every morning. But when I turned fourteen, as an adult, they didn't give me anymore— He sighed, a sound that seemed to come from deep within. —My little brother still goes when work is bad, and we have no other choice. Though they still give clean water on Mendr days, after the father’s sermon.

  —Miss!— Rolus interrupted, his eyes shining with the urgency of being useful. —If you’re lost, you could go to the Temple of…— he paused for a second, frowning in concentration. —The Temple of the Glowing Moss!

  —True, brother— Lykos ran a weak hand through the boy's tangled hair. —They have the Shelter of Sacred Rest there too. And they might be able to answer more than I could— He coughed again, a wet spasm that shook him. As he pulled his hand away from his mouth, Selena saw the fresh red stain on his palms. The boy closed his fist, hiding it. —I hate the bloody cough— he murmured, more to himself than to them.

  Shelter. The word resonated in Selena’s mind like a bell. A refuge. A place where perhaps, just perhaps, she could find a safe roof for the night. And perhaps, also, answers. A temple was usually a repository of stories, of records, of people who knew things.

  —Could you guide me, Rolus?— she asked, turning her gaze to the child.

  The little boy nodded enthusiastically, the prospect of a new mission momentarily erasing the shadow of the miserable shack. After saying goodbye to Lykos with vague promises of returning —promises that felt fragile and terribly insufficient— and thanking them for the information and the shared food, Selena stepped out into the heavy air of the estuary and followed the boy.

  The way back was a repetition of misery in reverse: the same narrow alleys of packed earth between precarious houses, the same smell of poverty and latent despair. Once they emerged onto the main street, a river of life and dust that contrasted brutally with the dead alleys, Rolus stopped.

  —If you follow the path straight, you’ll see the temple all the way to the right— he said, pointing his thin arm toward the end of the street where the buildings seemed to gain a bit more solidity. —I have to go back to old Orla’s inn to work on the errands— He gave her one last smile, a flash of his inexhaustible childhood energy, and before Selena could say anything else, he turned and ran off, blending into the crowd like a small fish in a turbulent river.

  Selena stood alone at the edge of the bustle. She took a deep breath, adjusted the bag on her shoulder, and began to walk down the wide dirt road.

  The Terracanto market unfolded before her senses like a vivid and overwhelming tapestry. On both sides of the road, makeshift stalls on blankets spread across the ground displayed a cornucopia of products both strange and familiar. Fruits of twisted shapes and intense colors she had never seen: some like purple bulbs with soft thorns, others that looked like clusters of translucent blue pearls. Smells mingled in the hot air: pungent and sweet spices, the earthy aroma of unknown tubers, the sour sweetness of ripe fruit. Some more established vendors had small cloth roofs that gave them an appearance of permanence.

  The shouts of the criers formed a constant cacophony that filled the street, a chorus of needs and offers:

  —Get your fungal milk, for one hard penny! It strengthens children's bones!

  —A handful of sweet fruits from the south, for five soft pennies! You won't find them cheaper!

  —Here, the best ornitura eggs! Big as your fist and with golden yolks!

  Selena let herself be carried by the current, her eyes jumping from one stall to another, distracted by the raw vitality and sensory stimuli. Until one of the stalls with a cloth roof caught her attention. It was tended by a short, thick-set man wearing a stained leather apron. On the counter and hanging from hooks were a variety of bags, belts, and small pouches of different materials and colors.

  But one in particular, hanging to the side, drew her gaze with an almost magnetic force. It was an intense, uniform sand color. It was beautiful in its simplicity, and of a quality that stood out among the rest.

  She approached, and the vendor, noticing her interest, looked at her with curiosity. —That one in front of you is syll-hide— the man said, his voice raspy but kind. —Its beautiful sand color is highly valued by connoisseurs. Very resistant too; syll skin is thin but lasts many years— His eyes, however, drifted from the hanging bag to the one Selena wore over her shoulder. A professional smile, mixed with genuine curiosity, formed on his face. —Miss, if you’ll permit me… I’d like to be able to touch your bag to value it. It’s just a craftsman’s curiosity; I see excellent work.

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  Selena looked at the man, then at the simple bag she had found empty in the room. It had no sentimental value; it was an anonymous object from her anonymous life. But it was her object now. She gripped it with both hands, feeling the soft leather. The man waited, his eyes shining with the interest of an expert before an unusual piece.

  Part of her resisted letting go, giving up any part of her extremely meager possessions. But another part, the part that needed information, that needed money, was an opportunity. With an almost imperceptible sigh, she nodded. —Yes— she said, her voice firm. —But only while I hold it in my hands.

  —Thank you for the trust!— the man exclaimed, rubbing his palms together before extending them delicately. He didn't try to take it; he simply ran his skillful fingers over the leather, feeling its texture, examining the nearly invisible seams, the reinforcements at the stress points, the interior lined with a fine, resistant fabric. His expression shifted from curiosity to genuine amazement. He ran a fingernail over the material and sniffed it slightly.

