The Market of Fractured Light was still smoldering when Lyria Vens returned. The morning riot had left the square covered in ash, overturned crates, and streaks of blood that glistened like rust in the sun. The air tasted of smoke, metal, and regret.
Lyria knelt by the broken fountain, running her fingertips over a cracked stone.
"Vaeroth wakes angry today," she murmured.
A voice replied behind her.
"Vaeroth wakes angry every day. The city just forgets to warn us."
Garron Hale stepped out from the remains of a collapsed canopy, his iron arm scraping against a bent pole. He winced as he pushed it aside.
Lyria smirked. "You know, for a man built half of metal, you make a surprising amount of noise."
"I like to announce my approach," Garron said. "Keeps people from assuming I'm sneaking up to do something heroic."
"Or stupid."
"Same thing, most of the time."
They exchanged a look that wasn't quite friendship, but not hostility either — a weary acknowledgment of two people used to surviving long days.
A Child and a Dragon
Riko perched on a toppled fruit cart, gnawing on a bruised apple like a squirrel clinging to dignity. Halik — in his human disguise — sat next to him, tail twitching beneath the illusion.
"You should've stayed away from the fight," Halik said.
Riko shrugged. "Couldn't. My legs don't listen."
"They should. Mine barely listen to me."
"You're a dragon."
"Well, technically," Halik muttered, staring at the charred stall beside them, "but if I breathe wrong the entire neighborhood burns down. Do you know how hard it is to sneeze when you're flammable?"
Riko laughed so hard he dropped his apple. "You… sneeze fire?"
"Yes," Halik said darkly. "And no one ever warns you how embarrassing that is."
Riko looked at him with a mix of awe and mischief. "Can you teach me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're not a dragon. You're a small child with terrible decision-making skills."
Riko beamed. "I know."
The Fox, the Dwarf, and the Powder Seller
Maera of the Crescent Fur inspected the remains of Sable Crier's contraband, nudging a broken vial with her toe. The powder shimmered faintly — dangerous, addictive.
Kethra Stonehand frowned. "We should get rid of this. Grind it, melt it, bury it so deep the worms complain."
Maera wiggled her fox ears thoughtfully. "Or we keep it. Study it. Figure out why people want to forget so badly."
"That's obvious," Kethra muttered. "Life's a boot on the neck."
Maera examined the powder a moment longer. "Still… something's off. Sable wasn't fighting like a man protecting his wares. He was fighting like someone covering tracks."
"What tracks?" Kethra asked.
"Something big," Maera murmured, her eyes narrowing. "Something he was terrified we'd see."
Before Kethra could answer, Sable Crier himself stumbled from behind the ruins of his stall, clutching a torn cloak around his ribs. His face was ashen — paler than usual.
"Don't touch that," he rasped.
Maera's knife flashed into her hand instantly. "Careful. I can cut faster than you can lie."
Sable grimaced. "That powder… it wasn't meant for you. Or the enforcers."
"Then who?" Kethra demanded.
Sable swallowed hard.
"The one who told me to sell it."
"And who is that?" Maera asked.
Sable hesitated. His eyes darted to the shadows beneath a broken awning — the same direction where the mysterious robed woman, Cinder-Eyed, had stood earlier.
He whispered:
"Someone who knows how to burn cities without ever lighting a flame."
The Warden Arrives
High Warden Soryn emerged with a squad of scribes and enforcers, their boots crunching over debris. Her shawl fluttered like a war banner.
She studied the scene with a strategist's cold precision.
"This riot," she said, "wasn't random."
Garron folded his arms. "You think someone planned it?"
Soryn nodded. "Markets don't combust because one man sells a little powder. This was orchestrated. Someone wanted chaos."
"And who benefits from a riot?" Lyria asked.
Soryn's eyes sharpened.
"Anyone who needs a distraction."
A Conversation on Secrets
Later, as the sun dipped toward the rooftops, Lyria sat with Maera and Garron at the edge of the damaged square. Halik and Riko played with a charred wagon, pretending it was a war machine.
Maera flicked her tail thoughtfully. "You know what bothers me most? That woman."
"The one with the star-stitch robe?" Garron asked.
"Mm-hmm. She walked through flames like she'd arranged them."
Lyria nodded slowly. "Her presence felt… wrong. Heavy."
Garron scratched his metal arm. "You think she's some kind of mage?"
"No," Maera said quietly. "Mages leave ripples. She left silence. Like she swallowed the air around her."
Lyria grimaced. "We've all seen monsters, but she felt… older."
Maera leaned in, dropping her voice.
"And she said something strange to Sable. I heard it as she walked away."
"What?" Lyria asked.
Maera mimicked the woman's soft, chilling tone:
"'The ashes speak. Don't make me silence them again.'"
Garron's face darkened. "That's not something a normal person says."
Maera nodded. "Exactly."
Lyria looked out over the scorched market and whispered, almost to herself:
"Whatever she is… she's not done with us."
A Final Thread of Mystery
As evening fell, Riko tugged on Lyria's sleeve.
"Miss Silvershard… why do grown-ups always whisper after things go bad?"
She smiled sadly. "Because secrets are heavier than swords."
Riko thought about that, frowning. "So… should we be scared?"
Lyria didn't answer immediately. She looked toward the alley where Sable had disappeared… toward the shadow where the Cinder-Eyed woman had stood… toward the fires that still smoldered.
Finally she placed a hand gently on his head.
"We should be ready."
Behind them, unseen, a faint glow pulsed in the dark — like embers waiting for breath.