Jorren hated the laughter.

  It didn’t belong here. It bounced too easily off dressed stone and iron railings, carried farther than it should, lingered in places where sound usually died quickly. Laughter belonged in markets and kitchens, in the narrow hours after work when men pretended tomorrow might be lighter. Down here, just above the dungeon stair, it felt like whistling over a grave.

  He stood at his post along the upper holding level, lantern hooked into its bracket, flame steady and clean. The stairwell opened a few paces to his left, spiraling downward into darkness. After the first two turns, light vanished completely. Sound followed shortly after.

  Whatever went down there never came back the same.

  Sometimes it didn’t come back at all.

  Someone laughed again — a sharp bark, slurred slightly by drink. Jorren didn’t turn. He kept his eyes on the corridor ahead, where the stone had been scrubbed smooth enough to catch lanternlight in dull streaks. Grooves scored the floor, shallow but permanent. Shackles dragged. Boots paced. Bodies pulled when walking stopped being an option.

  The smell here was oil and boiled grain, sharp enough to sting the nose, layered over something older and harder to erase. Blood. Fear. Waste.

  Incense burned in shallow trays at the corners — cheap resin meant to mask what rose from below. It never worked. The dungeon breathed upward no matter what they did.

  “Relax,” one of the other guards said, voice loose with drink. “They’re just kids.”

  Jorren’s jaw tightened.

  Just kids.

  He shifted his weight, leather creaking faintly. His boots were new — newer than anything he’d owned in years — the heel still stiff enough to bite if he stood wrong. He’d saved quietly for them, coin by coin, every extra shift taken without complaint. New boots meant your name stayed where it was. New boots meant you weren’t reassigned.

  New boots meant your ration card stayed full.

  His youngest liked to sit on his shoulders when the market banners went up, small hands tangled in his hair, laughing at the colors overhead. Seven years old last cycle. Still soft around the cheeks. Still believed that asking nicely changed things.

  His eldest would start school next season.

  If I lose this post, Jorren thought, the familiar knot tightening in his gut, they lose that chance.

  He’d seen what happened to guards who talked too much. They didn’t vanish dramatically. They weren’t dragged screaming into cells. They were slid sideways — reassigned to labor details, to wall patrols that never ended, to positions where injuries happened and paperwork got lost. A mark went in their file. It stayed there.

  Coward, something inside him whispered.

  Jorren closed his eyes for half a breath.

  Survivor, another voice answered — tired, dull, and louder.

  A shout echoed faintly from below. An enforcer barking for silence. Jorren flinched despite himself, fingers tightening on the railing. He wanted to say something. To tell them to keep their voices down. To stop laughing. To remember where they were standing.

  He didn’t.

  He couldn’t.

  “Oi.”

  Jorren looked up.

  Marrek stood at the far end of the corridor, helmet tucked under one arm, scar cutting his cheek into a permanent sneer. Born Tier Three. Never let anyone forget it.

  “Buyers are in,” Marrek said. “Get ready.”

  Jorren nodded once. “Right.”

  As Marrek turned away, Jorren allowed himself one last glance toward the stairwell — toward the dark below, where light and sound died quickly.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, so quietly even he barely heard it.

  Then he straightened, adjusted his lantern, and went to do his job.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Aurelian liked to watch people arrive.

  The exchange yard forced perspective. The routes leading in narrowed deliberately, walls closing tight, stone patched with whatever had been close enough to grab when the last break came. Smells layered thickly here — grain dust, animal musk, rot that never fully left.

  Then the space opened.

  The yard spread wide and deliberate, stone laid clean and level, drains cut deep enough to carry waste away instead of letting it pool. Guards stood where symmetry demanded, not where convenience suggested. Authority made architectural.

  Aurelian waited near the central gate, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had never needed to hurry. His coat was clean. His boots had never known gutter mud.

  The caravan announced itself long before it entered.

  First came the sound — iron-shod hooves on stone, axles groaning under weight, shouted commands cutting cleanly through the usual yard noise. Workers slowed. Tallymen glanced up. Even the guards straightened.

  Then the carts rolled in.

  Four of them. Heavy-built. Reinforced sides darkened by oil and travel. Built for weight, not comfort. The beasts pulling them were thick-necked and broad-backed, closer to oxen than horses, hides scarred and branded with route sigils. Harness fittings gleamed beneath the dust — expensive, maintained.

  Merchants peeled off almost immediately, splitting from the main procession toward the trade rows. Ledgers appeared. Coin changed hands. Crates stamped with marks meaningless to most of the March were unloaded and redirected.

  The main procession continued.

