It would be so easy to escape. To melt into the crowd and flee into the safety of the night. But I can’t. My body physically won’t let me.How have I let it come to this?
Talia’s face flickers through my thoughts. Her soft brown eyes. Wide. Pleading. She haunts me. The way she used to look at me, trying to hide what she was thinking. But I could always tell how she was picking me apart.
She hated me, and then she trusted me. I failed her, and then I left her there.A traitor to the throne, they’re calling her. A murderer. They tossed her in the palace dungeons, where she’s probably wasting away right now.
I dig my nails into my palms until it hurts. I put her there. I should’ve been stronger, should’ve fought harder against Madame Vera’s grasp.
But instead, I’m here, trailing after her like a dog.
“There they are!” Madame Vera confirms with a short nod. Her gaze is predatory as it catches three hooded figures standing in a dimly lit corner of the market, where the meagre light struggles to penetrate the thick air.
We worm our way through the crowd towards them. One of the men stands tall, his wider frame radiating authority over the others. I only need to look into his eyes briefly to know they betray a shrewdness that sets my teeth on edge.
They’re not merchants – the same way we’re not here to peruse illicit goods. These hooded figures belong to theMidnight Guild, an organization only whispered about in dark corners and taverns. They’re the backbone of the Night Market, responsible for building it into the thriving thing it is today. Madame Vera has long woven her web among them. It’s the Halo family name that hangs like a beacon over the guild.
They’re the bloodlines of Valerius’s most loyal supporters. Those who had once thrived under his tyrannical rule, who were stripped of their fortunes when the Astrals brought him down and, to this day, still nurture their rage.
We don’t exchange any words with the figures, but we follow them. The trio leads us deeper into the market, the winding path twisting between stalls brimming with stolen relics that gleam under the flickering light.
Bundles of herbs hang from strings suspended over a spice stall, their potent scents weaving through the heavier air of the keep’s underground passageways.
Henk helps himself to a pinch of ground voidroot from a crock. The merchant says nothing. She’s an old woman, sitting hunched over a pot of steaming liquid. It smells of morphean poppy and something sweet.
Henk reaches into his pocket and takes out a pipe. He’s gained a few more scars across his face since I last saw him. Madame Vera must’ve been working him hard in my absence. He loads his pipe with the voidroot and lights it.
“What’re you gawking at, runt?” he barks at me, but his deep-set eyes turn foggy with euphoria as he takes a pull of his pipe, and I’m immediately forgotten.
We pass stalls pawning everything from endangered clams to stolen solar equipment and tonics that promise great illness to the drinker. In the heart of the market, the solar recharging station is crowded with customers.
A throng of Helio merchants hurry in and out of a tent bursting with rays of light. One such merchant emerges with two buckets balancing on his shoulders, filled to the brim with snapped sunblade leaves. They must be farming the stuff themselves, to be able to maintain this rate of service.
At the edge of the crowd stands a woman, her dark fabrics melding seamlessly with the dim surroundings. Her face is draped with a red scarf, leaving only her eyes visible to follow our movements. She’s with the guild – I can tell.
Don’t stare.Madame Vera’s voice creeps into my thoughts.Don’t stare.Don’tstare.It repeats, over and over, until each syllable is one of her sharp nails scratching against my mind. My head snaps away from the woman, and Madame Vera grins.
I grit my teeth, keeping my expression blank. I’m already giving her the satisfaction of my weakness. I refuse to give her the pleasure of my revulsion, too.
Finally, we emerge from the labyrinth of stalls into the deepest point of the Keep’s underground bowels. To one side, a makeshift tavern bustles. Servers dart between the tables arranged under a canopy of red and black fabrics, balancing trays and rushing to mop up spilled drinks.
Opposite the tavern, a small stage hosts an auction,where the most sought-after loot changes hands under the scrutinizing gaze of the market’s more affluential visitors.
If they’re lords and princes I wouldn’t know. Their faces are hidden behind masks and shadows.
“This way,” says one of the hooded figures. He gestures to a tapestry that lines the chamber’s wall in a dark corner. It’s meant to deceive, of course.
The tallest figure goes first, revealing an entrance behind the old fabric. Madame Vera clicks her heels and mutters a giddy chuckle. She follows the figures inside.
Come.A command ringing in my mind forces me after her.
Inside is a banquet hall. Crumbling stone arches and weathered pillars rise towards the high ceiling. Cobwebs hang in the corners like ghostly drapes, while a flickering chandelier casts eerie shadows along the walls.
Madame Vera is the first to lower her hood. The figures follow suit. I recognize the man in the middle, the tallest of the three figures with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back against his scalp. He’s Bartholomeus, a merchant who carries considerable influence within the Midnight Guild.
Bartholomeus takes Madame Vera’s hands into his and greets her with a peck. His fingers are adorned with several ornate rings – not Necroseals, but certainly jewels of incredible value. He brings her hands to his chest.
“My dear Vera, it’s been far too long,” he croons, his voice smooth as silk, echoing through the hall.
“Whose fault is that?” Madame Vera replies. She tiltsher head, a move she reserves specifically for seducing unwitting men.
