Marrowlight Mornings

The Dome sang when dawn came.

It wasn’t a song of voices, not truly, but a low vibration that spread across the air like the pluck of a single string. The great wardstones that ringed Marrowlight Dome pulsed with pale light, their glow spilling across the inner walls of the fortress-city like veins filled with milk. The hum sank into wood and brick, into copper pipes and even bone, until it reached the smallest homes where families still slept.

Lewis had grown up with that sound. It was his morning bell, his reminder that the Dome still held against the corruption pressing in from the Dyke. This morning was no different. The boy stirred in his bed, eyes half-shut, hair tangled from sweat, and listened. The tone was faint, steady, soothing. Safe.

“Lewis!”

The voice of his mother broke the calm. It carried from the kitchen, sharp as cut stone. “Up! The market won’t wait for lazy feet.”

He groaned into his pillow, then dragged himself up. His room was bare, save for the wooden chest at the foot of his bed and a simple clay lantern that still faintly glimmered with residue light-powder. Outside his window, Marrowlight was waking: shutters thrown open, voices rising, the clop of hooves echoing on stone streets.

Lewis dressed quickly, pulling on a roughspun tunic patched at the elbows and fastening the belt around his waist. His boots were worn, their soles thinned from use, but still serviceable. He splashed water on his face from a basin, staring into the reflection for a moment. Dark eyes, a long face, a boy not yet grown but not entirely a child either. He frowned.

Today was supposed to be ordinary. He hoped it stayed that way.

The Market

The streets of Marrowlight spiraled like ribs around the Dome’s central ward. Vendors were already setting up stalls: spice-sellers with their carved boxes, smiths pounding out small tools, farmers from the outer plots arriving with baskets of rootfruit and ashbloom petals.

The air smelled of woodsmoke, fried graincakes, and the faint tang of spirit resin burned in braziers at every street-corner shrine.

Lewis carried a basket for his mother, weaving between bodies with the practiced ease of someone who had done it all his life. His mother, Elira, followed behind him, bartering sharply at each stall. She was a narrow-faced woman with strong hands, the sort who could wring sense out of any merchant, and Lewis admired her even as he found himself shrinking under her tone.

They stopped at a stall where jars of glowing vine-fruits hung from hooks. Each orb pulsed faintly, their inner membranes filled with stored light that could last for weeks once harvested. Essential for lanterns, for healing draughts, even for powering some of the smaller warding devices.

Lewis reached for one, holding it up to his face. The fruit throbbed like a captured star, warm in his palm.

“Careful,” the vendor warned. “Drop it, and you’ll be paying double.”

Elira slapped Lewis’ wrist, forcing him to set it back. “Eyes, not hands. You’ve no coin for clumsy mistakes.”

He sighed, muttering, “I was just looking.”

But as he set it down, he noticed the bruised patches on some of the vine-fruits, as though they’d been harvested in haste. He frowned, thinking. Normally, traders were careful. A spoiled fruit meant wasted energy.

Friends

After errands, Lewis split away from his mother under the promise he’d return before dusk. He hurried down to the lower districts where stone gave way to wood, and the wards glowed weaker. Here lived those without prestige — artisans, laborers, failed aspirants. His people.

He spotted Ivo leaning against a fence, tossing a pebble into the air and catching it. Ivo Marek was taller than most boys his age, with pale hair that caught the Dome-light strangely, and eyes always searching for something beyond what lay in front of him. He grinned when he saw Lewis.

“You’re late.”

“Blame my mother,” Lewis said, adjusting the basket. “She thinks I’ve nothing better to do than trail after her in the market.”

Ivo snorted. “And she’s right.”

Lewis laughed despite himself.

Beside Ivo sat Maren, the girl Lewis had known since childhood. Dark curls framed her round face, and she had a habit of biting her lip whenever she was deep in thought. She looked up from her sketchbook — she always carried one, filling it with quick drawings of whatever caught her eye — and smiled faintly.

“You missed the morning spar,” she said. “Ivo nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to show off.”

“I did not,” Ivo protested.

“You did,” Maren replied, her tone calm but sharp as a blade.

Lewis smirked, settling beside them. These were his people, his anchors in the Dome. Flawed, bickering, but steadfast.

Rumors

As they sat, a group of older men passed by, voices lowered but urgent.

“…another caravan, gone.”

“On the North Ashen route?”

“Aye. Same as before. No survivors this time.”

Lewis felt his stomach tighten. He glanced at his friends, but they pretended not to hear. Rumors of caravans attacked had been spreading for weeks, always just beyond the Dome’s protection. The officials claimed it was nothing new, just beasts of Ashveil growing bolder. But the pattern was too precise, too consistent.

He thought of the bruised vine-fruits at the market. Maybe the traders had been rushing. Maybe they’d been afraid.

Evening

By dusk, Lewis returned home, his mind restless. His father was already at the table, hunched over a worn copy of the Dome chronicles. A quiet man, with calloused hands and tired eyes.

“You’re late,” he said simply, without looking up.

“I was with Ivo and Maren.”

His father nodded, closing the book. “Stay close to them. You’ll need friends, boy. This world doesn’t forgive the lonely.”

Lewis sat, chewing at his lip. The Dome hummed again as night fell, the wards glowing brighter. For a moment, the illusion of safety wrapped around him.

But when he closed his eyes, he saw bruised vine-fruits, heard hushed voices, and pictured caravans torn apart beyond the wards.

The Dome sang, yes. But outside, something else was stirring.

