Market of Whispers

Dawn broke grey and cold, the wind still biting at the edges of the world. Inside the small cottage, the air was thick with unspoken words. Roric checked the heavy door bar one last time, his face set like stone. Elara fussed over Julius, pulling his rough-spun hood low over his face, her fingers lingering on his cheek.

"Stay close, Julius," she murmured. "Hold my hand. Don't look at anyone for too long. And keep quiet, little stone. Be the quietest stone."

Julius nodded, his heart thumping a slow, heavy beat against his ribs. He remembered the stillness from the hiding place, the strange, empty pool inside him. He tried to find it now, tried to be the stone, but the thought of the market, of leaving the isolated safety of their hidden life, made ripples disturb the calm.

Roric slung a near-empty sack over his shoulder. "Everyone ready?"

Elara took a deep breath, her hand finding Julius's. It was cold. "Ready."

The journey was long and silent. They walked single file, Roric leading, Julius tucked between his parents. The landscape was vast and empty, shades of brown and grey under the oppressive sky. Dust swirled with every gust of wind, coating their clothes, stinging their eyes. Julius kept his head down, watching the scuffed toes of his own worn boots kick through the grit. The silence pressed in, broken only by the crunch of their steps and the ceaseless howl of the wind. Sometimes, for a brief moment, Julius felt that strange inner vastness again, like the empty sky had opened up inside him, cold and shimmering, before snapping back to the dull thud of his own footsteps.

After what felt like hours, the sounds began to change. The wind's howl was joined by a low murmur, a distant buzz that grew steadily louder. The air thickened, carrying new smells – woodsmoke, roasted meat, something sharp and metallic, the scent of too many bodies packed too close together.

Roric slowed, putting a hand on Julius's shoulder. "We're here. Remember what your mother said. Head down. Stay with us."

They crested a low rise, and Whisper Market spread out below them. It wasn't a town, not really. It looked more like a sprawl of tents, crooked stalls, and shaky shacks gathered in a shallow, wind-blasted dip. People moved through the tight, dusty paths, wrapped in dull cloaks, faces hidden by hoods or scarves, eyes always watching. There was a nervous energy to the place, a sense of urgency mixed with wary exhaustion.

Julius clutched Elara's hand tighter, overwhelmed. It was so much… everything. Noise, smells, movement. More people than he had ever seen in one place. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, catching glimpses of rough boots, frayed hem ropes, discarded scraps.

Roric led them towards a cluster of stalls selling basic supplies. He moved with purpose, his eyes sharp, scanning the crowds. Elara kept Julius tucked close against her side, her body a tense shield. They bartered quickly, quietly, for flour, lamp oil, and a small packet of salt. Roric exchanged worn metal tokens for the goods, his voice low and shaky. Elara's eyes looked around, never resting.

While Roric was carefully counting out tokens for a twist of dried herbs, Elara nudged Julius slightly forward to let someone pass. For a moment, Julius was standing near two men leaning against a stack of crates, their faces shadowed by deep hoods. They spoke in low, rough voices, but the wind carried snippets to Julius's ears.

"...heard the Divine Council's rattled," one man grunted, spitting dust. "Sending more Soulforged Knights out this way."

The other man snorted. "About time. Trackers ain't enough with those damn Echo Witches causing trouble near the Silent Peaks. Stirring things... best left buried."

Julius froze. Trackers. The word sent a chill down his spine, colder than the wind.

The first man lowered his voice further, leaning closer to his companion. "Witches are bad, aye. But it's the absences they're really sweating over now. The soulless ones." He spat again. "Trackers can sniff 'em out, they say. Like hounds on a scent. Dangerous things to have around, the soulless. They… attract the Void, draw the whispers."

Absence. The word echoed the Tracker's voice outside their cottage door. "...a flicker? Or... an absence?"

Soulless.

The world seemed to tilt. Julius felt suddenly lightheaded, the noise of the market fading to a dull roar. He was the absence. That quiet pool inside him, the stillness that wasn't training… it meant he was soulless. And being soulless was dangerous. Not just because Trackers hunted them, but because they attracted… something else. Something from the Void. The whispers he sometimes heard, the strange colours behind his eyes – were those the whispers the man spoke of?

Elara's hand clamped down hard on his shoulder, pulling him back against her side so quickly he almost stumbled. "Stay close," she hissed, her voice tight with renewed fear. She must have seen him listening.

Roric finished his trade, stuffing the herbs into his sack. He glanced at Elara, saw the tension in her face, the way she gripped Julius. He nodded curtly. " it's time to go."

They turned, blending back into the flow of bodies moving towards the edge of the market basin. Julius didn't dare look back at the men by the crates. He kept his eyes down, but the words echoed in his mind: Divine Council. Soulforged Knights. Echo Witches. Soulless. Absence. Trackers. Dangerous.

He understood now. He understood the depth of his parents' fear, the constant vigilance, the hiding. He wasn't just different; he was a danger. A beacon for things they feared even more than the Trackers.

They hurried through the thinning crowd, the sounds of the market receding behind them. Julius felt exposed, vulnerable, like the hood hiding his face was suddenly useless. The overheard whispers clung to him, colder and sharper than the wind that whipped around them as they left the relative shelter of the basin. The path back towards their lonely cottage felt much longer, much heavier, than the path that had brought them here. And Julius couldn't shake the feeling, prickling at the back of his neck, that unseen eyes were watching them go.