Rotheart revealed itself in layers.

Cobblestone streets stretched wide enough for carriages down the center, pedestrians claiming the margins. Buildings rose three and four stories high—Victorian facades with Belle Époque flourishes, wrought iron balconies, stained glass catching morning light. Gas lamps lined the walkways at regular intervals, unlit now but ready for dusk.

Golden lions prowled everywhere. Carved into cornerstones. Etched above doorways. Woven into the flags that snapped from balconies, the city's symbol declaring itself with quiet pride.

Steam hissed from grates. Machinery hummed behind walls. Alleys twisted between buildings like veins, narrow and shadow-deep.

The people matched the architecture—disparate, layered, simultaneously alive and dying. Some wore clothes barely above rags, threadbare and patched. Others moved in high-quality fabric, wool and silk that caught the light. Most fell somewhere between. A woman in a faded dress hurried past a man in a pressed coat. Neither acknowledged the other.

Beggars lined certain streets, hands outstretched, mostly ignored. A street performer juggled fire near the market entrance, bucket at his feet collecting the occasional copper. Guards patrolled in pairs, leather armor over blue uniforms, eyes scanning without urgency.

Alive and dead. Joseph watched faces as he and Rayah walked. Dejected expressions mixed with lively ones mixed with unreadable masks going about their business. The city had rhythm without harmony—everyone moving, few connecting.

He searched for patterns, for signs of something hidden beneath the surface. Nothing jumped out. Just the usual urban calculus of power and survival.

The unusual part was the stares.

Two children without adults, hair bright as moonlight. They turned heads. Conversations paused. Joseph felt the weight of attention like physical pressure.

The guards no longer flanked them openly, but Joseph knew they were watching. Hogar's people, keeping distant surveillance. Smart. Obvious protection would make them targets.

Rayah pulled the map from her pocket, seemingly unaware of the eyes tracking their movement. She pointed to a circled region. "Let's go to the market."

Joseph nodded.

The market district announced itself with noise.

The carriage road narrowed at an intersection, forcing wheeled traffic to stop. A makeshift parking area sprawled to the left—horses tied to posts, drivers waiting or drinking from flasks. Beyond that, the street belonged to people.

Wooden stands lined both sides under canvas sheets that blocked the sun. Some vendors operated from tents, their goods displayed behind glass casings. Vegetables and cuts of meat that could've been from Earth. Street performers worked the crowd—a clown making balloon animals, a woman singing with a voice like smoke.

Then the expensive section. Crystals behind reinforced glass. Arcane spirits contained in elaborate prisons of light and geometry. Price tags that made Joseph's coin purse feel like a joke.

He catalogued it all. Resources. Access points. What could be stolen, what needed to be bought, what required connections to even approach.

A surge of noise pulled his attention.

Ahead, a crowd gathered around a stand displaying nothing but rocks. Plain, unremarkable stones on weathered wood.

Joseph watched a man step forward, select one, close his eyes. Arcane energy pulsed—Joseph felt it in his teeth. The rock began to resonate, frequency building until—

Pop.

A glowing orb crackled into existence, sparks dancing across its surface.

"Act 2 Energizer spirit!" The man dropped to his knees, voice breaking. "Finally! Holy shit!"

"Idiot." Another man squeezed his forehead. "Its Arcana isn't compatible with yours at all."

"I don't care! I'll sell this for a fortune!"

The man beside him, apparently inspired, grabbed another rock. His expression held desperate hope—the kind that comes before ruin.

Poof.

The stone crumbled to dust.

His face went blank. Empty. Joseph recognized that look. A man one breath away from breaking.

Gambling den. He understood immediately. When spirits died, their essence congealed into specific stones, dormant until reawakened. The gamble was whether the spirit had survived in its weakened state or dissolved completely back into the world's aether.

Cheaper than buying spirits outright, but you didn't know what you'd get—if you got anything. No guarantee of compatibility, synergy, or even usefulness. On the other hand, you could find spirits not available on the market. Too rare. Too expensive. Too dangerous.

High risk, high reward. Except the risk far outweighed the reward.

Joseph wasn't dumb enough to try. Not yet. But he filed it away for later. If he could determine which stones contained spirits before opening them—temporal echo, maybe, reading the history—the advantage would be massive.

They moved on. The stares continued. Still no one approached.

"Let's get new clothes," Joseph said quietly.

Rayah nodded.

The clothing stand sat at the market's edge, relatively unpopulated. An old woman watched from behind the display, eyes wary. Joseph read the calculation in her posture—two unknown children examining her goods, if they ran she couldn't stop them. Guards patrolled, but many thieves escaped anyway.

He picked two black hooded shirts from the rack. "How much for these?"

"Two pounds each." Her voice cracked slightly, caught off guard by the direct question.

