They approached a wide, squat stall nestled between two curved support beams, its outer walls lined with racks of glinting metal and cured leather. The scent of oil and steel filled the air, tinged faintly with char, a forge scent that settled into the bones.

Behind the counter stood a barrel-chested dwarf, broader and far more polished than Brennak. His thick beard was braided into bands of copper wire, and his leather apron bore the faded crest of a forge guild, though the name had long since worn off. His arms, bare to the elbow, were corded with muscle and dusted with metal shavings.

"Brennak," the dwarf said in a voice like clanking hammers. "Didn't expect to see your bootprint down here today."

"New client," Brennak grunted, jerking a thumb at Thorne. "Needs steel. Simple, sharp. The usual."

The merchant looked Thorne over, his eyes lingering for a moment on the wand tucked inside his belt and then on the faint bulge of the coin-heavy satchel beneath his cloak.

"Oh, does he now?" the dwarf said, voice smoothening. "Well then, you're in luck. I just finished a line of runed stiletto blades from Sylvenforge ore. Hold an edge so fine, they hum if you swing 'em fast enough."

He ducked under the counter and came up with a pair of long, slender blades, their hilts wrapped in deep blue leather. The blades shimmered faintly, etched with symbols that sparked when touched by the torchlight.

Thorne raised a brow. "And what's the price on those?"

"Eighty apiece."

Thorne whistled under his breath. "I'm not trying to marry them. Just stab things occasionally."

The dwarf huffed. "Fine taste comes with a price, friend."

He moved on, pulling out a short gladius-style blade with an inlaid ruby set into the pommel.

"This one, fire-aspect. Enchantment from the western marshes. Set someone ablaze if you twist while pulling."

"No thanks," Thorne said dryly. "Too messy."

Brennak chuckled. "Told you. He's practical."

The dwarf frowned, but didn't argue.

He opened another case. "Now this little beauty..." he lifted a needle-thin blade etched with gold, "sets off mild aether feedback in wards. Great for breaking into places, cracking spell locks."

"I'm not breaking into anything," Thorne said, voice dry.

"Sure you're not." The dwarf winked. "Then you'll love this."

He reached up and unhooked a blade from a rack, a shortsword with a jagged, obsidian edge and a hilt that pulsed faintly red.

"Blood-triggered enchantment," he said. "Draws just a drop and it lashes out with aether heat. Can cauterize a wound before it bleeds or turn a goblin inside out."

"I'm good."

The dwarf laughed. "You're not much for drama, are you?"

"I'm allergic," Thorne said, already scanning the simpler racks.

After a few more enthusiastic pitches, including a chakram that whistled insults as it flew ("Great distraction, that one!") and a pair of bracelet-hidden throwing blades enchanted to seek out pressure points the dwarf grunted in frustration and reached below the counter. With a heavy thud, he dropped a simple wooden case onto the surface and opened it.

Inside lay four black-handled daggers, curved and compact. No embellishments. No gleaming gems. Just deadly, well-forged steel.

"They don't look like much," the dwarf said, "but they've got minor edge-binding enchantments. Never dull. Never need sharpening. Can cut through most light armor. And they won't get you robbed just for flashing 'em."

Thorne reached for one.

The grip was solid, perfectly balanced. The blade gleamed with quiet promise, sleek, efficient, lethal.

"How much?"

"Thirty a piece."

Thorne lifted an eyebrow.

"For you, twenty-eight," the dwarf amended quickly. "Call it a professional discount. I like your attitude."

Thorne glanced at Brennak.

"That's a deal," the older dwarf said with a shrug. "He's not robbing you. Much."

Thorne flipped one between his fingers and gave a short nod. "I'll take them."

As the dwarf wrapped the blades in oiled cloth, Brennak crossed his arms and smirked. "He turns down flame-blades and dagger-jokes for honest steel. You sure you're not secretly from Aegis?"

Thorne didn't answer. He was still admiring the craftsmanship, no ornamentation, no attention-grabbing glow, just functional perfection.

