SEREN
It’s been days since waste from the city above began spilling into our canals.
I crouch beside one now. The putrid air seeps through the rag I call a mask, coating my nose, forcing bile into my throat. The acid burns. I swallow hard and keep my mouth shut until it passes.
The hem of my coat is soaked through, darkened by the dregs lining the canal edge. I stopped worrying about the stench days ago. There’s no point. It’ll only get filthy again the next time I’m down here, and clean water is too precious to waste on cloth.
My fingers skim the stone lip, searching for the familiar curl of psilo mushrooms—pale, twitching things that grow where the sun doesn’t dare. With the penalties they carry and the lack of light, they thrive here.
I pluck them in silence and slip them into my satchel at my hip.
I should be home with Sylas, but the trade master wants the psilo by nightfall, and he always gets what he wants. Right now, we need coin more than comfort. The reward outweighs the risk.
My fingers hover over the last cluster. Their spongy caps are cool and damp, faintly pulsing beneath my touch. They feel less like plants and more like delicate, dormant little creatures. Creatures with a nasty, or pleasant bite—whichever way you look at it.
People need ways to forget. I don’t ask what they’re forgetting. I just supply the means.
I glance down into the canal. It isn’t water so much as a sluggish soup of sediment, plastic bottles, and other things I don’t try to name. My reflection wavers in it, distorted with every ripple.
My cheeks have hollowed over the years. My hair hangs dull and limp against my shoulders, stripped of any shine it once had. My skin looks paler than it should. Even my eyes seem to glow faintly in the half-light as if the Hollow has claimed them too.
Something shifts behind me.
Not footsteps. Not torchlight.
My shadow.
It stretches where it shouldn’t, smoke-thin tendrils slipping across the stone. The air sharpens, cold biting through the fabric of my coat. Instinct pulls my hand to the crescent pendant at my collarbone. Warmth pulses into my palm—steady, deliberate.
The shadows still.
“Not now,” I whisper. “Please.”
Another pulse answers me—warmer this time.
They retreat, folding back into the shape they’re meant to keep.
I straighten, pocketing the mushrooms into my satchel and brushing dirt from my fingers. My nails are already rimmed black; there’s no scrubbing that clean.
As I turn, my coat flares and the shadows ripple across the water like a torn veil—a last stretch before they settle.
* * *
The streets narrow as I move forward, damp stone pressing close on either side. Makeshift homes crowd together—corrugated tin, sun-bleached plastic, rotting boards nailed into shapes that pass for shelter. They lean into one another like they’re afraid to stand alone.
The deeper I go, the cleaner it gets. Cramped shacks give way to stone and timber. Lanterns flicker all around like fireflies as shadow puppets dance in the windows of the lucky few who still have glass intact.
The oil-slick sheen on the ground fades to cracked earth. The air still stinks, but less so now—mould instead of rot, damp instead of sewage. I breathe easier without meaning to.
If you’ve got coin, this is where you live. Close to food. Close to supplies. Drains to keep the rot at bay, and four solid walls.
Luxury—at least by the Hollow’s standards. Whatever Auria looks like above us, we aren’t meant to imagine it.
The Lantern Market announces itself before I see it.
Guttering lights sway in jars and bottles, smoke curling through stitched tarps and sagging canopies.
Pots bubble on stones. Someone stirs bone tea with a rusted spoon.
Fermented broth and scorched oil sting my nose, sharp enough to make my stomach clench.
I hug the satchel at my hip and scan the maze of stalls—not for food, but for a man with one ear and ink-stained knuckles.
Saul.
I spot him near the blue-lit post, exactly where I hoped he’d be; tucked behind Agatha’s Frayed Seam stall. His tent sags under patches, the entrance barely visible behind a warped counter.
Something tight in my chest loosens before I can stop it. My breath comes easier, and that’s when I see him.
He’s bigger than he used to be. A grossly bloated man whose gut strains from the seams of his vest. Ink on his knuckles blurs like a spreading infection. His single, piggish eye tracks every weakness, every desperate glance. Nothing slips past him.
