4. Seren
SEREN
The fields aren’t really fields—just cracked strips of soil near the Hollow’s outer wall where I spend my days, barely touched by light.
Still, things grow here—barely. Root vegetables, hardy greens, crops that cling to life like the people who tend to them.
Ever since Da died, Sylas and I have had to scrape together whatever money we can. He’s clever with his hands—or was—, so he found work in the machine yard, tending to Auria’s underground network.
I’m not so fortunate. The fields are the only life for a person like me; a person with no skills or traits, only the strangeness that follows like an unwanted cloud.
Day in and day out, for twelve years, I’ve grown and tended to life in these fractured soils. Alone. My knees ache when I straighten, palms always split and raw.
People often opt to work in groups, increasing their chances of a higher yield, which will no doubt offer higher rewards, but people know to leave me alone. It’s not a choice. It happens the moment our eyes meet.
Countless times throughout the years, someone could have told the Luminary Guards about my shadows, but they never did.
Whether they’re too scared—or whether they think I’m something I’m not, some kind of quiet resistance—I don’t know.
Either way, I’ve too much to lose, and I’m used to the solitude—it keeps the thoughts quiet. The shadows at bay.
My hands dig through the hardened soil, the smell of earth thick in the air with every passing clump. There’s a comfort in the feel of dirt under my nails, a quiet satisfaction in coaxing life from this barren earth.
It’s awful money, but that’s where scavenging for psilo helps—especially since Sylas’ infection has gotten worse.
The harder I dig, the more the soil seems to cling to my nails like it resents me.
Greenery peeks out from the undergrowth, as a small, pleasant smile plays on my lips.
I yank hard, wiggling it free. A crooked carrot greets me, and no matter how many I pick, I still find myself staring in awe at something that has grown so big despite its harsh surroundings.
It lands with a thump as I throw it into the sack at my side, adding to the small hoard of today’s bounty.
Whispers catch my attention, causing me to search for the source. Two women work nearby, heads tucked in tight, eyes flickering back and forth in my direction.
I know the look they wear on their faces too well; not curiosity, but suspicion.
Wisps of shadow stretch behind me, darker than it should in the synthetic light that calls itself morning. It pulses once, as if hesitant to show itself, as a cold heat flashes up my spine.
My insides freeze as I glance around, ensuring no one has seen the shift in the ground.
Come. My fingers twitch in the soil before I can stop them as the word brushes my thoughts, sending an icy chill snaking down my back.
I dig faster, as if the work can bury the unease clawing at me, but my thoughts won’t quiet.
Last night; those cloaked figures slipping into the alley and the innate desire to follow, the mark on the wall. Yara is right, something is stirring, and I can see it in the soil now, watching me.
“...tunnels are marked,” one of the women hisses. “It’s done.”
“They say the Veil doesn’t just pick anyone.”
The blood in my ears drums loudly, drowning out part of the conversation.
“...it marks its own.”
My hand slips, slicing open on a sharp root. My shadows twitch as blood seeps into the dirt, tainting it a darker shade of black. I tear a strip off my apron, binding the cut, as I scramble to shove the remaining roots into my sack.
That’s enough for today.
A rickety stall made from broken pallets is occupied by the Forage Overseer—an old man with deep wrinkles he calls skin, and futile glasses framing his cloudy gaze. He sits with his ledger—whose pages are as weathered as his skin.
His eyes flick up, trembling slightly as his gaze struggles to focus on me. He feels his way through my bag, before tipping the sack upside down, the contents spilling out over the countertop.
His fingers fondle the produce; misshapen carrots and roots streaked with dirt skim his fingers. “Barely worth the coin,” he grunts, scribbling something onto his ledger before sliding a few coppers across the wood.
I bite down the reply burning on my tongue. It’s always barely worth the coin. I stare into his milky depths, holding the look a second too long. The sensation curls around my spine, pressing at the seams. I close my eyes and release a breath.