The dwarf handed him the wrapped bundle, then tapped the counter. "If you want them etched later, elemental infusions, ward markers, blood-bindings, you come back. First touch-up's half-price."

Thorne tucked the bundle into his cloak. "If I don't lose them first."

The dwarf grinned. "That's what makes it fun."

Thorne turned, ready to follow Brennak back toward the main walkway when something caught his eye.

Thorne's gaze shifted, drawn not to the oversized blades or mounted axes under the tar, but to a row of gauntlets and gloves, stacked neatly on a black iron rack against the sidewall. Most were dull steel or hardened leather, several fitted with embedded rings or clawed fingers for combat. A few shimmered faintly with thread-like enchantments woven across the knuckles.

He took a slow step toward them, his fingers unconsciously curling at his side, his left hand itching beneath the glove he didn't wear.

That mark.

The purple crow sigil, etched forever into his skin, still pulsed faintly beneath his aether-sight. Brennak's words echoed in his head: "That thing reminds me of something…"

He might be free of Uncle. Might have killed him. Might have buried the past in Alvar.

But the man from the capital, the one with the guild ties, the one who'd slipped through the chaos like shadow through silk, he was still out there. And so were plenty of others who'd recognize the crow.

Too many nobles from Caledris wandering the halls of Aetherhold.

Too many people with long memories.

Best to stay hidden in plain sight.

"You've got a sharp eye," the dwarf merchant said, noting where Thorne had gone. "That rack's not just for show. Built for mages, duelists, and anyone who'd rather keep all ten fingers while casting."

He waddled over and slapped a gloved hand against one of the displays. "Now this here, Gauntlet of the Northmarch. Warded steel, resists ice and cold-based magics. You could punch a glacier and still keep your manicure."

Thorne didn't respond.

The dwarf shrugged and moved on.

"Gauntlet of Echoes. Records your last three gestures and mimics them in a delayed burst. Can be handy in a fight or just really annoying at a dinner party."

Still, Thorne was already looking past the gauntlets, eyes drawn to the simpler items near the bottom rack. Gloves. Sleek. Unassuming.

Useful.

"Those," he said, nodding at a row of neatly folded gloves. "What are they?"

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The dwarf followed his gaze, then gave a slow, approving nod.

"Ah. A man of taste."

He pulled out several pairs and began laying them on the cloth runner like cards in a game.

"These," he said, pointing, "are the Whisperveins. Woven with silverthread and aetherlace. They reduce spell gestures to a quarter movement, perfect for subtle casting. Also mute the sound of any runes you trace in the air."

Thorne raised an eyebrow.

"Here, these beauties, Spell Stitch Memory. Woven with runes tight as a miser's purse strings. You can store a single spell in 'em, firebolt, binding thread, even a push spell if you want. One flick of your fingers, boom. Instant cast."

Thorne lifted a brow.

"Rebindable?"

"Oh aye. But you'll need to recharge it manually. Good if you've got a trick you like using more than once."

The dwarf moved to the next.

"These, Ghostflame Sigils. You cast a sigil in the air, quiet-like, invisible to everyone but you. Comes back to life a moment later: flash, stun, or a short-range ward burst. Ambush artists love it. Layer a spell mid-fight, set it off when things get messy."

Thorne tapped the table thoughtfully but said nothing.

Then the dwarf's grin widened as he carefully unfurled a pair of jet-black gloves stitched with faint violet threads that shimmered like living ink. The fingers were slightly curved even while resting, as if hungry for motion.

"These," the dwarf said reverently, "are Fangthread Warding. Rare, aggressive weave. When you parry, block, or even catch a blade on instinct… they answer back. Spectral tendrils lash out, short-range strike. Not lethal, but enough to make someone regret swinging first."

He paused, then added, "Fully recharges every few minutes. And the threads bind to your aura the moment you put them on. No one else'll be able to use them right after."

Thorne lifted the gloves.