He is a human drain, taking everything good and turning it to waste. And I hate that I need him.
I move closer, pulse ticking faster the nearer I get. If he turns me away, I lose the coin. If I linger too long, I risk attention.
The stench hits first—ale gone sour, damp soil and sweat. The scent is so strong it almost has a taste of its own that coats the back of my tongue. I swallow hard, fighting with the nausea that rises and threatens to spill out.
I glance either way, ensuring no guards are lingering close by, before slipping inside.
Saul sits on a three-legged stool, carving something pale and dense that looks more like bone than wood. His one good eye lifts to me; the other drowns in a milky film, proof of his lifetime underground.
“Didn’t think you’d show today,” he says. His voice grinds against my nerves.
Sweat beads at my hairline. I hate this part—the begging disguised as haggling.
“And let someone else walk off with your favourite fungi?” I set the satchel down on the stained worktop. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Heard there was a sweep near the canal yesterday. Patrols sniffin’ about.”
I meet his gaze. “I’m careful.”
“Mmh.” He opens the satchel, shifting something aside. His thick fingers are gentler than I expect. The caps twitch faintly as he touches them. “Careful doesn’t keep you from getting caught. Clever does.”
I stay silent. But my shadows begin to stir.
His hand brushes my sketchbook, flicking the edges. A muscle jumps beneath my eye, ticking restlessly like a clock.
“What’s this then?”
I shrug dismissively. “Nothing.”
He watches for a beat too long. I keep my face blank, my breath even.
“Mmh. Sure.” His mouth twitches at the corner, showing a flash of stained teeth. He’s waiting for me to rise to the bait—something I won’t give him the satisfaction of doing.
He snorts and drops the pouch on the counter, landing with a soft clink. “Not the same price as last time,” he says, scratching the stubble coating his chin. “Prices are dropping.”
My jaw tightens. “Is that so?”
“Times are tight. What can I say?” A lazy shrug has a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.
Grinding my teeth I bite down a retort. Times are always tight.
I try to breathe away the tension coiling in my stomach, but it doesn’t work. The shadows don’t wait for permission; they unfurl, smoke curling around my legs.
Not now. Please.
They recoil instantly, folding back into place.
Saul freezes, his milky gaze shifting like a compass needle that’s lost north.
“It’s alrigh’,” he stutters, grabbing something from under the counter. “Here—take anotha bag.”
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. I swipe the bags of coin, pocketing them in my satchel. “Looks like times aren’t so tight after all.”
I don’t wait for a reply before turning on my heel and heading out through the opening.
Outside, the cool air hits my lungs hard. I gulp it down, scrubbing Saul’s stink from my chest.
My hands shake as I walk, as they always seem to do afterward.
I’ve never used my shadows to bargain before, and I don’t want to make it a recurring thing. Different doesn’t last long down here.
And I won’t survive being noticed again.
* * *
The market swallows me whole—raised voices, pots clanging, sellers barking offers. Despite the press of bodies, I feel alone. Ghostlike. Slipping between people who don’t see me.
This is how life is; a quiet, watchful solitude. Not how I’d choose it—but how the shadows prefer it. If I had my way, I’d be normal, just another pale face in the crowd.
Steam rises from food stalls as I pass, the scent of roasted root clinging to my coat. Home, for a heartbeat. My stomach growls, sharp and insistent, but I ignore it. Sylas comes first. Always.
I keep my head low as I approach the stall that smells most like home. Rootcakes line the counter in careful rows—beet, barley, spiced mash—plump little soldiers waiting to be chosen.
A haggard woman greets me, years of hardship carved into her sallow skin. Her grey hair is knotted into a bun, and her black tunic is dusted with powder stains.
Still, she smiles. “Anything’ you like m’dear?”
My gaze lingers on the spiced beet rootcake—my favourite, the only thing that still reminds me of Ma. My hand twitches, already reaching, then stops. The price answers for me.
“Just one please.”
Her gnarled fingers drop a potato-cake into a paper bag. As it lands heavy, I set the coins in her palm and move on before regret catches up.
