Chapter 72: Commerce it is

  The Gilded Gyre has a ceiling of overlapping, derelict starships and rusted orbital platforms, lashed together by chains the size of skyscrapers. It smells of fried void-crab, and the specific, metallic tang of desperate commerce.

  After the pristine, suffocating order of Arcanorum, the Gyre feels like a warm, filthy blanket. It is chaotic, loud, and entirely indifferent to my existence. I love it.

  My boots hit the steel plating of the arrival docks, my Veil: Guise of the Traveler already humming at full power. To the casual observer, the roaring Prismatic star of my soul is dampened to the dull flicker of a tired deckhand. I slouch my shoulders, keeping my newly regrown left hand tucked into the pocket of my ruined pants.

  Beside me, Vrex doesn't bother hiding. You can't Veil a two-ton gargoyle made of compressed star-metal and granite, carrying a hammer that looks like an engine block on a stick. But this is the Gyre. A heavily armed rock monster walking next to a vagrant is just standard Tuesday traffic.

  "Keep pace," Vrex rumbles, his golden eyes sweeping the crowd of multi-limbed aliens, and floating constructs and more aliens.

  "My adrenaline is running on fumes, big guy. I can feel my own heartbeat in my teeth."

  We push through the throng, leaving the docks and heading deeper into the tangled heart of the station. We navigate catwalks of hard-light and spiral staircases welded to the sides of dead dreadnoughts.

  Our destination is the Mnemosyne Market, a chaotic bazaar tucked into the hollowed-out cargo bay of a crashed carrier ship. The stalls here sell memories, esoteric tech, and the kind of contraband that gets you unmade in polite society.

  We weave through the market, ignoring the merchants shouting in a dozen different dialects. I don't need my Lingua Codex to understand the universal language of a scam.

  We stop in front of a shop built entirely out of dark, polished mahogany—a jarringly natural material in a city of metal. Above the door, a neon sign flickers: The Owl’s Roost. Antiquities & Acquisitions.

  I push the heavy door open.

  The bell chimes softly. The air inside smells of dust, old parchment, and a faint hint of peppermint. The walls are lined with shelves crammed with impossible things: a jar containing a localized blizzard, a clock that ticks backward, and a skull that whispers in a dead language.

  Behind the counter sits The Owl.

  An unnervingly thin humanoid with skin the color of ash and large, luminous amber eyes that don't seem to blink and the head of an Owl. He wears a sharp, three-piece suit that looks like it was tailored a century ago.

  He is a broker. An information dealer. And the only guy in the Gyre who won't ask why my clothes are covered in Magister blood.

  "Kaelen," The Owl says, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone. His amber eyes flick to Vrex. "And the Gargoyle. You two look... well-cooked."

  "We had a disagreement with a thermostat," I say, stepping up to the counter and dropping the Veil. There is no point hiding in here.

  "I see," The Owl steeples his long fingers. "The Resonant Stream has been quite noisy the last few hours. A massive surge of chaotic energy originating from the Arcanorum sector. A. The Spire is reportedly under martial law, claiming an unprecedented containment failure."

  He tilts his head, his gaze piercing right through me.

  "Rumor has it, a dormant Titan woke up and decided it didn't like the decor. It is absolute chaos. Future Wayfarer parties may face trouble." The Owl pauses, a thin smile playing on his beak. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about a missing god, would you?"

  "I'm just a tourist, Owl," I lean against the counter. "I like sightseeing. Sometimes the sights explode. Not my fault."

  Vrex grunts, an avalanche of a sound. "We are here to conduct commerce, not to be interrogated by a bird."

  "Commerce it is," The Owl agrees smoothly, pulling a monocle from his vest pocket and fitting it over his right eye. The lens glows with a faint, analyzing light—a high-end Kensho artifact. "What have you dragged out of the fire, boys?"

  I don't hesitate. I open my Locus.

  I don't bring the items fully into the physical realm. I manifest them as glowing, semi-transparent projections on the counter. Something I learned from the Astrolabe schema while exploring the stream. It is a safer way to trade volatile goods without blowing up the shop.

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  First, I push the image of the four Spire Suppression Pikes.

  The Owl adjusts his monocle. He sighs, looking disappointed. "Bricked tech, Kaelen. They run on the Spire's localized dampening grid. They're just heavy sticks."

  "They're heavily dense, Tyrant-forged metal sticks," I counter, tapping the counter. "Look at the haft. That's pure something-expensive metal. Melt it down, and an artificer can forge an entire suite of magic armor. Owl. I'm selling you premium scrap. 80 Lucent Shards for the bundle."

  The Owl’s eyes narrow. "Forty."

  "Seventy. And I won't tell the artificer you up-charged him."

  "Fifty," The Owl counters.

  "Done. Just because I am paying you for the help for getting me started."

  I shift the next item from the Locus. The heavy, iron-bound crate. I mentally pop the lid. The projection of the perfectly spherical, brilliant Blue Mana Cores floods the dim shop with light.

  The Owl stops breathing. He leans forward, the monocle nearly falling off his face.

  "By the Architects," he breathes. "Refined Arcanorum Cores. Regnant quality. This... this is the unadulterated essence of order. Do you have any idea how rare these are outside the Spire?"

