Chapter 16: The Market of Ash

The morning sky was an unnatural shade of gray, a thick veil of ashen clouds blotting out the sun. The air carried the faint scent of embers and dust—remnants of fires long since extinguished. Beneath this somber sky, Zereth and Kainon walked a path of cracked stone, remnants of a once-thriving city now reduced to ruins and half-forgotten whispers.

After leaving the Hollow Seekers behind, their journey had been eerily quiet. The world felt empty, abandoned by time itself. But Kainon had spoken of a place ahead—a gathering of merchants, wanderers, and outcasts. A place where information, supplies, and secrets changed hands as easily as the ever-shifting sands of this broken world.

Zereth had no hunger, nor did his body feel fatigue, but Kainon was still human. He needed food, water, and rest. And so, they walked toward the only known settlement in this forsaken wasteland—the Market of Ash.

As they reached the outskirts, the ruins gave way to something resembling civilization—tents, makeshift stalls, and crumbling stone structures repurposed into shops and homes. Lanterns of blue flame flickered above doorways, illuminating an array of strange goods: weapons forged from unknown metals, dried meats wrapped in cloth, and tomes bound in weathered leather. The scent of spiced incense and burning oil mixed with the staleness of decay.

People moved about with cautious steps—hunters clad in scavenged armor, scholars draped in layered robes, and merchants whose eyes held the weight of too many untold stories. Yet, despite the Market's activity, there was a tension in the air, as if everyone here was watching, waiting for something unseen.

Kainon exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. "Stay close," he muttered. "This place is filled with people who'd sell their own blood for a handful of Solmarks."

"Solmarks?" Zereth echoed.

"The currency of this land," Kainon explained. "A remnant of the old world. Gold and silver lost their value when the gods abandoned this place, but Solmarks remain. Fragments of power, forged from the embers of fallen stars."

Zereth's gaze flickered over a nearby stall, where a merchant weighed a handful of shimmering, translucent coins. Unlike ordinary metal, they pulsed with a faint light, as if containing the echoes of something long forgotten.

Kainon's hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his blade. "Just don't make eye contact with anyone for too long. They'll either see you as prey or a potential investment."

Zereth understood. This was not a place of trust.

They navigated through the labyrinthine streets, passing by old statues whose faces had been worn away by time. Some structures bore symbols Zereth did not recognize—emblems of gods long erased from history.

At the center of the Market, a circular plaza held a towering obelisk, its surface etched with countless names. Some were fresh, others nearly eroded.

Kainon noticed Zereth's gaze lingering on it. "The names of the dead," he said. "Or those who are about to be."

Zereth studied the markings. "A warning?"

Kainon's expression darkened. "A record. If your name appears on that stone, it means someone wants you erased."

A system of silent executions. No laws. No justice. Only transactions.

The realization settled over Zereth like a heavy shroud.

Beyond the merchants and wanderers, another presence lingered in the Market. Hooded figures, their robes embroidered with symbols that shifted like liquid shadow. Their gazes carried the weight of something ancient, something watching.

Kainon stiffened. "The Ashen Brokers."

Zereth turned his head slightly, studying them. "Who are they?"

Kainon's voice was low. "Not just traders. They deal in information, artifacts, and... contracts. Some say they serve the Hidden Lords. Others believe they are merely opportunists."

Zereth considered this. The Hidden Lords—the beings whispered of in fragmented myths, feared even by gods and demons. Their influence stretched into places unseen, and if these Brokers truly served them, then this Market was more than just a place for trade.

A hub of unseen power. A web of unseen hands pulling the strings of fate.

Zereth's fingers twitched. His power stirred within him.

But before he could dwell on the thought, a voice called out.

"You there."

A man stepped forward from the crowd—a warrior clad in dark armor, his left arm wrapped in crimson cloth. His presence silenced nearby conversations.

"I don't recognize you," the man said, eyes locking onto Zereth. "And I make it a habit to know everyone who walks through these streets."

Kainon muttered a curse under his breath. "Stay calm," he warned.

The man tilted his head. "You look like a wanderer, yet you carry no Solmarks. No weapons. No scars." His gaze lingered on Zereth's strange, otherworldly form. "What are you?"

Silence.

The gathered crowd waited.

Zereth remained still. He had no answer.

The warrior smirked. "A mute? No matter. If you wish to walk freely in the Market of Ash, you must prove you belong." He stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "A simple test. A fight."

Kainon tensed. "This isn't necessary."

The warrior ignored him. "Fight me. Or leave."

Zereth exhaled slowly. His body had changed since his awakening. His power was still untested.

But now, the moment had come.

He stepped forward.

"I accept."

The crowd murmured. The warrior's smirk widened. "Good."

With a flick of his wrist, he drew a curved blade that shimmered in the dying light.

Zereth remained unarmed.

The fight began.

The warrior lunged, his blade slicing through the air in a blur. Fast. Trained. Deadly.

Zereth moved without thought. His body reacted before his mind processed the attack. He sidestepped, the wind from the blade's swing grazing his skin.

Another strike. This time, a feint—meant to bait a reaction. Zereth did not fall for it. He stepped inside the warrior's reach, his fingers brushing against the man's wrist.

For a heartbeat, reality distorted. The warrior's grip faltered, as if his own body had momentarily forgotten its purpose.

Zereth seized the opening. He pivoted, using the momentum to slam his palm into the man's chest. The warrior staggered, gasping.

A moment later, he dropped to one knee, blade slipping from his fingers.

The crowd fell into stunned silence.

Zereth stood motionless. He had not needed to strike with force. The Veil of Eternal Silence had whispered against his opponent's senses, unraveling his intent just long enough to break him.

The warrior coughed, looking up with a strained grin. "That... was something."

Then, he laughed.

"Well fought." He rose to his feet, shaking the dust from his armor. "You belong here, stranger."

The tension eased. The gathered onlookers dispersed, conversations resuming as if nothing had happened.

Kainon exhaled. "That could've gone worse."

The warrior extended a hand. "Name's Dain."

Zereth hesitated, then clasped his forearm.

A new presence. A new path.

And in the depths of the Market of Ash, unseen eyes watched.

End of Chapter 16