The Broken Lantern was silent at this hour, its perpetually dim interior empty save for an old woman wiping down sticky tables with a rag that looked filthier than the surfaces it cleaned. She glanced up as Elias entered, her clouded eyes somehow missing nothing.


    "We''re closed," she said flatly. "Come back when the sun''s past zenith."


    Elias had anticipated this. He carefully withdrew one of his three precious copper coins, placing it on the nearest table without a word. The woman''s gnarled hand covered it instantly, the coin disappearing as though it had never existed.


    "What do you want?" she asked, her tone unchanged but a flicker of interest in her rheumy eyes.


    "Information about the Maw," he replied, keeping his voice low despite the empty room. "Not Church sermons. Truth."


    The old woman''s expression remained impassive, but she angled her head slightly toward a beaded curtain at the back. "The rag-picker might know something. Third alley past the tannery. Look for the red door." She then proceeded to describe a specific knock and tapped her knuckles on the counter as an example.


    Elias nodded his thanks, already turning to leave. The coin had bought very little, but in the slums, that was often how information came—in fragments, each requiring payment, each leading to another fragment, until eventually a picture formed. If you had enough coin and time.


    He had precious little of either.


    The red door was more rust than paint, barely distinguishable from the decaying walls surrounding it. Elias knocked once, waited, then twice more in quick succession. The sound of shuffling came from within, followed by a prolonged silence in which he knew he was being examined through some hidden observation point.


    The door opened just enough to reveal a sliver of a face—a dark eye, wrinkled skin, a wisp of gray hair.


    "I don''t buy, I don''t sell, I don''t share," said a thin, reedy voice. "Go elsewhere."


    "The woman at the Broken Lantern sent me," Elias replied quickly. "About the Maw."


    The eye narrowed, examining him more carefully. "You''re marked," the voice said suddenly. Not a question.


    Elias stiffened. "How could you—"


    "I see more than most. Including what squirms beneath your skin." The door opened wider, revealing a hunched figure swathed in layers of mismatched fabrics. "Come in, if you''re coming. Quickly."


    Inside, the small dwelling was a testament to the owner''s profession—every surface stacked with salvaged objects, sorted by some incomprehensible system. Books with half-burned covers. Mechanical parts arranged by size. Scraps of fabric organized by color. The air was thick with the smell of dust and the peculiar metallic tang that clung to everything in the slums.


    "Sit there," the rag-picker said, pointing to a stool made from stacked crates. "And show me your arms."


    Elias hesitated, then unwound the cloth from his forearms. The black marks had spread further, now curling around his elbows and reaching toward his shoulders. They pulsed with his heartbeat, somehow darker than they had been that morning.


    The rag-picker made a soft humming sound, neither alarmed nor sympathetic. "Distinctive patterning. Like the tide coming in. Few days at most before they cover you completely."


    "What happens then?" Elias asked.


    "The Sentinels find you, whether you hide or not. Take you to the Sanctum. Feed you, clean you, dress you up like a sacrifice." A pause. "Which you are, though not the kind they claim."


    The old figure turned away, rummaging through a pile of detritus before extracting something wrapped in oilcloth. "I had a client interested in the Maw. Scholar from Haven, traveled here at great risk. Paid well for certain... artifacts. Left this when the Sentinels nearly caught him."


    The rag-picker unwrapped the cloth, revealing a small, leather-bound book with a simple symbol embossed on its cover—a spiraling vortex surrounding an eye.


    "Records of the Returned," the old voice continued. "Not Church propaganda. Real accounts, gathered secretly. Descriptions of the trials, the transformations, what truly waits beyond the Maw''s embrace." A gnarled finger tapped the book. "Forbidden knowledge. Worth more than your life."


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "I''m already marked for the Maw," Elias replied. "My life is already forfeit."


    "Perhaps." The rag-picker rewrapped the book. "But this is still valuable. What do you offer in exchange?"


    Elias withdrew his remaining two copper coins. "Everything I have."


    A derisive snort. "Meaningless. You need to leave the slums. Get to the Market Quarter. I need information from there—what the Church is telling merchants about this gathering of chosen ones. Overheard from their private areas, not public sermons."


    Elias considered this. "The checkpoints are heavily guarded."


    "For most. You''ve crossed before—don''t look surprised, boy. The slums have eyes everywhere. You''re known for your... expeditions."


    He couldn''t argue with that. "If I get this information, you''ll tell me what''s in the book?"


    "Better. I''ll let you read the relevant passages yourself. No interpretation, no potential misunderstanding." The rag-picker gestured toward the door. "Go now. Return before sundown. I won''t be here after dark."