Instinct carries me to the edge of the square, eyes skimming shopfronts until they find the faded green shutters of Yara’s Apothecary.
The building leans a little, like it’s tired of standing. Warm orange light spills from the lancet window, cutting amber shards through the night. The door creaks as I push it open; the bell singing my arrival.
Dried herbs, smoke and a bite of lavender vinegar wraps around me, comforting me like a mother’s touch.
This place has become my sanctuary, borrowed safety from an owner who has become the grandmother I always wanted.
I pause just inside the entryway.
Yara stands at her cauldron, stirring something within. Steam lifts the grey wisps of hair from her face, framing her like something out of an old story. Her eyesight may be failing, but her other senses are razor-sharp.
She looks up from her jar, her knobbly hand pausing as she sniffs the air.
“Seren—” she says. “—is that you?”
A quiet laugh rumbles in my chest as my pendant warms at the sight of her.
“That nose of yours doesn’t miss a beat, does it?”
She wipes her hands on her apron, then trudges closer.
“I’d be able to smell you even if you were at Saul’s,” she says, voice rough with the years of brewing and breathing the medicines she provides.
“I must smell terrible then.”
“Not at all, my child. Your scent is merely…distinctive.” Her smile deepens around her eyes, lifting her hollowed cheeks.
Her head lifts, her gaze jittering until it slows as she tries to focus on me.
“You look thin.” Blunt as always.
“I’m always thin.”
“Too thin.” Her palm finds my cheek, the hardened skin scratching at the surface. “Use some of that coin to buy yourself some more food.”
I lean into her touch despite myself. “I will. But Sylas’ tonic comes first. Whatever’s left—I’ll manage.”
Her lips thin as the shadows stir at my feet, restless but familiar.
“Let me get the tonic for you.” Her fingers trace the counter top, following the grooves she knows by heart. She strokes the glass bottles that sit idly waiting for their loyal customers, until she finds the one for Sylas. The blue vial.
“The blood…it’s back,” I murmur, the words landing heavy in my chest as she sets the glass before me. Cold seeps into my fingers as her hand covers mine for a brief moment—grounding, steady.
“Don’t worry about the coin, child. This one’s on me.”
My heart aches at the generosity, a commodity that’s grown scarce down here since the war. I pull my hand away, not wanting the weight of her kindness to be felt.
“Th—thank you,” I whisper, shoving the vial into my satchel. “But you know I can’t accept. Times are tough for everyone, I’m happy to pay my own way.”
“I know you are dear.”
Her shoulders drop, as if physically bowed by the crushing weight of our circumstances.
“There will come a time, my child,” she says softly, “when we will no longer have to suffer.”
I nod, even though I don’t fully know what she means. Yara always speaks like the gods are listening.
“Warm the tincture,” she adds. “It’ll help him sleep and keep the blood at bay.”
I lay the coins carefully on the countertop near her hand, their soft clinking seeming loud in the quiet. “Thank you.”
Her voice softens, tinged with sadness. “You’re welcome, girl.”
I turn to leave, my hand caressing the iron door knob, but she calls after me. “You should come by tonight. It’s the Veil Rite.”
My nose wrinkles—a sight I’m glad she can’t see. “Thank you, but—” I search to find the right words. “—I don’t go to those.”
“You should,” her fingers move stiffly over the wood, a habit I’ve watched countless times over the years I’ve known her. “Things are stirring.”
“I can’t risk getting caught. There’s—” wrinkles deepen over my brow. “—there’s too much to lose.”
“I understand, child. If you change your mind, you know where it is.”
I mutter words of thanks, and leave. The cold air rushes in, clearing the cobwebs forming in my mind.
The sky over the Hollow is black, starless—a sight that never changes.
Without thought, my legs carry me along the well-trodden route towards home, towards Sylas. But a vision forms in the corner of my eye, drawing me closer.
A mirror leans against an old, abandoned cart. My reflection stares back—still, unblinking.
I lift my hand. The surface is cold as tiny droplets cling to the edge.
She doesn’t move when I do.
And then, she smiles.