The scav traded power cells for a water filter, his jerry-rigged augmented arm moving with the practiced rhythm of someone who'd done this dance a thousand times before. Blake leaned against a repurposed munitions container, its military past erased by the leafy greens now growing inside it. From his position under the scrap metal awning, he had a clear view of Nahren's marketplace. Morning sunlight sliced through the ramshackle buildings, turning shadows into weapons across the dirt paths where hagglers and hustlers conducted their daily business.

  "Three purifiers for Clan Torvik this week," Kitt's voice echoed in his mind. "Expansion's accelerating."

  Blake's lips pulled tight against the canteen's mouth, its contents metallic. Mara once told him that Skaeldrin systems could improve the taste, but they preferred it this way. He swallowed hard. "Month ago, this was rubble. Bodies."

  The former parade grounds of a dead tyrant, now a sprawling marketplace—a testament to defiance. Makeshift stalls of salvaged bulkheads and engine casings lined crooked avenues. Reclaimed tech, scavenged food, jury-rigged water filters from ancient starships—the bounty of a desperate people. Some items were still scarred with carbon scoring from the battle that had shattered Rax's rule.

  A battle he helped orchestrate.

  "You're brooding again." Kitt's calm, measured voice was a counterpoint to the chaos unfurling before him.

  "Observing."

  "Your heartrate drops seven percent when you brood. I can measure it."

  A grunt escaped his lips as his hand moved to Verdict's holster. Twenty years of combat—a lifetime etched into muscle memory. Even Kitt's bond allowing him to sense the weapon psychically wasn't enough: habit demanded a physical check.

  A child slipped through the crowd, her copper-hued skin marked with rust-colored patterns that sprawled across her face like a star chart. Blake noticed her right arm ended abruptly at the elbow, capped with a crude prosthetic—all function, no finesse. The metal fingers jerked and twitched as if fighting their own primitive circuitry. She moved with practiced efficiency, and between one heartbeat and the next, a wrapped ration pack disappeared from a merchant's table as she darted past, moving towards him.

  Blake frowned, watching the girl's theft without moving a muscle. She froze when she looked up and met his eyes, knowing she'd been caught. But Blake had long ago settled on a simple principle: nobody should need to steal just to survive. And since the system clearly wasn't yet in a position to take care of its most vulnerable, his personal code was straightforward. If he witnessed someone desperate enough to risk punishment in order to meet their basic needs… Well, as far as he was concerned, he hadn't seen a thing.

  He smiled and shot the girl a wink, before deliberately turning to look in another direction. Grinning, the girl disappeared around a corner, vanishing into one of the countless maze-like passages that formed Nahren's interior.

  "No issues with that?" Kitt asked.

  "Not my town. Not my rules."

  "Funny," she replied, "a month ago, we were killing people to change those rules."

  "Damn," Blake frowned. "Fair point, but those were different rules. And making sure that little kid got some food feels just as right for my Path."

  "Good!" Kitt chirped, and he felt her satisfaction in their core. "With classes like yours it's always hard to tell how hide-bound they'll be about rules."

  "Still, you sounded a bit testy there," Blake said. "I didn't realize it was a sore spot for you."

  "To be fair," she responded, "I don't think I did either. Something about orphans and refugees tickles something deep down. I just felt... Rankled, I guess."

  "Honestly, I'm glad we can agree on the topic."

  "Me too, Blake. My memories from before we bonded can be fuzzy at times, but I spent pretty much my whole life watching the Tylwith empire warring with their neighbors and taking their holdings. I guess seeing so many displaced people and not being able to anything for them affected me more than I realized. It's funny how that it didn't actually bother me at the time."

  "War doesn't leave a lot of time for self-reflection in my experience. That part comes after, and it isn't easy on any of us."

  They settled into a comfortable silence after that, and a nearby craftsman captured Blake's attention. The slate-skinned Skaeldrin hammered a sheet of metal into shape, the rhythmic clanging feeling oddly meditative. Blake watched as the Skaeldrin bent the material with practiced hands, working to transform the scrap into something useful—a container, a tool, perhaps a piece of armor.

  "Look at that fabrication technique," Kitt said. "He's using flattened sheets of old ship ventilation, but the thermal bonding method suggests—"

  "I get it," Blake interrupted. "They're good at building stuff from garbage."

  "Hey!" Kitt sent him their bond's equivalent of a punch to the shoulder. "It's more than that. It's their Path."

