The violet-gold sky shimmered above Everhollow as Rikk and his group stepped through the Academy’s portal, the soft hum of it fading into the chaotic buzz of the village market. Hover-carts zipped through the crowd, their rune-engines casting a faint glow, dodging stalls overflowing with stuff—glow-fruits that pulsed like tiny lanterns, rune-stones giving off a low hum, fabrics that shimmered with mana-threaded colors. Vendors hollered through enchanted speakers pinned to their tunics—“Glow-fruit, three coppers!”—while others waved people over, ready to name a price if you asked. Mana-bikes rumbled down the cobblestone streets, riders balancing crates, and scry-pads flickered in folks’ hands, throwing up maps or little games. Rikk’s silver eyes took it all in, his black hair ruffling in the breeze—this place was alive, a wild mix of magic and tech that made his old sleepy town feel like a distant memory.


    Cal grinned, elbowing him lightly. “Pretty loud, right? Stick with us or you’ll get swallowed up.”


    Lina laughed, tugging her braids tighter as a hover-lamp buzzed overhead. “Gran always says this is where the realm’s heart beats—trade, tech, the whole mess.”


    Jor stretched his arms wide, sniffing the air like a dog on a hunt. “I’m smelling flatcakes. Let’s eat.”


    Kess smirked, her short hair catching the glow from a stall’s mana-light. “Good luck keeping him out of trouble, Rikk.”


    Vara’s quiet eyes followed a holo-ad for books drifting by, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It’s… so full of life.”


    Erilyn chuckled, sidestepping a vendor waving a scarf that shifted colors like a chameleon. “Full’s an understatement. Come on, Rikk—dive in with us!”


    They pushed into the crowd—students in gray tunics like theirs blending with townsfolk in patched cloaks, mages flicking sparks from scry-pad demos to grab attention. Rikk’s sneakers scuffed the uneven stones, a sharp contrast to the faint hum of lev-boots all around. He was Rikk Veyn here, just a novice mage, but the cover felt flimsy in this whirlwind. The Spire’s mirror was safe back there, but he could still feel its pull, a quiet thrum in his blood.


    They hit a flatcake stall where the vendor barked, “Two coppers a pop!” Jor fished some coins from his pouch, clinking them into the guy’s hand, and started passing out the syrupy cakes. “New kid perk,” he said, tossing one to Rikk with a grin. “We all take turns covering till you’re on your feet. Next newbie’s your turn.”


    Rikk snagged it mid-air, the warm spice hitting his tongue as he bit in. “Man, thanks—I’d be totally screwed otherwise.”


    Cal laughed, wiping sticky fingers on his tunic. “No worries, man. It’s how we roll—keeps the crew tight.”


    A loud, grating voice sliced through the chatter from a stall nearby, piled high with rune-stones. Torin Duskveil stood there, all broad shoulders and dark gray tunic, his amber eyes glinting as he snatched a stone from a scrawny vendor. Shadows swirled lazily around his fingers, like he was showing off without even trying. “What’s this junk cost?” he snapped.


    “Four coppers, m’lord,” the vendor said, his voice shaky as he gripped his crate.


    “Four?” Torin’s lip curled, and he smashed the stone against the stall’s edge. It splintered, bits scattering across the dirt. “Worthless. Either make something decent or crawl back to whatever dump you came from—I’m not wasting my coin on this crap.” He shoved past the guy, a cold smirk on his face as he disappeared into the crowd.


    Rikk’s group went still, watching from a bench lit by a soft rune-glow. Erilyn’s voice came out low, almost tired. “That’s Torin. My cousin. He’s… a lot.”


    Lina snorted, crossing her arms. “A lot? Guy’s a total jackass.”


    Jor grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Shadow magic and a swelled head—thinks he’s king of the dirt.”


    Kess shrugged, her tone flat. “He kinda is, though. Duskveil name carries weight around here.”


    Rikk’s jaw clenched, his silver eyes narrowing as Torin’s figure faded. Torin—Viken’s son, the heir to the shadow that torched his real family. He had no clue Rikk was alive, no hint of the mirror magic coiled inside him, but that sharp-edged cruelty? It was a piece of the Duskveil mess he’d have to deal with someday.


