We moved to the Phantom Night-Market.
We had left the stunned, weeping master chefs kneeling in the basalt promenade, their minds entirely broken by the localized devastation of the Flame-Kelp. As we drifted away from the public sector, the roaring, open-air magma vents were replaced by smooth, polished corridors of cooling obsidian. The crowds thinned to nothing.
"Oh, the air in here smells expensive."
Krave said.
The ancient kraken stepped lightly onto a suspended, floating platform constructed from pale, glowing moon-coral. She looked out over the market.
