Lin woke in the barn ruins before dawn. The cold had seeped deeper into his bones than the smell of mold and mouse piss from the rotting straw. The city beyond the walls droned low, like a wounded beast: the shouts of night patrols, the barking of chained dogs, distant, drunken screams. The Age of a Hundred Rivers knew no silence.
He scrambled outside, brushing himself off. The air cut his lungs, clean and sharp after the stifling stench inside. On the deserted street – only ragpickers with rattling carts and the first vendors, fanning coals under braziers. His goal was clear: the **Shadow Market** by the East Gate. That's where they hired day laborers: for loading, digging, cleaning. For coppers.
* * *
The Shadow Market was already boiling. A crowd of men in homespun shirts, worn doublets, faces chiseled by hardship, jostled at the makeshift foremen's stands. The clamor was a solid wall:
"Strong arms! Haul barrels! Twelve coppers for daylight hours!"
"Stablehand needed! Know horses? Eight coppers, feed yourself!"
"Diggers! Dig a ditch under guard! Ten coppers, no whining!"
Lin, thin and not tall, stood out. The foremen eyed him skeptically, waving him away:
"Too young yet. Move along, don't block the way."
"Your bones won't hold. Next!"
The sun rose, bringing no warmth. Lin approached a stocky fellow in a leather apron, rolled up to his elbows. He was hiring men to unload a barge at Crow's Landing. His gaze slid over Lin's thin shoulders.
"Sacks, five poods each. Wet sand. Can you carry?"
Lin straightened to his full, unimpressive height:
"I can carry."
The foreman grunted:
"Alright. No harm in trying. Five coppers till noon. You slack off – you get a lashing. Follow me."
* * *
Crow's Landing greeted them with the howl of wind off the river and a stench: fish, silt, rotting seaweed. The barge, loaded to the gunwales with raw sacks of sand for reinforcing the city wall, sat low in the mud. The work was backbreaking. The icy wind cut right through. The wet sacks slipped, tore the skin on his palms, pulled him towards the earth like stones. Lin stumbled, fell to his knees in sticky slime, struggled back up. His shoulders burned with fire, his back throbbed. The foreman with a thick blackthorn stick watched like a vulture.
At noon, a sharp whistle sounded. Lunch. Some workers pulled out stale flatbreads, others had stew in clay pots. Lin received his five coppers – three worn smooth, one with a hole, one almost new, with a dull sheen. He clenched them in his fist. The copper was warm from his sweat.
Near the market, he found the same woman with bread. Her tray was half empty.
"A loaf. Three coppers," Lin held out the coins.
The woman looked at his dirty, soaked clothes, his palms raw and bleeding. She sighed:
"Four today, lad. Flour – paid for in silver. Price went up."
Lin froze. Four? He only had five. He showed her the remaining two coppers.
"Two? Only half a loaf then. And even that – at a loss."
Lin nodded, swallowing a lump. He got a warm half-loaf. He broke off a piece, stuffed it in his mouth. Rough crust, sourish crumb – the taste of life. He ate a third, stashed the rest inside his shirt. For later.
The afternoon was a fog of pain and ringing ears. His legs buckled, but Lin hauled sacks, teeth clenched. The thought of the bread inside his shirt drove him forward. When the sun touched the wall's battlements, the foreman tossed him three more coppers.
"Barge's empty. Don't wait tomorrow. No work."
* * *
Lin trudged back, dragging his feet. Every cobblestone echoed the ache in his back. He passed the well. Today, women crowded there, whispering, exchanging glances:
"...heard? The Temple of Eternal Serenity opened a shelter. For refugees from the north. Fleeing the Fierce Wolves..."
"Do they give soup?" asked another, older woman, wrapping her face in a shawl.
"Boiled water with nettles and breadcrumbs. But a roof overhead. And guards nearby – chase off the looters."
Lin memorized: **Temple of Eternal Serenity**. Northern quarter. Shelter possible.
He was turning into his stinking alley when he saw a familiar figure by the stone niche. Old Min. But today, he wasn't looking through his tube. He was **drawing with charcoal** right on the dirty wall! Strange swirls, like smoke spirals or birds' sky-trails. Beside him lay a torn canvas sack. Strange-shaped roots and a few nondescript stones poked out of it.
Lin slowed his step. The old man turned. The clear eyes recognized him instantly.
"Ah, Lin Just Lin!" Old Min's face creased into a wrinkled smile. "Alive! Well done. See you've labored." He nodded at the dirt and Lin's cracked palms.
"Labored," Lin rasped. His throat was parched.
"And what remarkable thing did you see today?" Min asked, looking at him with genuine curiosity. "Besides the weight of sacks and the price of bread?"
Lin shrugged. What was remarkable? Pain. Hunger. The jingle of coppers.
"Heard... about the temple. Eternal Serenity. Refugees there. From the Wolves."
Min nodded, the smile vanishing.
"Yes, they flee. A new river flows into the capital. A river of fear. They bring not only grief... but also news. And... something else." He poked the charred stick at the sack. "Like this, for instance. An old man from the north dragged it. Says he found it after a forest fire. Stone – warm inside, like a stove smoldering. And this grass..." he held up a crushed stalk with narrow, bluish leaves, "...glows at night, he claimed. Faintly, like rotten wood. Refugees got scared – bad omen, they said. Threw it out. But I picked it up. Interesting, no?"
Lin looked at the stone – an ordinary grey cobble. At the grass – a weed, like any other. Nothing special. He shrugged again.
"Need to go. Shelter."
"Shelter," Min repeated, as if contemplating the word. "Right. Go, Lin Just Lin. Rest. And tomorrow..." he suddenly winked, like sharing a secret, "...keep your eyes peeled. The unusual – it's everywhere. Even in an ordinary stone. Especially if you know **how** to look." He turned back to the wall, drawing a new intricate swirl with the charcoal.
Lin shuffled off towards the barn. His thoughts tangled. Refugees. Warm stones. Glowing grass. A crazy old man drawing on walls. And the constant drone of war, like background noise. The Age of a Hundred Rivers carried much debris. But maybe... He slipped a hand inside his shirt, touched the remainder of the bread. Hard, but his. Tomorrow – job hunting again. And maybe... it was worth keeping his eyes peeled? Just in case. In case he saw... **the unusual**? Like that stone. Or like the swirls on the wall, which suddenly seemed like the trail of the wind that had whipped his hair at the landing.