Valeight did not welcome visitors—it critiqued them. Its streets whispered insecurities into the ears of travelers. Its skies, a canvas of muted purples and sickly yellows, suggested poor taste in dreams. Every building leaned with the sort of architectural arrogance that came from knowing it could collapse at any moment but simply refused to.
"It smells like regret and discount perfume," Ashwen muttered, tugging her cloak tighter.
"That's optimism," Ilyan said, stepping over a cobblestone that tried to bite him.
Groat jingled irritably from his satchel. "Valeight is the only city I know where metaphors become street vendors. Mind your idioms. Last time, I was pickpocketed by irony."
And yet, there was something magnetic about Valeight—the same way staring too long into a funhouse mirror made you doubt your own reflection.
They hadn't even cleared the outer markets before encountering the first newcomer.
A glint of blue, a splash of silver—then a girl emerged from a corner alley with the confidence of someone who thought she was the protagonist. She flipped her hair with unnecessary flourish.
"Gods, I can't believe you didn't wait for me," she said.
Ashwen blinked. "We don't know you."
The girl's smile was dazzling and undeniably practiced. "Oh, we'll fix that. I'm Cryssie. Spelled with two Ys and self-awareness."
She wore a flowing vest of azure silk and silver chains, with a belt that sparkled every time she struck a pose. Her relic—if it was one—seemed to be a handheld mirror shaped like a crescent moon.
Groat made a tiny groaning noise. "Another influencer relic. We are doomed."
Cryssie stepped beside Ilyan, ignoring everyone else. "You look like someone who needs help being emotionally accessible. Lucky for you, that's my specialty."
"I—what?"
Before he could recover, a loud yawn split the air.
"Am I interrupting a fashion competition or a therapy session?"
A lanky young man leaned against a lamp post, his trousers half-buttoned, his eyes smudged with glitter like he'd lost a fight with a drag parade. He twirled a toothpick in his mouth, eyebrows arched in casual disinterest.
"I'm Feylin. No title, no tragic backstory—yet."
Ashwen narrowed her eyes. "Why are you both here?"
Cryssie twirled her mirror. "Because the Threads brought us. And let's be honest, your party needed sparkle and moral ambiguity."
Feylin shrugged. "I followed the noise. And you looked like fun."
Ilyan sighed. "This is Valeight. Of course it gives us side characters with main character energy."
Groat hopped onto Ilyan's shoulder. "Ahem. Shall we remember our actual mission before we become another montage of personality clashes?"
The relic's glow pulsed faintly, still unreadable, still incomplete. They needed answers, and Valeight promised both insight and delusion in equal measure.
Cryssie snapped her fingers. "I know someone who might help—she sells relic perfume made from distilled memories. She hears things. Unethically."
Feylin twirled his toothpick. "Or we could just crash the Auction of Broken Names. They say even the unsaid is for sale there."
Ashwen looked at Ilyan. "We're not seriously trusting either of them, right?"
Ilyan glanced at Cryssie's smug grin and Feylin's bored smirk. Then at Groat, who looked ready to file a complaint with reality itself.
"I mean," Ilyan said, "we've trusted worse."
And Valeight watched them, curious. Or maybe amused.
Either way, the chapter had begun
Ilyan had the distinct sense they'd walked past the same crooked lamppost four times now, though each time it bore a different poster. "Scream Therapy Tuesdays." "Regret Recycling." "Missing: Your Shadow." "Free Palindrome Classes."
Groat muttered in his pouch, clearly displeased. "This city is improperly indexed. You can't trust a place that renames its streets mid-conversation."
"Are we... being led?" Ashwen asked.
"By whom?" Ilyan replied.
"Not whom. What."
They crossed a plaza shaped like a question mark, where the pigeons sat in lecture circles and pecked at chalkboards. And just at the edge of absurdity, where the city stopped pretending to be coherent, a boy stepped into their path.
He had silver earrings shaped like quotation marks and hair that defied gender and gravity in equal measure. His coat was a shade of envy and art-school rebellion.
"Twink alert," Groat said. "Deploy wit shields."
"Hello," the newcomer said. "I'm Lune. I'm lost. Or I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. I haven't decided yet."
Ashwen narrowed her eyes. "Why are you looking at us like that?"
Lune smiled. "Because you're interesting. And I like interesting."
Before Ilyan could respond, another voice cut in like a song half-sung and half-choked on perfume.
"Bonsoir, darlings!"
A splash of red and bells, ruffles and chaos. The jester. Monsieur Loup.
"I see you've met our moonlit tagalong. How precious."
Lune didn't blink. "You're loud."
"And you're soft," Loup replied with a wink. "Together, we are the perfect contradiction."
Groat tried to bury deeper into Ilyan's pouch. "I swear if this arc becomes a traveling circus, I'll file an objection with reality itself."
Loup skipped around them, throwing candy to the birds. "Valeight! The city of lingering glances and whispered betrayals. How I've missed thee."
Ashwen pointed at him. "You've never been here."
"Which is why I've missed it so. I miss all the places I have yet to abandon."
They finally reached the interior gate, beyond which the Ministry of Architectural Regret supposedly held a clue to the next relic's usage. According to Groat, the key was improperly documented desire.
"Sounds... vague," Ilyan said.
Groat snorted. "Oh it is. It's the only way to survive bureaucracy this dense. You must remain ambiguous."
A line had formed at the Ministry entrance. Some applicants were crying. One was melting. Another was arguing with a paperclip.
Loup turned serious for just a heartbeat. "If you want the relic to obey, you must ask it a question you're afraid to answer."
Ilyan looked at the twisted relic in his bag. It pulsed once.
Behind them, Lune hummed. "So... what happens if you ask the wrong question?"
Groat answered grimly, "You become an answer. And answers aren't allowed opinions."
Loup clapped. "Onward! Let's break into the vault of unwarranted optimism and accidental sincerity!"
They stepped toward the ministry, Valeight whispering behind them.
The city did not want them to leave the same as they entered.