Orion stood at the exhibition booth all morning. His father worked the front — haggled with three rounds of buyers, sold two hoes, a copper mirror, a saddle. The saddle buyer was a Prism Studio illusionist dressed louder than anyone, sleeves stitched with color-shifting thread. He hefted the saddle, said the hammer work was the most even he’d ever seen. Orion’s father didn’t take the compliment. Just named a price. The illusionist paid and left. His father pocketed the coins. Enough to feed Iron Kiln for three months.
Orion didn’t care about the coins. He cared about his pocket.
The meteorite’s temperature had been rising all morning. Not hot — a steady warmth, like someone’s hand resting on his chest. During a lull, he closed his eyes the way the Lantern Tower girl’s look had made him think of. Eyes shut, he could feel the meteorite pulse. Each pulse matched a person — anyone walking past carrying residual Rift radiation made it jump. He wasn’t sure it was real. But he counted for an hour. Forge Hall worker passed — jumped. Rift-edge lab tech passed — jumped three times. A girl carrying three books, glasses fixed with copper wire, passed — jumped once.
She stopped at his booth.
The girl from yesterday. Today she had four books. Couldn’t hold them all — the top one was lashed to her wrist with a red thread. Wrist to spine, a slash of red threading through the crowd. She looked more urgent today. Not running — thinking too fast, body following. She scanned every piece of iron on the table. Then spoke, not to him, to the red thread on her wrist. He barely caught the words: “…same pattern.”
Then she looked up. Behind the lenses, the same look as yesterday. Confirmation.
“You mentioned Rift-side ore yesterday. Can you show me.” A pause. “If you’re not busy.” It wasn’t politeness. She was calculating whether he’d say yes.
He was already walking toward the back of the booth. He took the meteorite out of his pocket and set it in front of her. She looked at it. Untied the red thread from her wrist, laid one end on the meteorite, held the other in her fingers. The thread jumped. Not the wind.
“It answers your thread,” Orion said.
She pulled the thread back. Said nothing about it. Just: “This afternoon Probaris is doing a demonstration at the Abyssal Platform. You should go.” Another pause. Today she added: “Don’t just bring your eyes.”
She turned. Four books, red thread on her wrist, that stray lock bouncing against her shoulder.
Orion put the meteorite back in his pocket. His father called his name — another buyer. He went to help. Hand in his pocket on the meteorite. Still pulsing. But this afternoon he was going to the Abyssal Platform. Not because he wanted to. Because the girl and the meteorite had said the same thing.
Previous · Contents · Next
© 2026 Nuffin. Read freely. Share links. Do not copy or sell without permission.