  Blake studied the merchant more closely. The Skaeldrin worked with complete focus, his movements precise and efficient. Every tap of the hammer seemed to brighten his mood, a smile slowly creeping onto his face.

  "Creation from destruction," Kitt continued. "For many Skaeldrin, especially those with crafting-focused cultivation, this settlement represents the ultimate expression of their Path. They're literally building their future from the wreckage of tyranny."

  "Poetic."

  "I'm serious, Blake. What you're seeing isn't just reconstruction—it's cultivation in action. Every nail driven, every circuit rewired, every system repurposed advances their connection to their chosen Path."

  Blake's gaze swept across the marketplace. Now that Kitt had pointed it out, he saw it everywhere—the intense concentration on faces, the deliberate movements, the pride in completed work. This wasn't just survival. It was something deeper.

  "I suppose Eland did tell me that his Path was tied up in his archeology," Blake murmured.

  "Exactly. A different approach, but the same principle. They're growing stronger through their crafts."

  A crash of crates drew Blake's attention away from the marketplace. At the far edge of the square, where the water distribution point connected to the makeshift medical center, a crowd gathered. Voices rose, sharp and angry.

  "What now?" Blake straightened, hand instinctively dropping to Verdict's grip.

  "Two groups arguing over resource allocation," Kitt said. "Medical team and merchant coalition."

  Blake moved to the edge of the awning, maintaining his position while adjusting for a better view. A Skaeldrin woman in medical wraps gestured wildly at a stocky merchant whose face markings identified him as Clan Torvik.

  "We need consistent protein supplies!" The medic jabbed a finger toward the merchant. "Our patients—"

  "And we need inventory!" The merchant's augmented arm whirred as he pointed at a row of crates. "How am I supposed to trade when you seize half my shipment?"

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  Six other merchants stood behind the Torvik spokesman, arms folded across their chests. The medical team—four of them—held their ground beside a stack of sealed containers. Blake recognized Sara, the head medic who'd helped patch up wounded fighters after the battle against Rax.

  "Trouble?" A Skaeldrin warrior approached Blake's position, hand on his blade.

  "Not yet." Blake kept his eyes on the escalating argument. "Just commerce finding its groove."

  The warrior grunted. "New freedom brings new squabbles."

  Blake nodded. After Rax's fall, Nahren had transformed from a tyrannical fortress to a bustling trade hub. Freedom brought prosperity—and conflict. The marketplace had no formal rules yet, just the shared understanding that they'd all suffered under Rax. But shared suffering only built unity for so long.

  The argument intensified. Sara held up a protein pack, shouting something about nutrition values. The Torvik merchant slapped it from her hand.

  "Think we should step in?" Kitt asked mentally.

  "Didn't I just say it isn't our town?" Blake responded in kind so as not to disturb the nearby guardsman.

  "And I pointed out that it never stopped you before."

  "True," Blake responded, chuckling softly. "But consider this: conflict resolution is part of community building. If I keep jumping in to fix everything..."

  "They never learn to fix it themselves," Kitt finished.

  "Exactly. I've seen it before. This is healthy… At least until the point it turns ugly."

  A ripple moved through the crowd as someone pushed through. Blake spotted Mara's distinctive braid before she emerged at the center of the dispute. The scar on her neck caught the sunlight as she stepped between the warring parties.

  The crowd quieted. Even from his distance, Blake saw the merchants straighten up. Respect, not fear. That was the difference between Mara and Rax. The guard took Mara's arrival as his cue to spring into action, and he made a beeline for her position.

  "Both of you, step back." Mara's voice carried across the marketplace without shouting. She pointed to empty ground on either side of her. "Sara, explain."

  Sara motioned to the containers. "We have twelve patients with nutrient deficiencies. Three critical. The shipment from Outpost Five contains the specific amino profiles we need. We tried to reserve a portion—"

  "'Reserve' means steal now?" The Torvik merchant's augmented arm clicked angrily. "I paid good scrap for that shipment. My customers—"

  "Patients aren't customers!"

  "Enough." Mara raised her hand. "Jorvik, your turn. Uninterrupted."

  The merchant—Jorvik—exhaled sharply. "Three clans pooled resources for this shipment. We have pre-sold seventy percent of it. If we don't deliver, we lose credibility with twelve other settlements. Future trade collapses."

  The crowd murmured. Blake understood the stakes. In a world built on scrap and salvage, reputation was currency. Break your word once, starve next season.

