The third is a gold band. It’s plain, no gems, but, looking more closely, I see it’s covered in delicate engravings. Elara would love this.
I pocket my three rings, grab the sage, which has rolled under the sofa, and return the box to its hiding place. Sure, I’m not supposed to swipe from clientele, but who’s going to know? Besides, after that vision, I’m definitely not getting paid enough to have a conscience.
I slam the front door on my way out and don’t look back.
Chapter Two
I’m not a fan of dark woods at night. But Auxin Forest on the outskirts of Stellargrove earns a rare exception.
The soft rustle of leaves and crunch of twigs underfoot create a sound that is oddly comforting, even now as I’m navigating an overgrown footpath through almost complete darkness, with only lumen flowers to light my way to water.
They unfurl all around me, emerging from damp moss-covered crevices to cast a pinkish soft glow on my path, like stars at my feet. I rub one of the petals between my fingers, smiling at the luminescent glow left on my skin.
When Elara and I were little, we used to love using lumen sap to craft designs on each other’s faces and write secret messages under our beds that could only be seen at night.
Our mother would scold us whenever she foundout – lumen flowers are an endangered breed, so picking them is forbidden. Although that never stopped us.
I trail silently after the flowers through the overgrowth. Finally, I emerge into a clearing where a waterfall tumbles into a shallow pool. Sizzling toads crackle and hiss as they plop in and out of the water, their tiny round bodies resembling glowing coals. They’re mesmerizing to watch, but this is about as close as I want to get. I still have a burn mark at the base of my heel from my last unfortunate encounter with a sizzling toad. That was the final time I agreed to gather freshwater grass for Alaric and his tonics.
I look up at the trio of moons as I kneel by the pool’s edge. Then I look back at the water and assess my reflection. Two hazel eyes, framed by long black strands of hair, gazing out of a pale, exhausted face. I can’t wait to get back home to Elara. It’s foraged soup on the menu tonight. Hopefully with cake as dessert, if she’s managed her baking today.
I dip my hands into the cool water, then begin to scrub the blue goop off my face and hair. The water can only do so much without the aid of soap, so once my hair is at least pliable enough to work with my fingers, I gather it into a ponytail, use a black ribbon around my wrist to tie it, and pat my face dry with the hem of my tunic.
My fingers dip into my front pocket to cradle the pilfered rings.They’d better be worth something.
I walk around the edge of the pool. On the far side of the waterfall is the secret stone path concealed by a tangle offoliage. I nudge the leaves aside, my feet treading gingerly on the slippery stones.
In an instant, the tranquil evening outside transforms into a lively hubbub as I enter a sprawling cavernous chamber. A chaotic assortment of tents rise in various sizes, cobbled together from old blankets, tarps and scraps of fabrics. Warm light floods the space, splashed across the stone ceiling by various solar lanterns positioned along the walls.
The air hums with idle chatter, merchants and shoppers doing their business, their shadows nodding and shrugging in exaggerated caricatures of deals made or lost.
Many of the shoppers wear masks when they come here. That’s how you know they have a reputation to uphold. But the Night Market doesn’t ask questions. Here, you can trade and barter almost anything, no questions asked – if you’re willing to settle for a price below fair value, that is.
Two hooded figures linger near the cavern’s entrance, tendrils of dark voidroot smoke wafting from their concealed faces. I know them as the twin apprentices of Hanz, the village metalworker, but they eye me differently here than when I pass them on my way to work. No flirty grins or suggestive winks, only wariness in their stares as I navigate the crowd.
The thing about the Night Market is that you can’t trust anyone. You never know if the person you’re dealing with is secretly a turncoat, ready to trade their secrets about this place for a quick reward from the Principal Guard.
All in all, it’s not exactly the most secure operation,which is why the market is always on the move, never sticking to one location for long.
I only came across the Night Market a few months ago when I tried to pawn a stolen pendant to a jewellery merchant in town called Buddy. He recognized the pendant as belonging to an old widower – turns out the late wife had brought it in to get fixed not long before her death – and I begged him not to report me.
I suppose he took pity on me, and that’s when he told me of this place.
I practically have to deliver an oath of secrecy every time I go asking for the newest location. Buddy usually makes me sneak him some of Alaric’s hair growth tonics as payment, which I suppose is only fair.
Of all the different locations, though, the cave has to be one of my favourites. It’s warm and sheltered, and I find the way the din of voices reverberates against the backdrop of the waterfall oddly calming.
Buddy’s tent is where I’m headed now. The intoxicating aromas of prohibited herbs and spices drift upon the air as I press deeper into the market. Some sweet, some woody, some earthy.
At one booth, a Flora merchant uses their talents to transform seeds into vibrant yellow morphean poppies in the blink of an eye. An eager customer reaches out, accepting the gift without a second thought. He places it on his tongue and surrenders to the euphoric embrace of the plant’s influence. The merchant sees me watching and offersa petal, but I decline with a shake of my head. I can’t deny I have been curious about trying a morphean poppy, but, for all their fragile beauty, morphean poppies are equally addictive and dangerous.
I’ve heard far too many grim tales of people falling into comatose states after overconsuming the flower to consider taking a bite myself.
I pass the solar recharge point. The line is long and market-goers are impatient, waiting to replenish their home power units at a fraction of the cost it would take to recharge at the Principal Grid.
I navigate through the line, quickly before anyone thinks I’m cutting in, and head for a tent tucked away in the furthest corner of the cavern.
Inside, a show of jewels glitters in glass cases. Each piece vies for attention, and the collapsible displays, like accordions jutting from wheeled suitcases, seem poised for a hasty retreat should the situation call for it.