No.
I mutter my thanks, scraping the coins into my hand before pocketing them and leaving without another word.
* * *
The Lantern Market breathes louder in the evenings; lanterns sway on a phantom breeze, tarps snap, voices rise as the day’s work spills into night.
I keep my satchel tucked in tight at my hip, my head down low, as I weave between stalls, lingering far too long at the ones reminiscent of home.
My stomach twists at the scent of roasted root and broth, and my feet move of their own accord, drawing me closer toward the steam.
Thoughts turn to Sylas, alone and in pain. Guilt eats away at me like moths to silk, as I relive the past all over again—making the hard choices of staying to offer comfort, or putting food on the table. Yet every day, I choose to leave.
Guilt has me choosing a beet rootcake—Ma’s favourite—or so I’m told.
The woman at the stall smiles. Her jagged teeth promise savagery but her voice is soft, offering only comfort.
“For your Ma?”
I shake my head, gaze dropping to the stockpile of goods littering the stand.
“Brother.”
Her mouth curves downward, a sad smile coating her lips. She doesn’t press, but instead drops the cake into a paper bag, twisting the ends to seal it shut.
On my way out of the square, I’m stopped by the sound of hushed voices. Three women huddle by Agatha’s fabric stall, their bodies pressed into a tight, conspiratorial circle. The sharp exchange of glances between them instantly piques my interest.
I shuffle closer, pretending to inspect the not-so wide range of wools, linens and hemp fabrics, all in ombre shades of greys and blacks. My hand skims the coarse fibres, as if inspecting them for my personal use.
“...she’s barely breathing now. The rot’s in her chest—it won’t be long, I’m sure of it.”
“How old is she again?” The woman wearing a mourning veil draped over her head asks.
“Seven.”
A chorus of audible gasps drift around the circle, as Agatha’s leather-worn hand covers her mouth.
“Seven? That’s so young.”
“I know,” another woman dressed in a dark grey tunic says. “It’s starting younger and younger now.”
“Mmh,” Agatha mumbles. “These poor souls don’t stand a chance. Under the Mother’s eye, I hope she doesn’t suffer too long.”
“Under the Mother’s eye,” they all chant in unison.
The words stick to my mind like glue as I turn to leave. Just a child. Like so many others taken before they’ve begun to live. I move on before they notice me lingering, before the ache in my chest cracks open wider.
The smell of damp stone and ash enfolds me like a blanket as the door creaks open under my hand.
Sylas stirs, a jagged bark of a cough tearing through the silence, as I set my satchel on the table.
“Look what I brought,” I say, unwrapping the rootcake, holding it out like treasure.
The purple stain shines bright in the darkened space, as flour coats my fingertips. His lips twitch, causing a dimple to form in his right cheek. For a heartbeat, his eyes light with that old, mischievous twinkle I know so well. One that’s got us into trouble many times over the years.
“Haven’t had one of those since…” his voice is raw, as if the very words scrape across his throat on the way out. His gaze goes distant, dulled, as if recounting a treasured memory. “...since Ma.”
I break the cake in half, pressing the bigger piece toward his hand. “Don’t argue,” I demand.
He doesn’t. He chews slowly, as if trying to make every morsel last. For a moment, the lines of pain in his face soften, smoothed by a rare, quiet peace.
“You work too hard,” he rasps.
I scrunch my nose and shrug, tearing into my smaller piece. “Somebody has to.” I wink, hoping to stitch a moment of normalcy into his world that’s falling apart.
The silence between us isn’t stifling tonight—it’s familiar. Comfortable, almost. Even though the truth of his condition weighs heavily between us like a physical thing.
I watch him eat, committing these small acts to memory, not knowing which will be his last. The candlelight glows softly on his face, highlighting his now sharpened edges.
I let myself imagine he’ll be graced with another day, but the shadows in the corner of the room twitch, restless. Like they know things are about to change.