Joseph set the clothes down, fishing out coins. "We just arrived in the city. What's the general sentiment these days?"

The old woman's wariness shifted to something more calculating. "About what, specifically?"

"The government. The Member of Parliament system. I heard Rotheart operates differently than other cities."

"You heard right." She accepted his coins, counting slowly. "MPs hold regional power, not central. Means less unified policy, more local flexibility. Some like it. Others think it's chaos barely held together."

"And you?"

"I think politicians are politicians." She wrapped the shirts in brown paper with practiced efficiency. "Central government, regional MPs, doesn't matter. They take their cut either way."

"Fair perspective." Joseph smiled. "What about the recent factory regulations? I heard there was debate about working hours."

"Debate." The old woman snorted. "Rich word for what that was. Factory owners wanted sixteen-hour shifts. Labor unions wanted eight. MPs split the difference at twelve and called it compromise. Meanwhile, workers are still dying from exhaustion and owners are still getting fat."

"Which MP pushed for the compromise?"

"Aldrich, from the eastern district. Man's always playing mediator. Makes him look reasonable." Her eyes sharpened. "You ask a lot of questions for a child."

"I like to understand new places."

"Mm." She handed over the wrapped package. "Advice? Don't trust anyone who seems too interested in helping you for free. This city eats naive outsiders."

"Noted. Thank you."

Rayah watched the exchange silently, but her gaze tracked everything—the woman's hands, the crowd behind them, the guard patrol passing three stalls over. Not aimless observation. Intent.

They left wearing their new hoods, moonlight hair finally concealed.

Rayah's stomach grumbled.

Joseph smiled. "Let's get some food then."

The restaurant occupied a corner building with wide windows and checkered floors. Not fancy, but clean. The kind of place workers went for affordable meals.

They claimed a table. Joseph ordered methodically—grilled fish for protein, dark leafy greens, a glass of milk for calcium, and spaghetti for carbohydrates. His body needed proper nutrition if he wanted to grow. IGF-1 signaling required building blocks, and his current height was unacceptable.

The food arrived. Joseph tried the spaghetti first.

Wrong.

Everything about it was wrong. Overcooked pasta, watery sauce, no depth of flavor. The noodles had been snapped in half before cooking—probably for easier portioning. Criminal.

Joseph stood.

"Where are you going?" Rayah asked.

"Kitchen."

The cook—a middle-aged man with flour on his apron—looked up in surprise as Joseph pushed through the door.

"Your spaghetti is terrible."

"Excuse me?"

"The pasta is overcooked, the sauce has no body, and you snapped the noodles." Joseph moved to the stove. "Do you want to learn how it's actually done?"

The cook's face went through several expressions before landing on bemused curiosity. "You're a child."

"I'm a child who knows how to cook. Watch."

Joseph took over. Fresh pot of water, generous salt—"the water should taste like the sea"—brought to a rolling boil. He selected unbroken spaghetti, lowered it into the pot, let the ends soften naturally before pushing the rest under. "Never snap the pasta. It's supposed to be long. That's the point."

For the sauce, he started with olive oil and garlic—real garlic, not the powder the cook had been using. Let it bloom. Added crushed tomatoes, let them reduce. Salt, pepper, a pinch of sugar to balance acidity. Fresh basil torn by hand.

The cook watched in silence.

Joseph tested the pasta. Al dente. Firm with just slight resistance. He drained it, reserved some pasta water, then tossed everything together. The starch from the water emulsified with the oil, creating proper sauce consistency.

He plated it, handed it to the cook. "Try."

The man took a bite. His expression changed.

"This is... significantly better."

"It's edible now." Joseph returned to his table.

The cook followed, set the new plate down with something approaching reverence. "No charge for your meal. Either of you."

"Appreciated."

They ate. Rayah gave him a look that clearly said was that necessary? Joseph ignored her. Some things were worth making a point about.

The library sat near the inner wall, three stories of stone and arched windows. Quieter than the rest of the city, as libraries should be.

They pushed through heavy wooden doors.

Books lined every surface. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, ladders on rails providing access to higher levels. The smell of old paper and leather bindings filled the space. A few people sat at tables, reading in focused silence.

Behind the counter, an old man watched their entrance. His eyes tracked them with unusual intensity—not the curious stares from the market, but something more deliberate. Calculating.

Joseph met his gaze for a brief moment before moving deeper into the library.

He wanted to master Sepherian completely—reading and writing, not just conversation. His Umbral Wraith would feed on finishing books, but more importantly, knowledge was leverage. Every language unlocked different resources.

Rayah headed for a different section. She'd mentioned wanting to read about the Emperor's Island—their homeland. Probably looking for information that might explain their exile.

Joseph selected a beginner's grammar text and claimed a table.

The old man was still watching.

Interesting.

He opened the book and began to read.

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