The fabric was cool, flexible, and felt almost alive between his fingers. His veil-sense detected the enchantment immediately, curled deep into the threads like coiled magic waiting to strike.

"How much?"

"For these?" the dwarf said, stroking his beard. "One-twenty. And I'm giving you a deal, because you already made me coin today."

Thorne slipped one glove on. The fit was perfect. The weight, nothing. The magic, however, pulsed just under the surface like a tethered creature.

He flexed his fingers, imagining the threads striking out like blades from his knuckles.

"I'll take them," he said.

The dwarf grinned, clearly pleased. "Smart lad."

The dwarf smiled, clearly pleased, and packed the gloves into a small hexed box that clicked shut with a minor locking rune. "If you ever want them inscribed, I can thread sigils into the stitching. Minor warding, grip enhancements, silence field, whatever fits."

"I'll let you know."

Thorne turned to leave, slipping the box into his satchel then paused.

For the first time in what felt like months, his left hand was fully covered, its mark hidden, its edge dulled.

He let out a slow breath.

Sometimes, protection wasn't about armor.

It was about vanishing when it mattered most.

Then, just as he was turning to leave, something flickered at the edge of his vision. A shimmer of pale green and silver at the far end of the market, just a whisper of motion past a curtain-lined stall.

He paused.

"…Brennak," he murmured without turning. "What's that corner?"

The dwarf followed his gaze and made a low sound.

"Ah. That's the lockbox sellers. Rare stuff. One-offs, unpredictable. Expensive and dangerous in equal measure."

"Ever see anyone walk out of there happy?"

"Only the smart ones."

Thorne's eyes narrowed. The curtain fluttered again.

He adjusted the strap on his satchel and moved toward it without a word.

The curtain parted with the faintest whisper.

Thorne stepped through, into a quieter corner of the market. The noise dulled instantly, like a silence ward had been cast without ceremony. He scanned the space, dimmer than the rest of the market, lit by floating aether lanterns shaped like humming glass insects. They buzzed in slow, deliberate circles, casting dancing reflections over the cracked stone walls.

At the far end stood a single stall, no decorations, no signs. Just a broad stone table with several sealed lockboxes, each one humming with barely-contained energy. Some were made of obsidian, others of white marble, a few wrapped in rusted chain and sealed with glowing wax.

And behind the table stood a figure.

Tall. Towering.

At first glance, Thorne thought it was a statue, unmoving and regal, but then the being turned its head, and the light struck its form.

Its skin was black as voidglass, with golden veins threading through its chest and arms in delicate, lightning-bolt patterns. Its face was smooth, sculpted like an eternal mask, but subtly expressive, almost mournfully elegant. The eyes, deep-set and glowing softly with silver light, studied Thorne with calm interest.

A Darkling.

He'd seen them before in Aetherhold, always from a distance. They never spoke, never lingered.

But this was the first time he'd stood this close to one. It felt less like approaching a person and more like stepping into the presence of a forgotten god.

"Speak your intent," the being said, not aloud, but within his mind, the words layered, harmonic, and utterly emotionless.

"I'm browsing," Thorne replied, forcing casual into his tone. "Saw something interesting from the other side of the market."

The Darkling extended a long arm, its black-and-gold fingers resting gently on a sealed chest. "Then let the lock choose you."

"Lock?" Thorne asked confused. The Darkling gestured to the boxes. "Each one sealed with magic, keyed to a specific type of wielder. Some require blood. Others, memories. All of them hold objects lost, stolen, or never meant to be found. If one chooses you..."

Thorne raised an eyebrow. "Choose me?"

"These are not for the uncalled. If you are meant to open one, you will know."

"And if I'm not?"

"Then it will remain shut… or it will bite."

Thorne smiled faintly, gaze flicking up.

"Which one's the worst?"

The Darkling tilted its head ever so slightly. "That depends on the buyer."

There was no pressure, no pitch. Just the calm confidence of something that had no need to sell.

The boxes, about a dozen in total, were all different. One hummed softly, sealed with molten wax. Another pulsed red like a caged heart. A third looked like it had been carved from crystalized sand.