And deep down, Lewis knew: his ordinary days would not last.The Dome sang when dawn came.

It wasn’t a song of voices, not truly, but a low vibration that spread across the air like the pluck of a single string. The great wardstones that ringed Marrowlight Dome pulsed with pale light, their glow spilling across the inner walls of the fortress-city like veins filled with milk. The hum sank into wood and brick, into copper pipes and even bone, until it reached the smallest homes where families still slept.

Lewis had grown up with that sound. It was his morning bell, his reminder that the Dome still held against the corruption pressing in from the Dyke. This morning was no different. The boy stirred in his bed, eyes half-shut, hair tangled from sweat, and listened. The tone was faint, steady, soothing. Safe.

“Lewis!”

The voice of his mother broke the calm. It carried from the kitchen, sharp as cut stone. “Up! The market won’t wait for lazy feet.”

He groaned into his pillow, then dragged himself up. His room was bare, save for the wooden chest at the foot of his bed and a simple clay lantern that still faintly glimmered with residue light-powder. Outside his window, Marrowlight was waking: shutters thrown open, voices rising, the clop of hooves echoing on stone streets.

Lewis dressed quickly, pulling on a roughspun tunic patched at the elbows and fastening the belt around his waist. His boots were worn, their soles thinned from use, but still serviceable. He splashed water on his face from a basin, staring into the reflection for a moment. Dark eyes, a long face, a boy not yet grown but not entirely a child either. He frowned.

Today was supposed to be ordinary. He hoped it stayed that way.

The Market

The streets of Marrowlight spiraled like ribs around the Dome’s central ward. Vendors were already setting up stalls: spice-sellers with their carved boxes, smiths pounding out small tools, farmers from the outer plots arriving with baskets of rootfruit and ashbloom petals.

The air smelled of woodsmoke, fried graincakes, and the faint tang of spirit resin burned in braziers at every street-corner shrine.

Lewis carried a basket for his mother, weaving between bodies with the practiced ease of someone who had done it all his life. His mother, Elira, followed behind him, bartering sharply at each stall. She was a narrow-faced woman with strong hands, the sort who could wring sense out of any merchant, and Lewis admired her even as he found himself shrinking under her tone.

They stopped at a stall where jars of glowing vine-fruits hung from hooks. Each orb pulsed faintly, their inner membranes filled with stored light that could last for weeks once harvested. Essential for lanterns, for healing draughts, even for powering some of the smaller warding devices.

Lewis reached for one, holding it up to his face. The fruit throbbed like a captured star, warm in his palm.

“Careful,” the vendor warned. “Drop it, and you’ll be paying double.”

Elira slapped Lewis’ wrist, forcing him to set it back. “Eyes, not hands. You’ve no coin for clumsy mistakes.”

He sighed, muttering, “I was just looking.”

But as he set it down, he noticed the bruised patches on some of the vine-fruits, as though they’d been harvested in haste. He frowned, thinking. Normally, traders were careful. A spoiled fruit meant wasted energy.

Friends

After errands, Lewis split away from his mother under the promise he’d return before dusk. He hurried down to the lower districts where stone gave way to wood, and the wards glowed weaker. Here lived those without prestige — artisans, laborers, failed aspirants. His people.

He spotted Ivo leaning against a fence, tossing a pebble into the air and catching it. Ivo Marek was taller than most boys his age, with pale hair that caught the Dome-light strangely, and eyes always searching for something beyond what lay in front of him. He grinned when he saw Lewis.

“You’re late.”

“Blame my mother,” Lewis said, adjusting the basket. “She thinks I’ve nothing better to do than trail after her in the market.”

Ivo snorted. “And she’s right.”

Lewis laughed despite himself.

Beside Ivo sat Maren, the girl Lewis had known since childhood. Dark curls framed her round face, and she had a habit of biting her lip whenever she was deep in thought. She looked up from her sketchbook — she always carried one, filling it with quick drawings of whatever caught her eye — and smiled faintly.

“You missed the morning spar,” she said. “Ivo nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to show off.”

“I did not,” Ivo protested.

“You did,” Maren replied, her tone calm but sharp as a blade.

Lewis smirked, settling beside them. These were his people, his anchors in the Dome. Flawed, bickering, but steadfast.

Rumors

As they sat, a group of older men passed by, voices lowered but urgent.

“…another caravan, gone.”

“On the North Ashen route?”

“Aye. Same as before. No survivors this time.”

Lewis felt his stomach tighten. He glanced at his friends, but they pretended not to hear. Rumors of caravans attacked had been spreading for weeks, always just beyond the Dome’s protection. The officials claimed it was nothing new, just beasts of Ashveil growing bolder. But the pattern was too precise, too consistent.

He thought of the bruised vine-fruits at the market. Maybe the traders had been rushing. Maybe they’d been afraid.

Evening

By dusk, Lewis returned home, his mind restless. His father was already at the table, hunched over a worn copy of the Dome chronicles. A quiet man, with calloused hands and tired eyes.

“You’re late,” he said simply, without looking up.

“I was with Ivo and Maren.”

His father nodded, closing the book. “Stay close to them. You’ll need friends, boy. This world doesn’t forgive the lonely.”

Lewis sat, chewing at his lip. The Dome hummed again as night fell, the wards glowing brighter. For a moment, the illusion of safety wrapped around him.

But when he closed his eyes, he saw bruised vine-fruits, heard hushed voices, and pictured caravans torn apart beyond the wards.

The Dome sang, yes. But outside, something else was stirring.

And deep down, Lewis knew: his ordinary days would not last.