    Erilyn let out a little sigh, stepping toward the vendor as the dust settled. “Hang on a sec, guys.” She crouched down next to the man, who was brushing up the broken bits with trembling hands. “Hey, don’t let him get under your skin. How much for one of these?”


    “Four coppers,” the vendor muttered, eyeing her warily.


    She picked up a stone, letting a flicker of purple mana dance across it—it lit up, steady and warm. “See? It’s good stuff. He’s just got a big mouth.” She reached into her pouch, pulling out four coppers and a silver crescent, and pressed them into his hand. “Keep the crescent—sorry he’s such a jerk.”


    The vendor blinked, a small smile breaking through as he tucked the coins away. “That’s kind of you, miss. Thank you.”


    Erilyn walked back, shrugging like it was nothing. “He’s not all bad—just doesn’t think half the time.”


    Cal raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Yeah, or care. Guy’s a walking storm.”


    Rikk didn’t say anything, the flatcake sitting heavy in his stomach. Erilyn’s kindness didn’t match Torin’s venom, but that Duskveil name tied them together—a thread he’d have to untangle later. He forced a grin, keeping it light. “Guess every group’s got a loose cannon, huh?”


    Stolen story; please report.


    Lina nudged him with a laugh. “Oh, for sure. Let’s ditch the bad vibes—this market’s too good to waste on him.”


    They wandered over to a rune-dice stall, the vendor hollering, “One copper a roll—win three!” Jor slapped a coin down, rolling the dice—they flared orange as they hit, and the vendor cheered, “Winner!” tossing him three coppers. Jor grinned wide, flipping one to Rikk. “Your turn, newbie—give it a go.”


    Rikk caught it, feeling the cool metal in his palm, and rolled. His mana slipped out a bit, the dice glowing silver, but they landed off. The vendor chuckled. “Close one—next time!” The group cracked up, Cal slapping his back.


    “Almost had it,” Vara said, her soft voice cutting through the noise. She sketched a quick yellow rune on her scry-pad and beamed it over to a kid watching nearby. The little guy giggled, chasing the glowing mark as it zipped around.


    Kess leaned toward a drink cart and asked, “How much?” The vendor grinned, “Three coppers.” She tapped her scry-pad, the payment zipping through, and handed out the steaming brews. “Here’s to dodging Torin,” she said, raising hers, and they all clinked, the sharp tang washing away the tension.


    They kept moving, haggling as they went—Lina asked about a pendant (“Ten coppers,” the vendor said), paying with a quick tap of her pad; Jor checked a dagger’s price (“Five crescents”), dropping coins from his pouch. Rikk watched it all, caught up in the flow—some folks used coins, others swiped scry-pads like it was second nature. His own pouch was empty, his scry-pad just a dumb tool in his pocket. He couldn’t jump in, and it gnawed at him.


    By noon, they flopped down near a fountain, its rune-water rippling with light. Cal stretched out, yawning. “Alright, let’s split up—meet back here in a couple hours. I’m hunting rune supplies.”


    Jor hauled himself up. “Food run for me.”


    Lina nodded, twisting a braid. “Gonna grab some gossip for Gran.”


    Kess and Vara headed for a book cart, Erilyn trailing after them. “Catch you later, Rikk!” she called, tossing him a wave.


    He waved back, then sat there alone, the fountain’s hum filling the quiet. Split up—now what? Coins, scry-pads, this whole system—he didn’t get it, and admitting that stung. He was supposed to be a prince, but here he was, clueless and broke.


    A shadow slid over him, and he glanced up. Lysara stood there, her silver eyes catching the light, her cloak blending into the crowd like she’d been part of it all along. “Figured I’d find you here,” she said, dropping onto the bench beside him with a small smile. “Having fun?”


    Rikk shrugged, brushing his hair back. “Kinda. Torin was a total jerk—Erilyn patched things up after, tipped the guy big. I’m just… I don’t know, out of my depth.”


    Lysara’s smile faded a bit, her eyes sharpening. “Yeah, Torin’s their heir—shadow magic and a temper to match. Steer clear of him if you can. Erilyn’s trickier—she’s adopted, loyal to them, but not blood. She doesn’t know what they’ve done, not yet.”


    “Feels that way,” Rikk said, nodding. “She’s nice—doesn’t seem like she fits with him.”