  Finally, he looked up, his eyes wide. —Miss… thank you for letting me see this. It’s… it is dune felis leather. Excellent, of the highest quality. The work of a master tanner, without a doubt— He paused, measuring her. He didn't ask how a woman in a simple, unadorned dress was carrying such a fine piece. He simply made his offer, like a good merchant. —Now, if you’ll allow me, my lady, I would like to make you an offer. How does… five copper crowns sound?

  Five crowns. It was a sum. Real money. Selena said nothing. Her face, however, spoke for her. She pressed the bag to her chest in an instinctive gesture of possession and frowned, a grimace of discontent that arose from the depths of her ignorance, but which the vendor interpreted as the reaction of a tough seller.

  The man nodded, as if confirming something. —Since it is your bag, and you are wearing it with… clothes— he said, choosing his words carefully, not disparaging her dress but marking the difference in value, —I could offer you the syll-hide one and even one silver crown with two copper— He smiled, a negotiating smile, waiting for a response.

  Selena’s mind was racing. It’s just a bag. An empty bag. I have no money. Having at least a couple of crowns… it could mean food, a roof, answers. She didn't finish the thought. Her mouth, moved by a need deeper than reason, opened and released the words before she could stop them: —It’s a deal.

  The vendor nodded, a spark of satisfaction in his eyes. Without wasting time, he hurried toward a small wooden chest reinforced with iron bands beneath his counter. He opened it with a small key hanging from his neck. From inside, he pulled out the silver coin and the two copper ones. Selena took them when he held them out. They were heavy, cold to the touch. On one side was stamped the profile of a stylized feline, crouched and alert; on the other, a simple crown.

  She handed over her soft, sand-colored leather bag. The man, in turn, gave her the new one of soft, sand-colored syll-hide. Selena quickly transferred her few clothes inside. She tucked the silver crown and the two copper ones into a small hidden compartment sewn into the inner lining, a detail she discovered by touch that gave her a strange sense of security.

  The vendor, holding the felis bag with almost religious reverence, spoke again. —May Solendri bless this deal, and may he illuminate all beneath his great figure— He traced a circle over his chest with an index finger, a quick and automatic gesture. —Thank you for the trade, girl. Have a good day.

  Selena nodded, not fully understanding the blessing but feeling the formality of the exchange. She adjusted the new bag, which hung better and felt sturdier on her shoulder, and continued on her way. The crowns, hidden but present, were a new weight on her conscience. A good weight. A tangible relief in the midst of the sea of uncertainty. She walked with a bit more determination, dodging the slow, six-legged tortoises that kicked up dust with their breath and heavy loads.

  That was when she felt it. A sudden chill that ran down her spine, as if a cold shadow had passed over the midday sun. It wasn't the cold of abstract fear, but the instinctive warning of being watched.

  She stopped dead and turned her head toward one of the side alleys, darker and dirtier than the main street. There, leaning against a cracked adobe wall, was a man. Thin, in dark and worn clothes, his face was a pale blur in the shadows. He was looking at her. Staring. Not with the casual curiosity of a passerby, but with an intense, calculating attention. His eyes, though she couldn't distinguish their color from a distance, seemed fixed on her—or perhaps… on her new bag.

  A slow, viscous terror began to crawl up her spine. A thief? Did he see me make the trade? She thought quickly. Her hand instinctively tightened on the bag’s strap. The man, noticing he had been discovered, did not flinch. He didn't smile; he didn't make a threatening gesture. He simply held her gaze for one more second, eternal and charged with intent. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned around and melted into the shadows of the alley, disappearing as silently as he had appeared.

  Her heartbeat hard against her ribs. She had felt vulnerable before, lost and confused. But this was a concrete, physical threat. Someone had marked her.

  Just in that moment of contained panic, a familiar sound snapped her out of her paralysis: the heavy breathing of a pack tortoise and the shuffling footsteps of slaves. One of the colossal reptiles, carrying sacks of grain, was moving down the main street toward her, its taskmaster walking alongside, his rod of command swinging in his hand.

  It was the man who had shouted at the slaves before. The one with the rod. The symbol of a brutal and feared authority. And in that instant, for Selena, he became something unexpected: a savior.

  The presence of the taskmaster and his moving cargo cleared the sidewalk, dispersing the people. The dark alley where the thin man had been no longer seemed so isolated, so conducive to a furtive approach. The immediate danger, at least, vanished, chased away by a larger and more visible threat.

  Selena quickened her pace, blending into the crowd, moving away from the tortoise, staying close to the main flow of people. Her mind, however, was no longer just on the temple; she had to watch her back.