Rodrigo trudged through Havenport's market district as the morning sun climbed high. His boots scuffed the cobblestones, kicking up dust that mingled with the salty tang of the sea just a couple hundred meters away. There was a chaotic swirl of vendors shouting over each other, and their voices clashed with the clatter of carts overhead.
Stalls lined the way, piled with fish, cloth, and oddities he couldn't name. Some glowed faintly, runes pulsing on their surfaces. Essence, Tomas had called it. Whatever that meant.
His stomach growled, with a sharp twinge cutting through his thoughts. He hadn't eaten since… when? Before the rebels. Before the bullet.
He patted his pocket out of habit, fingers brushing those three crumpled dollar bills.
Pretty useless here.
He'd seen the glint of coins in Tomas's hand earlier, filled with copper and gold and stamped with ships. There was no paper money in this damn place. His jaw tightened. Pride or not, hunger was a beast he couldn't ignore forever.
He kept moving and weaving through the crowd. His eyes flicked to the stalls, curiosity tugging at him despite the cynicism gnawing his gut. A vendor waved a hand over a brazier, and flames leapt up brightly, heating a skewer of sizzling meat.
There wasn't any flint, or any match. It was just a flicker of light from his palm. Another man hefted a crate with a grunt, his arms glowing faintly as it lifted higher than muscle alone could manage.
Essence again.
Rodrigo's skin prickled with that strange heat stirring in his chest. He shoved it down, scowling. Magic tricks didn't impress him. He'd seen enough cons in his day.
The towering Essence Guildhall emerged in the distance. As he approached it, orange light glowed from its windows, and muffled shouts drifted out. Training, maybe. Rodrigo's lip curled. This was another authority to distrust.
He'd led men, not followed orders from glowy-robed fools. He steered clear, sticking to the market's edge.
A burst of laughter drew his gaze. A street performer stood in a small clearing, juggling balls of fire. The flames danced between his hands, leaving trails of sparks in the air.
The crowd clapped, coins clinking into a tin at his feet. Rodrigo stopped, his breath catching. That heat in his chest flared hotter, sharper, like a coal sparking to life.
His right hand twitched, and before he could stop it, a tiny flame flickered in his palm weakly.
"What the—" He clenched his fist, snuffing it out fast. His heart thudded, sweat beading on his brow. He glanced around, half-expecting stares. Most ignored him, caught up in the performer's show.
But a cloaked figure at the crowd's edge turned, their face hidden in shadow. They lingered a beat too long, then slipped into an alley, gone. Rodrigo's eyes narrowed. Trouble? Or his imagination? Either way, he didn't like it.
His stomach growled again, louder this time. "Fucking hell…"
No food, no money, and now this. Some flames were popping out of him like some circus act. He needed something in his gut before he lost it completely. He scanned the stalls, sniffing the air.
Bread. Fresh, warm, and close.
He followed the scent, weaving past a fishmonger and a cloth trader, until he stopped at a small bakeshop tucked between two larger stands.
The shop was simple, its wooden sign weathered but clean, reading Mara's Hearth in carved letters. Loaves lined the counter. There were different varieties, such as crusty rounds, soft rolls, and some studded with herbs.
A woman stood behind it, plump and rosy-cheeked, and her apron was dusted with flour. She looked up, catching his eye, and smiled wide. "You look half-starved, stranger," she said, her voice warm like the bread. "Been a while since you ate, I would guess."
Rodrigo stiffened, his pride bristling. "No no, I'm fine," he muttered, though the growl in his stomach betrayed him. He crossed his arms, keeping his distance.
She chuckled, unfazed, and picked up a small roll. "Sure you are. Hunger's no shame. Here. Take it." She held it out, like she saw right through him.
He stared at the bread, and his mouth watered. Dollars wouldn't buy it, and he wasn't about to beg. "I don't have your coins," he said, his tone clipped. "Please, keep it."
Mara tilted her head, sizing him up. "No coins, huh? That's the first time I've heard that excuse. Where you from?"
"Far off," he said curtly. "Doesn't matter."
"Well it matters if you're starving," she replied, setting the roll on the counter between them. "Take it anyway. Call it a welcome. Havenport's a bit rough on newcomers."