  Mara stood silent for a moment, her gaze moving between the parties. Blake recognized the calculation happening behind her eyes. Not just solving today's problem but trying to prevent tomorrow's.

  "Compromise," she finally said. "Sara, what's the minimum amount your patients need?"

  Sara conferred with her team in hushed tones. "Twenty percent of the shipment. But we need it now, not after they sell it off."

  "And you, Jorvik. What's the maximum you could spare without breaking commitments?"

  The merchant's cybernetics whirred as he processed numbers. "Fifteen percent. Maybe seventeen if Clan Korric agrees to substitute."

  A smaller merchant from behind nodded reluctantly.

  "Seventeen percent goes to medical now." Mara's voice left no room for argument. "With proper documentation. Sara, your team will file requisition forms from now on. No more grabbing supplies."

  Sara nodded stiffly.

  "Jorvik, your coalition gets guaranteed minimum allocations for the next three shipments. No emergency requisitions can exceed twenty percent without council approval."

  The merchant's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Acceptable."

  "Good." Mara turned to address the wider crowd. "We're creating a resource board. Three merchants, two medical staff, two clan elders. Anyone interested submits their name by sundown."

  The crowd dispersed, muttering but satisfied. Blake watched as Mara handed a datapad to both Sara and Jorvik, making them sign something before they parted ways.

  "She's good," Kitt observed.

  "She is." Blake stayed in the shadows of the awning. "Building systems, not just solving problems."

  "Isn't at least some of that part of your job, Roadwarden?"

  Blake snorted. "Maybe, but not when there's anyone more qualified to do it instead. I kill things. She builds things."

  "You killed Rax so she could build." Kitt's tone shifted. "Speaking of building things, someone's watching you."

  Blake's eyes flicked to his three o'clock. A Skaeldrin child—the same one who'd stolen food earlier—stood half-hidden behind a metal column. Her eyes locked on Blake, unblinking and intense.

  "Looks like you made an impression on our little thief."

  Blake frowned. "I didn't do anything."

  "Exactly." Kitt sounded amused. "In a world where everyone does something, doing nothing is sometimes just as remarkable."

  The girl stepped forward, clutching something in her good hand. Blake remained still as she approached, her prosthetic arm whirring with each step. She stopped three feet away, just outside arm's reach—smart kid.

  The scrap-metal fingers of her artificial limb twitched slightly, constantly recalibrating. Blake remained still, giving her the space to decide how close she wanted to get.

  "You didn't tell," she said, voice barely audible above the marketplace bustle.

  Blake shrugged. "Nothing to tell."

  Her eyes narrowed, studying his face with the intensity unique to children who've learned early not to trust adults. "Everyone tells."

  "I'm not everyone."

  The girl held out her good hand. In her palm lay a small metal object—a crude figurine fashioned from copper wire and circuit board fragments. It resembled a human shape with one arm raised.

  "For you," she said.

  "For what?" Blake asked, genuinely confused.

  "For not telling." She pushed her hand closer, insistent.

  Blake hesitated, but he knew refusing would hurt the child.

  "What's your name?" he asked, carefully taking the figurine.

  "Tix." She pointed to his holster. "You're one of the aliens who fought with Miss Sara and the others."

  Blake's eyebrows raised slightly, amused at being called an alien despite the fact that she was absolutely correct. "Good eye."

  "I know things." Tix tapped her temple with her organic hand. "I watch. I learn."

  "Smart. Staying alive takes smarts."

  Tix nodded solemnly. "You killed Rax. Everyone says."

  And there it is, Blake thought. I suppose it was unavoidable.

  "I was there," he said neutrally.

  "He took my arm." She lifted the prosthetic. "For taking food. Someone told."

  Blake's jaw tightened. A dark part of him—a more significant part than he'd have liked, really—wished he had made sure Rax suffered before he died. But that line of thinking was no good. He shook his head and examined the small figurine in his palm. The raised arm seemed almost triumphant, defiant.

  "Looks like you've made a friend," Kitt observed.

  "Well, Tix, I happen to know Miss Mara pretty well," he said, squatting down to get on eye level with the girl. "If you'd like to find ways to eat that don't risk you getting caught and hurt, you should go find her. Tell her Blake sent you."

  "Do you really think she'd do anything for someone like me?" The girl's expression was as conflicted as they came, hope fighting a desperate battle against well-learned lessons in pessimism.

  "Yeah," Blake said, putting on what he hoped was his best smile. "She's good people, Tix. And besides, she definitely owes me a favor or two."