But it was none of those that drew Thorne's eye.

Instead, his gaze locked on a small case set apart from the others, half-shrouded beneath a veil of dusty silk. Its edges were jagged like broken glass, but the body of the box was obsidian and starmetal, etched with script he couldn't read. He didn't know why he reached for it.

He just did.

The moment his fingers brushed the box, it flared with light, cool and blue and deep and the air turned sharp, tasting of metal and ozone. The lid creaked open, revealing its contents:

A metal bracer, gleaming silver-black. Sleek. Etched with constellations and tethered with a single violet gem at the wrist.

Thorne blinked. It hummed in his aether sense, like a spell long slumbering.

"What is it?" he asked.

The Darkling lowered its hand onto the edge of the box and spoke. Not aloud, but in that resonant hum Thorne felt behind his eyes rather than heard.

"You've awakened it."

Thorne studied the vambrace. It looked deceptively simple. No jagged edges, no aura of menace, just clean craftsmanship and quiet power.

And yet… the longer he looked, the more he could feel it. A pulsing potential, not unlike his wand, but different, colder.

The Darkling answered his unspoken question.

"It was forged in the Celestial Apex, during the Severance Cycle. Worn once by a mage-general who could blend the breath of two spells into one, the only known instance of Starsever Protocol."

The name landed like a whisper of thunder in Thorne's mind.

"Two spells," he said, voice low. "Fused?"

"One command. Two aether channels. One result."

Thorne's thoughts reeled. The potential. The flexibility. The chaos. It was a dream made real for a mind like his, trained in strategy, deception, and layered executions.

The Darkling reached out and gently touched the vambrace with a single finger. It shimmered faintly, like a star trying to remember itself.

"It is… volatile. Living. It will not obey the weak. It does not suffer hesitation. But for one such as you…"

The silence deepened.

"It would make you… something else."

Thorne exhaled slowly, already imagining the combinations. Shadow and fire. Bind and wind. Push and lightning. All cast at once, not staggered, not split.

He could win battles with that.

He could end wars.

He could find Bea faster.

His pulse quickened.

Then the Darkling's voice returned, softer, almost regretful.

"The box demands a price. Coin is not its currency. You must offer it a memory."

Thorne's eyes flicked up. "What kind of memory?"

"One that you value. One you might not retrieve."

The weight of that hit harder than a blow.

For a heartbeat, a memory stirred. Old, soft, buried deep.

A candlelit room in their home. The scent of lilac and parchment. His sister, no older than ten, tugging him beneath a blanket fortress made from their mother's robes. She whispered stories about the stars above, pointing to constellations on a painted ceiling.

"Don't worry, Thorne," she'd said, wrapping a thin arm around him. "We'll always have each other."

The memory frayed at the edges. He couldn't remember her face clearly anymore. Only the warmth of her voice. The smell of her hair.

A day or two later, everything had burned.

No!

In his mind, flickered another moment. A warm, stolen memory of Ben, Jonah, and Darius, laughing under the lanterns during a festival. Music playing in the distance. Ben had brewed something that exploded. Jonah had screamed like a child. Darius had laughed until he cried.

The scent of roasted nuts, the glow of hanging lights, the ache in his stomach from laughing too much.

He stared at the vambrace.

He could give it. Let it go. He could always make more memories… right?

But this one?

It was untouched. One of the few moments where he had been human. Not a blade. Not a pawn.

And maybe that was the point.

He could be stronger. He could be unstoppable.

But not at that price.

Not at the cost of the few bright things he still carried.

He stepped back and let the lid of the box fall shut.

The light inside flickered… and faded.

The Darkling said nothing for a long time. Then, with the faintest motion that might have been a bow or a show of respect it removed the box from the table and returned it to the shadows.

"Another time," it said.

Thorne turned and left, the silence still humming behind him.

Just before the curtain fell closed behind him, the Darkling spoke once more.

"When you are ready to forget… return."

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