    The drainage canal was being watched, as Elias had expected. Two Sentinels stood near the outlet, trying to look casual while clearly monitoring the opening. They knew the slum routes better than they admitted in public.


    He circled back, taking a longer approach that required more climbing but less exposure. The back of a tannery abutted the Market District wall, separated by barely two feet of space. If one scaled the tannery and leapt across, a series of handholds—some natural, some that Elias himself had chiseled years ago—allowed access to the roof of a Market District warehouse.


    The smell of the tannery provided excellent cover. No Sentinel willingly patrolled close enough to have the stench permeate their uniforms.


    Once atop the warehouse, Elias paused to bind his arms again, ensuring the marks remained hidden. The sensation of being pulled toward the Sanctum had grown stronger, an insistent tugging that he had to consciously resist. More disturbing was a new awareness—a humming at the edge of his consciousness, like distant voices just below the threshold of hearing.


    The Market District bustled with midday activity. Elias descended from the warehouse via a convenient stack of crates, adopting the hurried gait of a merchant''s assistant on urgent business. No one gave him a second glance. The Market Quarter might be a step above the slums in Valtaros''s rigid hierarchy, but its lower echelons still consisted of hardworking people too focused on survival to pay attention to another anonymous figure.


    He made his way toward the Cathedral District boundary, where the Market Quarter''s bright awnings and bustling stalls gave way to the manicured gardens and gleaming edifices of religious authority. Here, the separation was maintained by more than walls—Sentinel patrols moved in precise formations, and checkpoint barriers could be raised or lowered at a moment''s notice.


    It was also where information flowed most freely between districts. Church acolytes ventured into the Market to deliver sermons and collect tithes. Merchants with sufficient standing were granted limited access to Cathedral grounds for specific ceremonies. The boundaries blurred, just slightly, just enough.


    Elias positioned himself near a flower stall whose blooms supplied the Cathedral''s altar displays. The proprietor, a thin woman with prematurely gray hair, was known for her connections to lower-ranking acolytes and her tendency to engage them in conversation while they selected appropriate arrangements.


    He made a show of examining nearby merchant wares while keeping the flower stall within earshot. Within minutes, his patience was rewarded. Two young acolytes in simple gray robes approached, consulting a list as they discussed their requirements.


    "Elder Voss was quite specific," said one, a reedy young man with a perpetual squint. "White chrysanthemums for purity, night lilies for transformation."


    "The symbolism for tomorrow''s ceremony must be perfect," agreed his companion, a serious girl with her hair severely braided. "The High Priestess herself will oversee the preparation of the chosen."


    "Have they found all twelve yet?" asked the flower merchant, sorting through her stock with practiced hands.


    The female acolyte glanced around before answering, lowering her voice. "Ten secured. The final two are being traced as we speak. One in the slums—" Elias felt a chill despite the warm day "—and one somewhere in the outer reaches of the Market District. They''ll be found by nightfall. The Sentinels have new tracking devices from the Church''s artifice division."


    "I heard the Merchant Guild is protesting," the flower seller said, carefully trimming stems. "Rayburn''s daughter being taken has caused quite a stir."


    The male acolyte''s expression hardened. "The Maw''s selection is divine law. No amount of coin can change that. Besides—" he leaned closer "—Elder Voss says this group is special. The patterns in their markings are unique. The High Priestess believes they may be destined for greatness beyond ordinary trials."


    "Is that why they''re rushing the gathering?" the merchant asked. "Usually there''s at least a week of preparation before chosen ones face the Maw."


    The female acolyte nodded slightly. "The convergence in the marking patterns suggests urgency. The Maw''s hunger has its own timing, which we merely interpret."


    Their conversation shifted to specific flower arrangements, but Elias had heard enough. He drifted away from the stall, processing this new information. Special markings. Accelerated timeline. New tracking devices. And the knowledge that he was one of only two chosen ones still at large.


    The pull toward the Sanctum District intensified, as though the Maw itself had sensed his awareness of it. The humming at the edge of his consciousness resolved into whispering voices, too faint to distinguish words but carrying an unmistakable tone of anticipation.


    He needed to return to the rag-picker immediately.


    As he turned toward his planned exit route, a flash of white caught his eye. A Sentinel patrol emerging from a side street, led by an officer carrying a device Elias had never seen before—a handheld contraption with a glowing center that pulsed with a rhythm disturbingly similar to the marks beneath his skin.


    The officer raised the device, scanning the crowd methodically. As it passed over the space where Elias stood, the glowing center flared brightly.


    The officer''s head snapped up, eyes locking directly onto Elias despite the distance and the crowd between them.


    "There!" the officer shouted, pointing. "Chosen one! Secure the area!"


    Elias ran.