    “For now, she’s handy to have around,” Lysara said, leaning back a little. “Just don’t lean on her too much till we’re sure where she stands.” She reached into her cloak and pulled out a small pouch, coins clinking inside, and handed it to him. “You’re floundering out here. Let’s get you sorted—money and mirrors. Come with me.”


    Rikk followed her through the market, weaving past hover-carts and stalls until they hit a plain building tucked behind a rune-smith’s shop. She tapped a rune-lock, the door hissing open, and ushered him into a safe house—stone walls, a scry-screen flickering with maps, a sturdy table with a flat mirror on it. “Too exposed out there,” she said, locking the door behind them. “This place is ours—safe.”


    He plopped down, the pouch heavy in his hands. “I don’t even know where to start with the money stuff. Borrowing from the group’s awesome, but I’m lost.”


    Lysara sat across from him, her tone easy now, like they were just chatting. “They’re looking out for you, and that’s a good thing. Here’s how it works: copper serpents—those are the little coins with the Duskveil stamp—are the basics. Ten of ‘em make a silver crescent, and ten crescents make a gold crown. You saw it out there—food’s usually one or two coppers, a dagger’s around five crescents. Prices shift a bit depending where you are in the kingdom, but that’s the gist. This pouch has bunch of coppers, a few crescents, and a couple of crowns—it’s a small part of your inheritance we managed to stash when your parents went down. For now, stick to coins. Your scry-pad’s not hooked up to a bank yet. We’ll set up a fake account under Rikk Veyn, get it linked up. Next time I swing by, I’ll swap your pad for one that’s tied to it.”


    Rikk hefted the pouch, a grin tugging at his mouth. “This is huge—thanks. I can cover the next newbie now.”


    She smiled back, warm but quick. “Good. Now, let’s talk magic.” She slid the flat mirror across the table. “I don’t use mirrors myself—I just worked for your family, picked up the know-how. It’s your blood that makes it sing. Mirrors aren’t just for looking—they’re doors, ways to see things, real power. Give it a shot—try to see someone.”


    Rikk grabbed the mirror, his silver eyes locking onto his reflection. “Who should I go for?”


    Lysara tilted her head, thinking. “How about Erilyn? Picture her in your head.”


    He took a deep breath, letting his mana bubble up. The glass fogged over for a second, then cleared—Erilyn popped into view, laughing with Kess at the book cart, purple sparks flickering on her fingers. “Whoa, there she is,” he said, blinking it away with a shake of his head.


    “That’s scrying,” Lysara said, leaning forward a bit. “It’s basic, but it’s all you. Keep at it, and you’ll be opening portals, seeing farther—big stuff. The Spire’s mirror cranks it up a notch, but this is a solid start. Oh, and one more thing—” She tapped the glass with a finger. “You can use this to get ahold of me through the Spire’s mirror. Just focus, say my name, and leave a message—kinda like those video calls from your old world. I’ll catch it on my end.”


    Rikk gave it a whirl. “Lysara,” he said, pushing a little mana into it. The mirror pulsed, recording. “Uh, just testing—hit me back when you can?” It dimmed, message sent.


    “Nice job,” she said, nodding. “The Duskveils can’t touch this—mirror magic’s yours alone, tied to the firstborn Aetherian. Keep it under wraps, though—Torin’s wandering around out there, and he’d lose it if he knew.”


    He tucked the mirror and pouch into his pocket, feeling steadier. “Thanks—for the coins and the lesson. This is awesome. I’m starting to get a handle on things now.”


    Lysara stood up, brushing off her hands. “You’re not as lost as you think. Stick with me—we’ll keep working on the mirrors, whatever else you need. You’re Raethar Aetheris, even if you’re still Rikk Veyn out here. You’ll grow into it.”


    She headed out, leaving him in the safe house with the scry-screen humming softly. Rikk sat back, rolling a copper serpent between his fingers, its faint gleam catching the light. Torin’s venom, Erilyn’s crescent, the group’s easy warmth—it all spun in his head, but Lysara’s lessons were like an anchor. He’d meet up with the others soon, maybe spend a coin or two, mess with the mirror again. The market thrummed outside, and for the first time, he felt a spark of control—a prince with a pouch and a reflection, starting to find his footing.