Kyren clutched Torren's carved bird charm, its edges sanded smooth, as he threaded through Vaelris's fringe market. The midday air reeked of soot and bottled dreams, the Dream Beacon a faint smudge above the spire. Lirra's cough had rattled through the night and with the stew pot scraped bare, the two coins he had might buy enough bread for todays meal. The market sprawled along the city's edge, a maze of stalls where relic merchants and dream-traders thrived.
He paused at a stall draped in shimmering cloth, where a Slumbered woman, Vrenna, sold relics. All Slumbered bore a unique soulbrand, and hers manifested as a spiral of light on her forearm. It glowed as she conjured an illusion: a golden bird soaring above her wares, its wings trailing sparks. Buyers gasped, drawn in, but Kyren felt nothing, no tug on his mind.
"Soulbrands bend The Dream," Vrenna boasted to a customer, her voice sharp.
"Mine's Resonance-stage, weaving visions from my memory."
"Takes essence, though — overdo it, and you're Hollow, empty as him." She jerked her chin at Kyren, smirking. "No spark, no soulbrand. Pity."
Kyren's jaw tightened. He knew it as well as anybody else: soulbrands formed in youth and began channeling dream essence.
Slumbered were Vaelris's pride, their brands cultivated with relics, but a slip could sever you from The Dream, like the Shroudspawn did to him. Claws in his chest, cold stealing his light—he shoved the memory down.
"Buying?" he asked, holding up the wooden charm.
Vrenna's illusion flickered, her eyes narrowing. "You ignored my bird," she muttered, almost to herself. "Even regulars feel the pull." She waved him off, but her gaze lingered, puzzled. Kyren turned away, heart thudding. His wrist prickled, like it did at last night's whisper but before he could dwell, a voice cut through.
"Brandless, yet marked," purred Sera, a Veilbound in a thorn-stitched cloak. Her soulbrand's aura brushed Kyren's mind, a cold probe, but it slid off him like water. "The Shroud sees what others miss," she said, smiling too wide. "Join us. It dreams of rebirth." Kyren backed away, her words containing the same feeling as the Shroud did as it lingered just over the horizon.
A scream shattered the market's hum. The air warped, a street twisting as vendors froze, repeating motions—tossing coins, stacking crates—in a relentless loop.
A Shrouded Realm, its Dreamlaw trapping time. Buyers staggered, caught in the cycle, their eyes blank. Sera stood steady, her soulbrand flaring, but even she swayed. Kyren moved, untouched. He grabbed a falling apple from a vendor's basket, and it stayed in his hand, the loop ignoring him.
Gavren, a grizzled scavenger with a scarred soulbrand on his neck, fought the Dreamlaw, his mark pulsing as he shattered the cycle. The Realm collapsed, the street snapping back. Vendors blinked, dazed.
Gavren stared at Kyren, apple in hand. "You're no Hollow," he rasped. "No Hollow walks a Dreamlaw."
Kyren's breath caught. He overheard whispers—stolen Keystones, Beacons failing, Veilbound stirring chaos. Sera's voice drifted from the crowd: "The Shroud claims its own." Gavren clapped his shoulder, low. "Keep that quiet, boy. Order'd carve you open."
Kyren stumbled home, coins clutched tight, but his mind roared. Lirra's cough, Torren's trembling hands, the shortages—they weighed on him, but the Shroud's whisper returned, clear as glass: You are not empty. His wrist burned, a fleeting heat. Hollows didn't defy Dreamlaws. Hollows didn't hear voices. He gripped the coins, fear and a flicker of hope warring in his chest. Wasn't he a Hollow?