  "I know exactly how rare they are," I say, my voice hardening as I remember the agonizing hours on the factory line. "I know exactly what it costs to make them. Which is why I know you're going to pay a premium. There are fifty cores in that box."

  "Forty Lucent Shards,"

  "Don't insult me," I scoff, crossing my arms. "These can probably buy a Way-Ship for a year. A hundred and fifty."

  "Seventy-five. The heat on these items is astronomical."

  "One hundred and twenty," I lean closer. "Or I walk out of here, go to the Shipwrights Guild, and trade it directly for a hull."

  The Owl stares at me for a long moment.

  "One hundred," The Owl finally says. "And I will throw in a localized information scrub. Anyone looking for the source of these cores will find a dead end at my door."

  "Deal."

  I pull the next item. The burlap sack of Volatile Night-Truffles.

  The Owl snorts. "Recreational alchemy. Grade 1. Cute, but cheap. I'll give you five Lucent Shards for the bag. I have a client likes a harsh trip."

  "Take 'em," I nod.

  "Is that all?" The Owl asks, reaching under the counter to pull out a heavy, lead-lined strongbox to prepare the payment.

  I hesitate.

  I still have the Volatile Dream-Matter. The raw, red, chaotic god-sweat. And I still have The Warden's Veto.

  I look at the Veto in my mental inventory. Enforces a localized rule of 'Nullification'. If Valerius ever comes after us, or if we run into another reality-warper, slapping those cuffs on them would instantly level the playing field.

  No, I decide. The Veto stays with me.

  But the Dream-Matter?

  "One more thing," I say softly.

  I project the image of the raw, pulsing red clot. It sits on the counter, a swirling, violent mess of Crimson energy that seems to scream just by existing.

  The Owl's Kensho artifact flares. A loud, sharp CRACK echoes in the shop as the monocle physically shatters on his face.

  He recoils, throwing his hands up, stumbling back against his shelves.

  "Are you insane?!" The Owl shouts, his calm demeanor entirely broken. He scrambles to pull a protective talisman from his vest. "That is raw tectonic distress! That is un-filtered, It's bleeding radiation just as a projection!"

  "Fuel," I say calmly, maintaining the projection. "If you're brave enough to refine it, or if you want to build a bomb that ignores physical armor."

  "It is a death sentence!" The Owl hisses, refusing to step closer to the counter. "Put it away, Kaelen! I will not have that hazard in my shop!"

  "Ten Lucent Shards?," I offer.

  "I wouldn't take it if you paid me," The Owl snaps. "Close the Locus. Now."

  I sigh, pulling the projection back into the safety of my soul. "Fine. Your loss. I guess I'll just hold onto the nuclear football."

  The Owl takes a deep, trembling breath, smoothing his suit. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. Not as a scrappy rookie, but as an active hazard.

  "You are a terrifying variable, Kaelen Vance," The Owl says quietly.

  "I just go where the wind takes me, Owl," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. The headache is getting worse. The adrenaline is officially gone, leaving behind a hollow, aching void. "Let's settle up."

  The Owl nods. He opens his strongbox and begins counting out the glowing crystals.

  It takes a minute. When he is done, a small mountain of light sits on the mahogany counter.

  "One hundred and twelve Lucent Shards," The Owl says. "A king's ransom."

  I just place my hand over the pile and command Stasis. The Shards vanish, converting into pure, weightless potential within my Locus. My internal ledger updates instantly.

  [Currency: 184 Lucent Shards]

  [Currency: 14 Faint Shards]

  We are rich. Filthy, irresponsibly rich. In the economy of the Gyre, a basic sword costs one or two Shards. A decent meal costs a Faint Shard. I have enough capital to buy a fully armed Way-Ship, a new set of high-end armor, and still have enough left over to bribe a small army.

  "Pleasure doing business," I mutter, turning away from the counter.

  My legs feel like lead. The room tilts slightly to the left.

  I stumble, my Egress 20 suddenly useless because the command to move gets lost somewhere between my exhausted brain and my trembling knees.

  A massive, cool hand catches me by the shoulder, holding me upright.

  "We are done, Owl. See you soon"

  The neon light of the market hits my eyes like physical blows.

  "Vrex,"

  "........ And you require a new jacket. Your current aesthetic is... highly unprofessional."

  "Vrex," I say louder.

  He stops walking. "Yes?"

  "The priority," I wheeze, closing my eyes against the glare of the Gyre, "is a bed. A real bed. With a mattress that doesn't feel like a stone slab even if it smells like shit. And maybe a hot shower that isn't made of acidic god-waste."

  Vrex looks down at me. He scans my vitals, likely seeing my Horizon holding on by sheer stubbornness while the rest of my systems crash.

  The giant sighs. "You humans are terribly inefficient machines."

  "I just regrew an arm. Give me a break."

  "Very well, I did too." Vrex concedes, changing direction. "The Stone-Singer's Tavern is three levels up. They have secure rooms. Warded against scrying. We will purchase sanctuary."

  "Good," I mumble, letting him drag me toward the elevators. "Wake me up when we're ready to buy goods."

  Stage three is officially over. I am paid. I am alive. And I am going to sleep for a week.