Rodrigo's jaw tightened. He didn't need pity, or debts. But his stomach roared once again, and pride definitely wasn't filling it. He snatched the roll, nodding stiffly. "Thank you," he grunted, the word tasting bitter.
He tore off a piece and bit in. It was warm, soft, and had a hint of salt. Better than army rations by a mile.
Mara watched him eat, wiping her hands on her apron. "You've got that look," she said casually as if she was chatting about the weather. "Like you've got a spark in you. Do you ever feel it?"
He froze mid-chew, the bread suddenly heavy in his mouth. That flame in his hand. She couldn't know. "What're you on about?" he asked, his voice low.
"Essence," she said, leaning forward. "Everyone's got a bit of Essence, but Infusers make it sing. As a newcomer, I'm sure you see 'em around. Fire jugglers, crate-lifters, even fishermen. But it takes a weapon to really bind it, though."
Rodrigo swallowed, his mind racing. "Weapons bind it?" he echoed, skeptical but hooked despite himself.
"Aye," Mara said, nodding. "They pick their wielders. Essence ties 'em tight, and makes the spark into something real. I know two kinds of Essence that'll start you off. Strength Essence to push it hard, and Spirit Essence to cut through the weird magic stuff, though no one really uses that one. There's this other one, but it's another beast. That's for the Guild folk."
He grunted, filing it away. Strength. Spirit. No mention of whatever that third one was, and he didn't ask. It sounded like more magic nonsense, but that heat in his chest… maybe it wasn't just shock. He took another bite, chewing slowly. "And if I don't want that weapon?" he said, half to himself.
Mara shrugged. "Then you don't. But it'll find you anyway, if it's there." She paused, then added, "There're plenty of blades in the market if you're curious. Hilda's forge has some good ones. Want another one? I can hear your stomach growlin' from here."
The machete flashed in his mind broadly, etched with fire, and pulled at him like a ghost, but the rumbling of his stomach cut his thoughts like a blade. He shook his head, brushing it off. "I'll manage," he said, stepping back. "Don't need your Guild or your bread."
"Suit yourself," Mara said with a grin. "But if you change your mind, I'm here. Bread's always fresh."
He nodded again, turning away. The roll was gone too fast, leaving his hands empty and his pride stinging. He didn't like her seeing him weak, and he didn't like this world throwing curveballs. But that flame… he couldn't unsee it.
He drifted back toward the market forge, his feet moving before his mind caught up. The stall was quieter now, and he saw that forge Mara was talking about from the wooden sign above. It read HILDA'S FORGE in capital letters, and the letters were terribly carved out of the wood.
The old smith, Hilda, was hammering a blade with steady thunks. That machete sat there still, and its fiery etchings glinted like they knew him.
Hilda glanced up, her weathered eyes locking on his. "What'ya want?," she said, her voice gravelly. She flicked her gaze to where Rodrigo was staring at—the machete. "You want that one? Been pulsing for minutes now."
"Yeah, the machete."
"Five silver. Yours if you've got the coin and the guts."
Rodrigo's hand hovered near it, the heat in his chest pulsing in time with those etchings. Five silvers? He had a single copper drift, scavenged from a drunk's stumble he got along the way. His jaw clenched.
"I pick my weapons," he muttered, stepping back. "Not the other way around."
Hilda smirked, saying nothing. He turned away, the pull nagging at him. He'd be back when he wasn't broke.
It'd been hours since he travelled in Havenport, looking for somewhere to stay. Night fell as he finally trudged to a cheap inn by the river, and its sign creaked in the breeze. The copper drift from the drunk got him a room. It was pretty small, damp, with a lumpy bed.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. That spark. He wanted it back.
He focused, trying to will it back.
Nothing.
He tried again, teeth gritted.
A flicker, weak, pathetic, danced in his palm, then—
It died.
"Damn it," he snarled, punching the wall. Pain shot up his knuckles, sharp and familiar. He wasn't some fumbling kid. He'd led men, killed rebels, and taken bullets. This world wouldn't make him weak.
He flopped back, the locket pressing against his chest. Franca's face swam in his vision. "I'll figure it, Ma," he muttered. "Just watch."
The heat stayed like a quiet ember waiting to burn.