Objective: 3 moving to 1
Jett Vox
Sergeant Omen
Korda Veydran
The deeper Aren moved into the markets, the less rigid her path became, her steps losing that precise, almost tactical directness she carried when she had a clear objective and instead settling into something looser, something shaped as much by the shifting currents of the crowd as by her own intent. She still paused at stalls that carried uncommon components or unusually well‑crafted tools, still weighed quality with the same quiet precision she applied to everything else in her life, but somewhere along the way her attention began drifting toward things she normally would have dismissed without a second glance. Smaller things, personal things, things that had nothing to do with necessity and everything to do with the people who lived in the spaces she returned to.
The realization settled slowly enough that she almost missed it, slipping into her awareness with the same subtlety as the lantern light warming the streets around her.
She was looking for gifts.
Aren slowed near a stall draped in woven fabrics, jewelry, and hand‑worked metal pieces that caught the lantern glow in shifting colors, the entire display arranged with a kind of deliberate artistry that would have meant nothing to her on any other day. Most of it was too ornate for her taste, designed to draw the eye before it earned attention, and she had already begun to move on when something near the edge of the display pulled her focus with quiet insistence.
A hairpin.
At first glance, it seemed simple, almost unremarkable, but the longer she studied it, the more deliberate the craftsmanship became—dark silver shaped into the faint outline of butterfly wings, with blue and green coloration subtly worked into the metal so the colors shifted whenever it moved beneath the light. It was decorative without being fragile, sturdy enough to survive someone who would inevitably forget she was wearing it, and the thought of that alone softened something in Aren's expression.
Jett would like it.
The certainty of that thought arrived without hesitation, as natural as breathing, and Aren picked up the pin, turning it lightly between her fingers as she imagined Jett pretending not to care before inevitably wearing it everywhere anyway. The image warmed her in a way she did not acknowledge aloud, and she placed the credits down without bothering to negotiate, the decision already made long before the vendor reached for wrapping materials.
When he did, Aren gave a small shake of her head. "It'll just get crushed," she said quietly, slipping the pin into the inner pocket of her leather jacket instead, tucking it away with a care that contrasted sharply with her otherwise practical movements.
The market carried her onward after that, drawing her deeper beneath the lantern‑lit streets where the noise of celebration rose and fell in uneven waves around her. Somewhere nearby, a group had begun singing loudly and badly over the pounding rhythm of drums, their enthusiasm far outpacing their talent, and the resulting laughter rippled through the crowd with a warmth that even she couldn't entirely ignore. Aren kept her expression neutral, her posture steady, but the edges of her awareness softened despite her best efforts.
Korda proved harder to shop for.
Weapons were pointless; he already carried enough to start a small war by himself, and anyone attempting to improve that collection was likely to fail spectacularly. Armor modifications felt equally unnecessary. Trinkets would mean nothing to him. For several minutes, she wandered without finding anything that felt remotely right, her attention drifting from stall to stall until the scent of roasted meat and heavy spice drifted across the street from a crowded food vendor.
The answer was hanging beside it.
A thick insulated flask sat suspended from a heavily reinforced leather carry strap, clearly designed for travel rather than appearance, the entire thing absurdly overbuilt with reinforced stitching, oversized clasps, and dense metal plating around the base as though someone expected it to survive being dropped off a cliff. It was the kind of object that made no attempt to be subtle, no attempt to be elegant, and yet radiated a kind of stubborn reliability that felt unmistakably, undeniably Korda.
Aren stopped in front of it, studying the construction with complete seriousness while the vendor launched into an enthusiastic explanation about temperature retention and field durability. Her dark shirt and worn leather jacket contrasted strangely against the ridiculous size of the flask now hanging at her side, while her tool bag rested against her hip, making the entire arrangement look slightly mismatched even by her standards.
"Good for long hunts," the vendor insisted. "Keeps drinks hot for sixteen hours."
Her gaze lingered on the size of it, unimpressed.
"Or cold," he amended quickly, sensing the direction of her thoughts.
That settled it.
By the time she walked away, the flask hung securely from her shoulder beside her tool bag, heavy enough that she could already imagine Korda treating it like a treasured possession within minutes of receiving it, the kind of gift he would never admit meant something but would carry everywhere regardless.
Omen's gift took the longest.
Not because she couldn't think of something, but because every idea either felt too practical or too impersonal once she examined it properly. Weapons would turn into maintenance discussions. Tools would become work. Clothing would inevitably lead to an argument about functionality. None of it felt right, not for him, not for the quiet steadiness he carried beneath all the sharp edges.
So instead she found herself slowing in front of a quieter stall tucked between louder vendors who barely seemed aware it existed, the kind of place someone could walk past a dozen times without noticing. Jewelry rested beneath soft lantern light—not elaborate pieces designed to flaunt wealth, but smaller things meant to be worn because they mattered to someone, because they held meaning rather than attention.
Her gaze settled almost immediately on a simple pendant.
Small and circular, brushed silver with a deep violet stone set carefully into the center, it was understated enough that most people would overlook it entirely, but the craftsmanship beneath the simplicity reminded her sharply of him—solid, durable, softer than it first appeared, and meant to be kept close rather than displayed.
Aren picked it up carefully, her thumb brushing once across the smooth surface of the stone as she considered it. Not flashy. Meaningful. Something he could wear beneath armor, close enough to rest against his chest, a quiet reminder rather than a declaration.
The thought alone made the decision for her.
When the vendor offered a decorative box, Aren declined that too, slipping the pendant into her jacket pocket beside Jett's hairpin before continuing deeper into the market with steps that felt quieter, more grounded than before.
By then, the atmosphere around her had changed completely. She still noticed useful materials and unfamiliar designs automatically, still cataloged potential supplies with the same instinctive precision, but now something warmer threaded through her movements as well. Her pockets carried small pieces of the people waiting elsewhere in her life, reminders that beyond the noise and lantern light, there were individuals who would genuinely be happy to see her return, who would greet her not as a soldier or a technician but as someone who mattered.
Ahead, beyond the crowded market streets, the distant glow of Keldabe's fires painted the horizon gold against the darkening sky.
Aren slowed when she saw it, the sight settling into her chest with a weight that was not unwelcome.
Then, after only the briefest hesitation, she turned toward the lights.
