The square was busier than I’d expected; clusters of people gathered around what looked like street performers, vendors selling food that smelled obscenely good, and more than a few figures slipping in and out of doorways with discretion that screamed illicit activity.
Cindrissian caught me watching and smiled. “Welcome to the Twilight Market. Technically illegal. Practically untouchable. Varyth knows it exists, but he also knows that trying to shut it down would cause more problems than it solves. So, everyone pretends it doesn’t exist, and life goes on.”
“What do they sell here?”
“Everything you can’t buy in daylight.” He started walking again, weaving through the crowd with easy familiarity. “Stolen goods, forbidden texts, substances that would make a healer weep, information, passage across borders, assassinations if you know who to ask. The usual.”
“Theusual,” I repeated flatly.
He threw me that infuriating smirk over his shoulder. “Every city has an underbelly. This one just has better lighting.”
We moved through the stalls, and I started noticing the pattern.
People saw Cindrissian coming and got out of his way. Not obviously, nothing as crude as scrambling or fleeing. But conversations cut off mid-sentence. Eyes tracked him with wariness one usually reserved for predators. A vendor selling what looked like vials of liquid starlight actually took a step back as we approached, hands spreading in a placating gesture Cindrissian didn’t even acknowledge.
“You’re known here,” I observed, watching a group of rough-looking men melt into the shadows as we passed.
“Mmm.” He examined a display of crystals without touching them, and the merchant behind the table went very still. “Occupational hazard.”
“They’re afraid of you.”
“Yes.” He said it simply, matter-of-factly. “It would hardly be fitting for the Master of Interrogations to be known for cuddling strangers.” He glanced at me, something defensive flickering behind the casual tone. “Honestly, I prefer it this way. Cuddling makes me uncomfortable.”
The bluntness of it startled a laugh out of me. “That’s the most relatable thing you’ve said all night.”
“Is it?”
“Touch is...” I gestured vaguely, trying to articulate a feeling I’d never quite put into words. “Complicated. Required too much when you don’t want it, absent when you do. I’m not good at it either.”
“Well.” Cindrissian’s mouth curved. “At least we’ve established we won’t be braiding each other’s hair and sharing feelings.”
“Thank fuck for that.”
I caught sight of a stall ahead, a display of blades laid out on dark velvet, each one gleaming with polish that spoke to quality. My feet carried me toward it before I’d consciously decided to move.
The weapons were beautiful. Practical, yes, but beautiful in the way dangerous things often were. Daggers with wrapped hilts, throwing knives balanced to perfection, a short sword with an edge that looked sharp enough to split moonlight.
I reached out without thinking, my fingers brushing a curved dagger. It was beautiful. Not in some ornamental, decorative way, but in the way a storm was beautiful. Deadly and perfect and utterly uncompromising.
“Excellent taste,” Cindrissian murmured beside me.
I lifted it, testing the weight. Perfectly balanced. The kind of balance that came from a master’s hand, from someone who understood that a weapon was an extension of the body, not just a tool. Runes were etched into the blade, flowing script I couldn’t read but could feel humming faintly against my palm.
The twin to it sat beside where this one had been, resting on a bed of dark velvet like an offering.
“It suits you,” Cindrissian said, and there was approval in his voice.
I swallowed hard and put the dagger back.
“How much?” Cindrissian asked the blacksmith.
The man behind the stall was older, heavily muscled despite his age, with scars running up both forearms that spoke to decades of working with fire and metal. Unlike everyone else in this market, he seemed entirely unbothered by Cindrissian’s intimidating presence. He beamed, lighting up with enthusiasm only a craftsman could muster when someone appreciated their work.
“Ah, you have a discerning eye!” He gestured to the daggers with obvious pride. “Moonsilver, straight from the mines of Nyxaria. Rare and difficult to work with, temperamental as a lover and twice as likely to burn you. Butworth it.” He ran a reverent finger along the flat of the blade I’d been holding. “These beauties will hold an edge longer than anything else you’ll find in this realm, and the runes are blood-bound. Once attuned to their wielder, they’ll always return to your hand if thrown.”
“The price,” Cindrissian repeated.
The blacksmith named a figure that made my stomach drop.
