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"Lot seventeen."
Riven Vale counted exits. Three doors, two windows, one fire escape that probably hadn't seen an inspector since the dome went up. The auction house smelled like burnt sugar and desperation, and he was pressed against the back wall trying not to look like he was about to rob the place.
Which he was.
"Unregistered class-three memory core," the auctioneer said. Thin guy, spectacles catching the gaslight wrong. "No provenance. No refunds."
The crowd shifted. Hands drifted toward hidden weapons. In Ashgrave, memory was currency. You wanted to remember your kid's face? That cost. Your first kiss? More. Everyone else sold their childhoods piece by piece just to keep the lights on.
Riven had sold his when he was nine.
He didn't remember doing it. That was the point.
The auctioneer brought out a small iron box. Fireproofed, warded, the kind of container you used when the thing inside wanted out.
"Opening bid at five hundred marks."
"Six hundred."
"Seven."
"A thousand."
Riven didn't bid. He watched the guards. Two by the main door, one by the stairs, another pretending to be a buyer up front. Mercenary work. They didn't care what got sold as long as they got paid.
The price climbed. Fifteen hundred. Two thousand. The auctioneer's voice got smoother.
Riven waited.
At three thousand marks, only two players left. A woman in a gray coat with brass buttons, and a man whose face Riven couldn't see. The woman raised her hand.
"Thirty-five hundred."
The man didn't counter.
"Going once—"
Riven moved.
He didn't run. Running drew eyes. He slipped through the crowd like water, angling toward the front. Someone's elbow hit his ribs. He ignored it. The auctioneer was saying something about payment terms. The woman in gray was already reaching for her coin purse.
Riven got to the podium just as the auctioneer set the iron box down.
"Excuse me," Riven said. Loud. Clear. "I think that's mine."
The auctioneer blinked.
The woman in gray turned.
The guards straightened.
Riven smiled. He'd practiced this one. Charming. Confused. Just honest enough to buy him three seconds.
"There's been a mix-up. I consigned that piece last week. There was supposed to be a reserve."
The auctioneer frowned. "We have no record—"
"Check again."
The man hesitated.
Riven didn't wait. He grabbed the iron box and turned.
The first guard reached him before he made it two steps.
"Hold it."
Riven held it. The box was heavier than it looked. Warm, too. Like it'd been sitting in the sun.
"Let's not do this," Riven said. "I'm sure we can work something out."
The guard drew a truncheon.
Behind him, the other guards were moving. The crowd pulled back, making space for violence.
Riven sighed.
He threw the box.
Not at the guard. At the gaslight fixture above the auctioneer's head.
The iron box hit the glass.
The room went dark.
Riven ran.
Shouts behind him. Footsteps. Someone fired a gun and the shot went wide, punching through a window. Cold air rushed in. Riven vaulted a table, hit the floor rolling, came up next to the fire escape.
The window was locked.
Of course it was.
He punched through the glass with his elbow. Felt the cut before the pain registered. The fire escape rattled under his weight. Rain hit him like a fist.
Ashgrave rain wasn't like normal rain. It tasted like copper and old smoke, and it left stains.
Riven took the stairs three at a time.
The alley below was dark and narrow. He landed hard, stumbled, kept moving. Behind him, the guards were yelling into radios. They'd have the street locked down in minutes.
He needed to open the box.
He ducked into a loading dock, crouched behind a stack of crates. His hands were shaking. Adrenaline, probably. Or the cold.
The iron box had a clasp but no lock. Whoever made it didn't think a lock would matter.
Riven opened it.
The ember sat on black velvet. Small. Smaller than he'd expected. About the size of a marble, glowing faint orange, like the last coal in a dead fire.
Except it wasn't dying.
It was waiting.
Riven reached for it.
The moment his fingers touched it, the world lurched.
He smelled bread. Fresh bread, the kind his mother used to—
No.
He didn't have a mother. He'd sold that memory.
The ember pulsed.
A voice. Not out loud. Inside his head. Quiet. A whisper wrapped in smoke.
*River.*
His hand locked around the ember.
Nobody called him that. Nobody knew that name. He'd buried it the same day he sold his childhood. It wasn't in any record. Wasn't in any file.
The ember burned.
Not hot. Cold. Ice-cold, sinking into his palm like a fish hook. He tried to drop it, but his fingers wouldn't open. The glow spread up his wrist. Into his veins.
*River, listen—*
Pain.
White-hot, nerve-bright pain that started in his palm and punched straight into his chest. His heart kicked. Skipped. Kicked again, harder.
The ember wasn't in his hand anymore.
It was in him.
Riven collapsed against the crates, gasping. His heartbeat felt wrong. Too fast. Too loud. Like something else was beating alongside it.
He looked at his palm.
No wound. No scar.
Just a faint orange glow beneath the skin, pulsing in time with his heart.
"What the hell—"
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
Riven looked up.
A woman stood at the mouth of the alley. Tall. Dark coat, buttoned to the throat. Hair pulled back so tight it looked like it hurt. She wasn't running. Wasn't shouting.
Just standing there in the rain, watching him.
Her eyes caught the light wrong. Too bright. Too sharp.
Riven knew what she was before she opened her mouth.
Memory Collector.
"Riven Vale," she said. Her voice was low. Calm. The kind of calm that came right before something broke. "You're holding stolen property."
He tried to stand. His legs didn't cooperate.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The woman tilted her head. Her gaze dropped to his hand. To the glow beneath his skin.
"Liar."
The ember in his chest pulsed.
And something tightened around his ribs like a fist.
Riven's breath stopped.
The woman took a step forward.
"That ember's been locked in a vault for sixty years," she said. "And now it's inside you. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to come with me. You're going to sit very still while we extract it. And if you're lucky—"
She smiled.
"—you'll survive the process."
The glow under Riven's skin flared.
Hot. Sudden. Like someone lit a match inside his veins.
The woman's smile vanished.
"Don't—"
The ember exploded outward.
Not fire. Light. Orange light that tore through the rain and slammed into the woman's chest. She flew backward, hit the alley wall, slid down.
Riven stared at his hand.
The glow was brighter now. Crawling up his forearm, branching like veins, like roots.
Like it was growing.
"No," he said. "No, no, no—"
The woman groaned. Pushed herself up. Blood on her lip. Her eyes locked on his.
"You just made," she said, spitting red, "a very big mistake."
She raised her hand.
And the rain stopped falling.