"You've been here two weeks and haven't seen anything outside the mountain," Cinder said. "That's depressing."
Cian looked up from his bunk. "I've been training."
"Training's important. So is remembering there's a world out there." Cinder pulled on a plain grey coat—no uniform, no badge. "There's a town west of here, in Lumeris. Good food, decent shops, people who don't wear masks and stab things for a living."
He tossed a brown coat to Cian. "Put this on. You look like a soldier."
Cian caught the coat. It was worn, soft, smelled of woodsmoke. He had not worn civilian clothes since leaving House Veridian. The Initiate Soldier uniform had become his skin.
He dressed, tucked his badge into an inner pocket, and followed Cinder out.
---
The trail from the base wound through Klient's rolling hills before crossing into Lumeris. Cinder led at an easy pace, not speaking much. The sun was warm, the sky wide. Cian had forgotten how big the world was outside the mountain.
"Town's called Central Lagon," Cinder said after an hour. "About a day and a half from here. We'll stop at a way station tonight."
They walked through farmland, past shepherds and hay wagons and children who stared at strangers. Cian watched it all—the ordinary life he had left behind, still turning without him.
---
The way station was a low stone building with a common room and a stable. They shared a table with a traveling merchant who talked too much and ate too loudly. Cinder answered in grunts. Cian said nothing.
They slept on straw pallets in a loft. Cian lay awake, listening to Cinder snore, thinking about the market ahead. He had money—more than he had ever held. Fifteen silver a month from Black Badger, plus fifty silver twice a year from House Veridian. Nearly sixty silver in total. He planned to spend half.
He did not know what he was looking for. But he would know when he saw it.
---
Central Lagon was larger than he expected. Stone and timber buildings crowded around a central square where a fountain trickled and merchants shouted prices. The smell of bread, livestock, and something sweet from a confectioner's stall filled the air.
Cian stopped at the edge of the square. The noise, the chaos, the layers of life—it was unfamiliar. He had grown up in an estate, not a town. And since entering the military, he had seen only barracks, yards, and the mountain.
Cinder clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to civilization. Try not to look like you've never seen people before."
They walked into the crowd.
---
The knife seller was a grey-haired woman with missing fingers, her stall near the fountain. She squinted at Cinder, grunted.
"You again."
"Good to see you too, Marta." Cinder picked up a whetstone, tested its weight. "How much?"
"Three coppers."
"Robbery."
"Then don't buy it."
Cinder paid.
While he haggled, Cian looked at the knives. Most were ordinary—kitchen blades, pocket knives, a few hunting daggers. But one caught his eye. It was small, its blade dark, its handle wrapped in worn leather. Nothing special. But the weight, the balance, felt right.
"That one's been there for a year," Marta said. "No one wants it. Too plain."
"How much?"
"Five silver."
Cinder whistled. "For that?"
Marta shrugged. "Good steel. Forged in Ignis. The man who made it is dead. His son charges double."
Cian pulled out five silver and placed them on the cloth. He did not need the knife. He already had a blade. But holding it felt like holding something he had been missing.
Marta swept the coins into her apron. "Good instincts, boy. That blade's saved my life twice." She did not explain. Cian did not ask.
---
The cultivation shop was off the main square, its sign painted with a mortar and pestle. Inside, the air smelled of smoke and spice. The owner was a thin man with quick eyes and slower hands.
"Supplies for your cave," Cinder said. "Herbs, inks, good paper. Books, if you want them."
Cian browsed. He picked up a bundle of dried Echofern, a set of permanent inks in black and silver, a small mortar and pestle, a roll of good paper, a jar of mountain resin for sealing Sotael lines. The owner nodded at each choice.
Then Cian turned to the bookshelf.
He found a thin volume on Sotael circuit design—diagrams, rune meanings, proper spacing. He added it to his pile. A manual on swordspear forms, written by a retired soldier. A beginner's guide to focus casting, more theory than practice. A field guide to herbs of the Eastern Reach, with pressed samples and hand-drawn illustrations.
The owner raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The total came to twenty-two silver. Cian paid without flinching.
Cinder stared. "You're spending like a noble."
"I am a noble."
"Fair point."
---
Before leaving, Cian found a book stall near the edge of the square. The seller was an old man with a white beard, half-asleep. Most of the texts were practical—farming guides, religious tracts, outdated maps. But near the bottom of a crate, he found a folded parchment.
He unfolded it. A map of the Eastern Reach, hand-drawn, dated twenty years ago. The Lureus foothills were marked, along with old watchtowers, ruins, and a note in faded ink: Site unstable. Do not approach.
"How much?"
The old man opened one eye. "Two silver."
Cian paid. He folded the map and tucked it into his coat.
Cinder watched him, said nothing.
---
They ate at a tavern called the Wandering Stag—bread, cheese, stew, ale. Cian drank water. Cinder drank ale and complained about the price.
"You're not going to tell me why you bought that knife," Cinder said, not looking up from his stew.
"It felt right."
"Hmm." Cinder chewed. "Echo would say you're impulsive. Voss would say you've got instincts. I say you've got more silver than sense."
Cian said nothing. The knife was in his belt, hidden beneath his coat.
They ate in comfortable silence.
---
The walk back took another day and a half. Cinder talked less on the return, as if the town had drained his words. Cian did not mind. He had much to think about.
They reached the base as evening fell. The mountain swallowed them, and the world of farmers and merchants and shouting children faded behind the stone.
---
Cian unpacked in his cave. The Echofern went on a shelf he had yet to build. The inks, the resin, the mortar and pestle. The books. The map. The knife.
He sat on the floor and looked at what he had bought. Supplies for cultivation. A blade he did not need. Books on circuits, swordspears, casting, herbs. A map of the place he wanted to go.
He had spent thirty-two silver. More than half his savings.
He did not regret it.
He tucked the map into the crate beneath the loose board, beside his journal. The books he stacked on the floor—he would build shelves tomorrow. The knife he placed on the stone beside him.
He sat in the quiet and breathed. The Thousand Mirage rhythm. The cave was still empty, but it was beginning to feel like his.
He was not ready for what came next. But he was closer.