The fog rolled in thick from the river, coiling through the cobbled streets of Westlight Market like a living thing. Lanterns flickered in their glass casings, casting golden halos that danced along wet stone and wood. Shops were shuttered. Boots echoed. Somewhere, a dog barked. It was the hour when only trouble and secrets walked freely.
Thorne Hale adjusted the leather strap of his satchel and pushed the door of his shop closed behind him. *Hale's Lightcraft* was etched in fading gold on the hanging sign above, but there were no customers now—only shadows. He carried a parcel of fresh oil, warm bread wrapped in cloth, and an exhausted mind. It had been a long day.
As he passed under the gaslights, he caught a glimpse of a figure just ahead. Tall. Cloaked. Walking with purpose, but not the swagger of a guard or the desperation of a thief.
Tourist? Unlikely. No one visited this quarter at night unless they were trying to disappear.
Thorne kept walking. The man glanced over his shoulder, their eyes meeting briefly beneath the brim of a dark hat.
"Excuse me," the stranger said, voice low and clipped with a northern accent. "Is there a lantern shop nearby? I was told I could find one here."
Thorne paused. "You're standing in front of it."
The man's eyes dropped to the parcel under Thorne's arm. "You're closed."
"Yes. Hence the locking of the door." He tilted his head. "You're not from here."
"No."
"And you're looking for lanterns. At this hour."
The stranger hesitated. "It's urgent."
Thorne studied him—too well-groomed for a worker, but not dressed gaudily like the nobles who came slumming for stories. His boots were polished. His gloves were worn but fine. He had the stillness of someone trained not to flinch.
"What's your name?" Thorne asked, narrowing his eyes.
The man blinked. "It's... Dorian."
A lie. Too smooth to be the truth.
Still, there was something in his face—tired and guarded—that reminded Thorne of people who had lost things. People who carried too much alone.
Thorne sighed. "Fine, Dorian. Come back in. I'll give you ten minutes."
The man looked startled. Then nodded once.
Inside, the shop was warm and smelled of brass, oil, and wood polish. Lanterns of every shape hung from the walls and ceiling—some painted, some etched, one or two softly glowing with pale blue fireglass.
"Choose quickly. I don't light flames for free."
"I don't want one for light," the man said, quietly. "I want one to remember someone by."
Thorne looked at him again—really looked—and for the first time noticed the crown-shaped clasp on his cloak. Small. Silver. Meant to be hidden.
And yet.
"You're not Dorian," Thorne murmured, stepping closer. "You're the king."
The man—King Alaric of Verondale—didn't deny it.
Outside, the fog thickened.
Inside, a single lantern flared to life between them.