The marketplace of Insomnia was a living river.
From dawn until dusk, it pulsed with noise and color, flowing with merchants, guards, children, and travelers. Banners snapped overhead, painted in Lucian blues and golds. Lanterns swung in the breeze, their flames casting bright spots across rows of stalls. The air was thick with the mingling scents of roasted meats, fried bread, perfumed oils, and leather freshly worked.
Sirius Blake moved through the current with a bag clutched tightly to his chest. The bag clicked faintly with each step—sabertusk tusks, scorpion stingers, goblin fangs. Each sound carried the weight of sweat and bruises earned in Leide's plains. He was only eight, but in this moment he felt much older, pulled along by the urgency that pressed on his small shoulders.
Mother needs medicine. Father cannot do this alone. I have to help.
---
The first stall was run by a thick-armed man with a beard streaked gray. His table was piled high with beast parts: claws, bones, hides. Sirius stepped forward, nerves buzzing, and opened the bag just enough to reveal his haul.
A glyph etched into the counter glowed faintly blue as the fangs touched wood, verifying their authenticity with a soft hum.
"I want to sell," Sirius said, trying to steady his voice.
The merchant's brows rose. "From you? Where'd you get these?"
"My uncle trains me," Sirius lied smoothly, though his stomach knotted. "He lets me keep what I bring down."
The man eyed him for a long moment, then chuckled. "Cor Leonis' nephew, huh? I'll believe it." He picked up a tusk, weighing it in his hand. "I'll give you fifty Gil."
Sirius swallowed. Fifty sounded like a fortune. But he remembered Cor's words about never taking the first strike—and wondered if it applied here, too.
He shook his head. "That's too low."
The man's grin widened, amused at the boy's defiance. "Seventy-five, then. Final."
Sirius hesitated, then nodded. The coins clinked heavy in his palm. He bowed quickly and darted away before the man could ask more questions.
---
The second stall was harsher. A woman with sharp eyes and sharper tongue sneered as she lifted a scorpion stinger.
"Cracked," she said. "Not clean. Worthless."
Sirius' heart sank. "It's still usable—"
She waved him off. "You'll learn, boy. Materials must be clean. Bloodless. If you want real Gil, don't hack them apart like firewood."
She tossed him a handful of coins—barely thirty Gil—and turned away.
Sirius bit his lip, cheeks hot. But he didn't argue. He took the lesson, clutching the coins. Hunt carefully. Strike cleaner. Learn from every failure.
---
As the weeks passed, Sirius returned again and again. The market became another kind of training ground.
He learned that merchants judged not only by quality, but by timing. Selling early in the morning earned less—supplies were fresh, competition high. At dusk, when hunters returned with wagons full, his small haul was overlooked. But at midday, when stalls thinned and buyers lingered, his drops fetched more coin.
He learned to watch expressions. A twitch of the lips meant interest. A narrowed gaze meant suspicion. He learned when to push and when to stay silent.
Once, he dared to push further.
"Two hundred," a merchant offered for a bundle of sabertusk tusks.
Sirius shook his head, pulse racing. "Three hundred."
The man barked a laugh. "Bold. Fine—two fifty. Don't get greedy."
Sirius nodded, heart pounding. He had bargained higher than he thought possible.
---
One afternoon, he lingered near a stall of herbs. Bundles of dried leaves and jars of powder lined the counter. A healer's apprentice tended the stall, her hands stained green from grinding plants.
"Looking for medicine?" she asked when she saw him staring.
Sirius froze. "Just curious."
She smiled kindly, holding up a bundle of pale flowers. "This one helps weak lungs. Ten Gil a sprig."
His chest tightened. Weak lungs. His mother's cough.
He counted out the coins with trembling hands. The girl wrapped the flowers carefully and handed them over. Sirius held them like treasure, slipping them into his cloak.
That night, when he hid them in the wooden box beneath his bed, the system gave the faintest hum—not a tally of materials, not loot, but a resonance, as if it recognized value beyond combat. Sirius blinked, then smiled faintly.
---
The market wasn't all kindness.
Sirius saw thieves snatch purses and vanish into alleys. He saw guards chase them, sometimes catch them, sometimes not. Once, he caught a thief's eye as the man glanced at his bag. Sirius' hand clutched it tighter, heart hammering. For the first time, he realized: not all danger came from monsters.
He saw nobles toss coins carelessly for luxuries while hungry children stared from the shadows.
He watched. He learned.
Lucis was not only light and Crystal. It was survival. And survival meant Gil.
---
One evening, Dominic caught him slipping in late, dust on his clothes.
"Where were you?" his father asked, arms folded.
"Training," Sirius said quickly, forcing his voice steady.
Dominic studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Cor pushes you too hard. Just remember—you're still a child."
Sirius nodded, retreating to his room before questions dug deeper. He opened the box beneath his bed, the coins clinking softly. He touched the herbs he had bought, his chest tight.
I can't tell them yet. Not until I've done enough.
---
That night, Lyla sat at his bedside, brushing his hair as she always did.
"You've been quiet lately," she said softly. "Carrying something, Sirius?"
He looked up at her, guilt stinging. "I… just want to be strong. For you."
Her smile was tired but tender. "You already are."
He closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him, though they didn't ease the weight in his chest.
---
Later, with the candle burning low, he opened his notebook again.
Notes – Market Days
Merchants = never trust first price.
Quality matters. Strike clean for better drops.
Midday = best time to sell.
Herbs can help Mother, but costly. Need more Gil.
Lucis runs on coin as much as Crystal.
Beneath, in jagged letters:
Sword protects. Gil protects. I need both.
He shut the notebook, slipped it back beneath his pillow, and lay down.
The sounds of the market still echoed in his ears—coins clinking, voices haggling, the rhythm of survival.
And as sleep pulled him under, Sirius vowed that he would master both the sword and the market. Not for himself. For her.