The marketplace was a living thing—noisy, chaotic, thick with the mingling scents of roasted meat, fresh bread, and incense. The kind of place where thieves thrived and secrets changed hands in a single breath. In all my years, I had rarely found myself strolling through a place like this. No reason to. Such a scene was usually a distraction at best, a liability at worst. But I was here now, forced to adapt, my cloak pulled tight around my shoulders to obscure my face. An illusion spell, cast with practiced subtlety, rippled over my features. Anyone looking my way would find nothing remarkable—just another passerby browsing the stalls. And so I moved unseen, a shadow in the crowded warren of bodies and swirling dust.
I could have done without the press of humanity. The jostling shoulders, the overlapping conversations, the ceaseless demands of merchants hawking their wares—it grated on my nerves. Every so often, someone would brush against me, leaving me tensed, my hand ready to flick a knife’s edge from beneath my cloak. There was no immediate danger, but old habits died hard. In a place like this, even a pickpocket’s misguided ambition could turn lethal if I misread the intent. Yet, in spite of the annoyance, I found a strange advantage here: anonymity.
My steps were measured. This was a detour, and I refused to let it consume more time than necessary. The list of items I needed was short, but each one was critical. The wind that whipped through the streets carried a taste of salt from the distant harbor, but it did nothing to clear the lingering stench of too many bodies crowded together. Voices rose and fell in a constant wave—a vendor praising his fresh produce, a woman scolding a child who’d nearly toppled her basket of herbs, a man cursing at a cart that nearly ran over his foot. Life, raw and unfiltered, buzzed all around me.
Against my thigh, I felt the comforting weight of my blade. I doubted I would need it here, but reassurance was good for the mind. I’d lost enough illusions about safety in this world. Better to stay ready. I let the swirl of noise and color slip past my notice as I shifted my focus inward. For the first time in days, I could feel my mana in a way that was almost comforting—like a limb that had fallen asleep finally returning to life.
Each breath I took reminded me that my power wasn’t what it once was—seventy percent, maybe—but that was more than enough for the moment. I flexed my fingers, as if testing the weight of an invisible blade. The severed connections that had once left me feeling lopsided were knitting back together. In the back of my mind, I sensed the distant echoes of my clones, no longer cut off by the void or the meltdown’s disruption. Their awareness brushed lightly against my own, and I exhaled. Even if I couldn’t see them, I knew they were out there, each performing its function.
If I’d intervened earlier, perhaps none of this would have happened. Belisarius might still be sealed in a place beyond mortal reach, the Devil Coffins might not have found an opening to strike, and the Council’s twisted ambitions might have remained in the shadows. But I’d chosen to watch, to wait for someone to make the first overt move, to reveal their strategy. That delay had cost me, leading to the meltdown and the swirl of events happening too soon, well before the next symposium was due.
Not that the symposium itself mattered to me beyond a convenient gathering of powers. I’d intended to use it as a vantage point—a chance to watch the major players in one place. Instead, the board had shifted without warning, fracturing into chaos. The Devil Coffins had attacked, Belisarius had reemerged, and whoever held the reins behind this entire fiasco was orchestrating moves far bolder than I’d anticipated. They’d forced my hand, so to speak. Now I was here, among fishermen’s wives selling dried eels and black-market dealers peddling contraband potions under the same row of tattered awnings, all while I plotted my infiltration into the fortress that supposedly stood at the heart of the Council’s power.
I let my gaze wander over the stalls with slow deliberation. A child streaked past, weaving between the grown-ups with practiced ease, likely carrying a small stolen trinket or coin purse. A blacksmith’s stall gleamed with newly hammered blades, each one an odd testament to the local forging methods. A group of travelers—merchants from a desert kingdom, if I read their attire right—spoke in hushed voices, eyes watchful. Even from a distance, I recognized the tension in their posture, the way they guarded the crates they had hauled here. They, too, had reason to remain discreet.
Eventually, I paused at a table displaying various alchemical supplies. Tiny jars arranged in neat rows, each carefully labeled. My mind slipped easily into the language of components: Ironleaf extract, Duskroot petals, Lunar sap. Combining them in certain ways produced potent elixirs. In the wrong combinations, they became lethal toxins. I had no illusions about which side I might need more in the coming days.
The merchant, a woman with eyes like chips of flint, watched me with polite expectancy. She had the bearing of someone who’d seen a fair share of scuffles and overcame them. If I pressed too hard, she’d try to upcharge me, or cut me off entirely. The trick was to let her see me as just another traveler with a bit of knowledge—enough to handle these goods responsibly, but not enough to threaten her sense of control.
"Ironleaf extract," I said quietly, letting my eyes roam over her wares. "Lunar sap. Duskroot, if you have it fresh."
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"Fresh might be asking too much these days," she replied. "Getting it from the highlands has been… complicated. But maybe I can find something close." Discover stories with freewebnovel
Her voice had a practiced smoothness. Likely she’d pitched the same line to a dozen customers. I offered a noncommittal hum, my expression as neutral as possible. "Hard times or not, demand remains high. You’ll want to make the sale before supply runs thinner."
She gave me a small, knowing smile that didn’t reach her eyes. This was the dance, the silent negotiation of buyer and seller. She named a price, too high. I named one that was slightly less, but didn’t insult her knowledge. Her eyes flicked over me, suspicious but intrigued, and she settled on a figure that was more than fair, actually. Good enough. I placed the coins on her worn counter, each movement clipped, precise. No wasted gestures.
Her fingers counted the pieces in a swift motion, then she poured a few measured vials of extract into a small leather pouch. The pungent smell of Ironleaf hit my nostrils—sharp, metallic, undercut with a hint of bitterness. She carefully wrapped the Duskroot petals in wax paper before adding it to the pouch, then handed me a sealed jar of Lunar sap. From the faint glimmer, I could tell it wasn’t adulterated. Good. She was living up to her claims.
"You’re not from around here, are you?" she asked, eyeing the shadows of my hood.
The question came as expected. I felt no compulsion to explain myself. "No."
It was enough of an answer. I saw her weigh me again, deciding that pressing further might not be worth it. She gave a curt nod, letting me pocket the goods. The moment I turned away, the crowd swallowed me, and I was gone. No reason to linger.
The next stall offered small mechanical trinkets enchanted to provide simple illusions—children’s toys or carnival novelties, not the sort of thing I’d normally care about. But my gaze caught on a single piece that radiated a subtle enchantment more complex than the rest. I stepped closer, scanning the display. The merchant, an older man with a fidgety manner, rattled off a script about wonders from distant lands. My eyes were on that one object, a small ring that seemed overshadowed by gaudier gadgets. The magic woven into its metal was intricate, layered in a way that could serve multiple functions if manipulated. If I used it correctly, I could redirect certain detection spells or even cloak a small area from a guard’s scrying for a short time.
I picked it up, rolling it between my fingers. The old man kept up his chatter about how children loved these illusions for local festivals. I tuned him out, focusing on the ring’s hum of arcane threads. Yes, this was more than a toy. A slip of real enchantment hidden among cheap trinkets. The question was whether the merchant knew its worth or not. Possibly he did—some sellers liked to hide the best item among lesser goods to draw in a discerning buyer. Possibly he had no idea. Either way, I intended to have it.
"How much for this ring?"
He paused, looking at it, at me. A flicker of wariness. "That one? Not sure it’s your style, friend. Suppose you can have it for… let’s say three silver."