The man who had found me was in no hurry, though his eyes seemed to search for cracks in the very air. His gray coat clung to his thin body like a second skin, his hat hid almost his entire face, yet I could feel his gaze piercing my incomplete memory.
—Don't remember your name? —he asked, not waiting for an answer.—No. I don't even know where I come from.
He nodded, as if listening to a distant echo.—It's common, he murmured. This land takes the memories of those who fall here. It drinks them slowly.
He led me without asking toward a rusted gate that appeared between the buildings, a wall I had never seen before but now stood before me like an entrance to another world.
—Come, he said. Here moves the hidden truth, what no one wants you to see. The Shadow Market.
As we crossed, the air changed. It no longer smelled of metal and dust, but of smoke and wet earth. Voices swirled like a constant wind, low and whispering, full of promises and threats.
It was no ordinary market. There were no bright tents, no shouting vendors. It was a labyrinth of dark alleys, where light struggled to filter through and every figure seemed to watch you with a mix of hunger and suspicion.
The man, who finally introduced himself as Kharos, walked with a confident stride, as if every stone on the path belonged to him.
—Here, more than objects are traded, he whispered. Here, destinies change, secrets are sold, and seconds of life are bought.
A stall caught my attention: a woman with tattoos that looked like star maps offered jars filled with golden dust.—Healing for those whose threads have broken, she said in a low voice. But not without a price.
The thought that my time—the "thread" the book had mentioned—could be broken or consumed weighed on my chest like an invisible slab.
Kharos led me to a hunched old man examining a small object that emitted faint, erratic lights.
—This is Vorel, he told me. He knows what it means to bear the Authority.
Vorel took the book from my hands without asking, his bony fingers tracing the pages with almost painful patience.
—It is a power, he said at last, that can shape what surrounds you, yes, but it also consumes the deepest part of whoever possesses it. The Archive never forgets, and it never forgives. Every change you make will have a price… and if that price is too high, reality will simply erase you.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. I looked at the clock I now saw in the book, still ticking without pause, relentless.
—Is there a way to stop it? —I asked, my voice breaking.
Kharos smiled, but it was not a kind smile.—There are those who try to trick the Archive. Those who buy time with other lives, those who write pacts with entities no one should summon. But the Market… the Market is merciless.
Vorel returned the book, and the murmur of the market enveloped me again, like a cold breath.
Kharos turned to me with a crooked smile.
—Welcome to your new life, reader. This is where the true story begins.
For the first time, I realized I was not just trapped in a strange world, but a prisoner of its story.