The blade ignites through the canvas of your pack in the middle of Cinder's scrap-market, a sound like a struck bell that does not end, and every head in the crowd turns. At the market gate, two Seekers in grey stand very still, and then begin to walk toward the sound, stall by stall, tasting the air with open hands. Serel the dock-sweeper is suddenly beside you, gripping your arm with more strength than any sweeper needs. Under everything, faint as a pulse, you feel the undercurrent turn over in its sleep and notice you.