Chapter 13 – Sands of the Hidden Stall
The Fractured Market still hadn't recovered from yesterday's chaos. Broken stalls leaned against crooked walls, spices lay scattered in the dirt, and the air still carried the scent of burnt cloth and sizzling oil. But one stall stood untouched. No dust, no broken boards—just a neat little tent draped in deep crimson fabric, as if time itself avoided disturbing it.
"Something's… wrong with that place," Aaren muttered, his eyes narrowing.
Lenara tilted her head and smirked. "Wrong? Or is your paranoia just acting up again?"
Koro, who was crouched next to a cart eating something that looked suspiciously like a burnt onion, shrugged. "Wrong smells good though. Like—" he sniffed dramatically, "—old magic and fried dough."
Levitine's voice came from Aaren's back, low and deliberate. "That is no food vendor. That stall's presence is deliberate, anchored here through intent rather than need."
Withered Flame, leaning against a broken post, folded his arms. "Then we're going in. But stay alert."
As they approached, a faint hum buzzed in Aaren's ears, like the stall was whispering to him without words. The shopkeeper—an elderly man with one eye clouded and the other sharp as a blade—watched them silently. He didn't speak until Aaren stood directly in front of the counter.
"You seek more than goods," the old man rasped. "You seek… fragments."
"Fragments of what?" Lenara asked, leaning on the counter like she was ordering a snack.
"Of power," the man replied, smiling faintly. "But nothing is free."
Before Aaren could respond, a shout tore through the market. A group of rough-looking mercenaries stormed in, knocking over whatever remained of the stalls. One of them, a tall brute with arms like tree trunks, spotted the crimson tent.
"That's ours now!" the brute roared, stomping toward it.
The shopkeeper didn't flinch, but his one good eye flicked toward Koro. "Show them why this place endures."
Koro cracked his knuckles, grinning in his usual goofy way. "Guess that means I'm up."
The brute swung his massive fist toward Koro—but the moment his knuckles brushed Koro's palm, the man's entire forearm began to crumble into fine grains of sand. The brute screamed, stumbling back as his weapon-hand disintegrated entirely.
Lenara's jaw dropped. "Koro! You've been holding out on us! You can just… sandify people?"
Koro shrugged like it was nothing. "Yeah. Only parts I touch though. If I did the whole body… well, you wouldn't wanna clean up the mess."
The other mercenaries hesitated, staring at the pile of sand where their friend's arm had been.
Withered Flame smirked. "Now that's a useful trick."
Levitine's voice was sharp in Aaren's mind. Pay attention, Aaren. That ability is dangerous in more ways than one.
Aaren stepped forward, summoning a flicker of Withered Flame's power through the symbol on his chest. "You heard him—back off." His voice carried an edge that surprised even himself.
The mercenaries scattered, dragging their maimed leader with them.
The shopkeeper chuckled softly. "You are all bound by more than coincidence. This stall… is a keeper of anchors. Memories, powers, and truths lost in the fractures of this world. You will return here, and when you do, you'll know what to ask."
Before anyone could question him further, the crimson tent vanished like smoke in the wind. Only a circle of untouched ground remained where it had stood.
Lenara broke the silence. "Well… that was spooky. Anyone else hungry?"
Koro raised a hand. "If we find fried dough, I'm in."
Aaren didn't answer. His mind was locked on the old man's words—anchors… fragments… truths. Whatever that stall was, it was part of something far bigger than the Upper Chamber's market chaos. And now, Emberbound had another mystery to chase.