  Riders followed the carts — mounted, alert, moving with a stillness that did not belong to hired muscle. They watched without looking like they were watching.

  Aurelian’s instincts tightened.

  Two of them flanked the rear cart.

  No armor worth naming. No weapons drawn. They didn’t need either.

  Realm Three.

  The thought settled cold and precise.

  In the Gutter March, Realm Three was not a rung. It was a ceiling. A warlord’s reach. A story told carefully. Here, two of them rode escort.

  If this turned violent, Aurelian thought, the yard would become a grave.

  And it wouldn’t even be a long fight.

  The lead buyer dismounted without assistance.

  Tall. Lean. Wrapped in layered greys and slate-blue trimmed with silver thread — travel-worn, but unmistakably expensive. His boots were dusted but polished beneath it. His cloak fell cleanly, cut to hang just right when he moved.

  Veylan of Karsith.

  Mining city. Deep shafts. Cursed ore veins rich enough to power districts outright. Not large — but wealthy enough to buy what others bred.

  Veylan surveyed the yard once, slow and comprehensive. His nose wrinkled faintly.

  “I despise places like this,” he said mildly. “The smell follows you.”

  Aurelian smiled faintly. “Welcome to the March.”

  Veylan’s gaze flicked to him. Measuring. “And yet you thrive.”

  “We endure,” Aurelian replied. “There’s a difference.”

  Behind them, the final cart stopped.

  The children climbed down.

  They moved when told. Stopped when a handler raised a hand. Their eyes stayed low. Their shoulders were already trained to hunch. Not starving — not yet — but hollowed in a way food didn’t repair quickly.

  One stumbled stepping down.

  He corrected himself instantly. Flinched before anyone spoke.

  Good stock, Aurelian thought. Already conditioned.

  “You’ve brought company,” he observed.

  “Previous investments,” Veylan replied lightly. “They wanted to see where quality comes from.”

  Aurelian’s gaze passed over the children without interest. “And?”

  “You weren’t exaggerating,” Veylan said.

  He gestured — barely.

  One of the Awakened guards shifted.

  For half a breath, the air compressed.

  Not wind. Not light. Pressure — sudden and absolute, like a hand closing around the chest. Workers froze mid-motion. Beasts stilled. Conversation died as if cut.

  Aurelian felt it brush against him.

  Close.

  Too close to ignore.

  The pressure vanished.

  Veylan never looked back.

  Aurelian’s smile didn’t change.

  “Shall we?” he said.

  The inner gate opened.

  Not quietly.

  Stone groaned as mechanisms engaged, iron teeth unlocking with a sound that carried across the yard. Guards repositioned instantly, lines snapping into place. Low-tier onlookers retreated without instruction.

  This gate did not open often.

  The caravan rolled forward.

  One step — and grit gave way to smooth stone.

  The inner city didn’t glitter.

  It didn’t need to.

  Drainage channels ran clean and clear. Lanterns burned steady and bright, fed by reserves that never sputtered. The air smelled of bread and spice instead of rot. People moved with purpose, not fear.

  Children played near a fountain, clean and loud, laughter unrestrained. They stared openly as the caravan passed — curiosity, not hunger, in their eyes.

  Veylan noticed.

  “So this is where it goes,” he said quietly.

  Aurelian didn’t answer.

  They walked.

  Past shops with prices instead of boards. Past workers paid wages instead of rations. Past guards who nodded politely.

  They stopped before a three-story structure of pale stone and glass-fronted lanterns. A carved beast hung above the door — antlered, fanged, worked in silver.

  Inside, conversation hushed. Patrons rose without protest. Staff moved faster.

  The dining hall smelled like heat and meat and money.

  Real meat. Monster flesh — the kind that fought back. The cursed residue still clung faintly, sharpening the flavor. Not the grey slop Tier Seven chewed through.

  They were seated. Served. Cups filled.

  Veylan sighed contentedly. “No one does it quite like the Gutter March.”

  Aurelian raised an eyebrow.

  “The disparity,” Veylan continued. “There’s no middle. No pretense.” He cut into his meal. “That’s why it works.”

  “They break,” Aurelian said.

  “Or harden,” Veylan replied. “Either way — useful.”

  He dabbed his mouth.

  “You mistake something,” Veylan continued. “You think you impress us.”

  Aurelian smiled. “We’ve learned what impresses.”

  “What sustains,” Veylan corrected. “There’s a difference.”

  He leaned back.

  “You need my cores. My coin. My routes. I don’t need your children. I could buy bodies anywhere.” A thin smile. “I choose yours.”

  Aurelian hated him.

  “We’ll discuss terms,” Aurelian said.

  Veylan’s smile widened. “Of course.”