The cold cut deeper than any blade.
Kaelen lay curled in the filth of the slum alley, his breath a ragged cloud in the night air.
His left arm, once sleek with the poise of a noble's dream-walker, now oozed pus through cracked, ashen skin—flesh rotting from the inside out, a curse gnawing at his bones.
Every heartbeat sent needles stabbing behind his eyes, and his tongue tasted of rust, as if his own blood had turned to poison.
"You saw too much," the whispers croaked, slithering through his skull. "The Star Vault's Eye does not forget."
He had been a dream-walker, once.
Hired by the Luminar family to pluck secrets from the minds of their rivals, to navigate the labyrinth of sleeping thoughts.
But three months prior, in the dream of a rival lord, he'd strayed.
A crack in the dreamscape, a glimpse of something beyond—endless stars swirling into a single, unblinking eye.
Now, his mind was fraying.
The waking world bled into fractured dreams: tentacles coiling in shadowed corners, voices chanting in a tongue older than stone.
The Luminars had cast him out.
"A taint," the steward had sneered, tossing a coin at his feet. "Take it and never return."
Now, here he was: a dying rat in a gutter.
A wind howled, sharp as shattered glass.
Kaelen's vision blurred.
He was going to die here, wasn't he?
His body would rot, and the whispers would feast on his last thoughts.
Then—stillness.
The wind swallowed every sound: the distant barking of a dog, the clatter of a tavern's back door.
But beneath it, there came a creak—slow, deliberate, like an old hinge protesting.
Kaelen lifted his head.
His neck screamed in protest, but he forced his eyes open.
There, at the end of the alley, stood a shop.
It hadn't been there a moment ago.
Its walls were weathered oak, the paint peeling to reveal splinters.
The sign above the door hung crookedly, the letters worn but legible: *Whispering Emporium*.
What made his blood run colder was this: the rest of the alley—its crumbling bricks, its puddles of filth—ended where the shop began, as if the world had been sliced open to make room for it.
And he was the only one who saw it.
"Madness," Kaelen croaked, but his voice trembled.
He'd lived with madness these past months; this felt… different.
Purposeful.
He dragged himself forward.
His nails scraped the cobblestones, his knees leaving smears of blood.
The shop loomed closer.
When he reached the door, its wood felt warm beneath his palm—alive, almost.
He pushed.
The interior was a cavern.
Shelves stretched into shadow, heavy with dust and oddities: a jar of glowing blue flies, a mask stitched from human skin, a clock with teeth for hands.
A cracked mirror hung above the counter, its surface clouded.
In the corner, a leather-bound ledger lay chained to a desk, its pages blank.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Kaelen spun around, but the door was gone.
Where it had been, there was only a wall—pulsing, now, with veins of dark red.
"Inheritor," a voice whispered.
It came from everywhere: the walls, the ceiling, the very air.
Raspy, like parchment being torn.
"Complete your first trade. Or your soul becomes mine."
His throat went dry.
"What—what do you mean?"
"Twelve heartbeats to agree. Then, one day. Then, nothing."
Kaelen's hand flew to his chest.
His pulse thundered: 1… 2… 3…
He lurched for the window.
Beyond the glass swirled a maelstrom of stars and gaping maws, not the alley he'd left.
Panic clawed at him.
*This is a trap. A worse prison than the gutter.*
But his rotting arm throbbed; he could feel the curse gnawing, eager to finish him.
*What choice do I have?*
He staggered to the ledger.
As his fingers brushed it, the pages flipped, blood-red ink spilling across the first sheet:
**RULES:**
Trade requires a commodity.
A commodity requires a cost.
Give emotion for artifact.
Give memory for power.
Madness echoes; the Emporium stirs.
Kaelen's breath hitched.
He glanced at the shelves.
"Lamp," he muttered.
A bronze oil lamp materialized, its flame flaring to life.
The shelves shifted, as if rearranging themselves to accommodate it.
*It bends to my will.*
A sliver of hope cut through his terror.
*If I can control this… maybe I can survive.*
But survival came with a price.
The Voice had said trade—and trades required customers.
As if summoned, the shop's front door creaked open.
A man stumbled in, reeking of sweat and fear.
He was young, maybe twenty, with a jagged scar across his cheek.
His eyes darted to the shelves, the mirror, Kaelen—wild, like a cornered animal.
"Where… where am I?" he panted.
Kaelen tensed.
*First customer.*
He forced his voice steady.
"The Whispering Emporium. What do you seek?"
The man's hand flew to his belt, where a blood-caked dagger hung.
"I need… protection. From the guards. I—" He swallowed. "I killed my father. He was going to sell me to the Inquisition, for my… tastes. They're hunting me. I need to vanish. To make them forget."
Kaelen's gaze sharpened.
*Desperation. The best kind of customer.*
"What will you give?"
The man froze. "Gold? I have—"
"Not gold." Kaelen nodded to the ledger. "Emotion. Memory. Something pure."
The man paled. "What do you mean?"
"Your guilt," Kaelen said, voice low. "The moment you stabbed him. The way his eyes widened. The sound he made. Give me that memory, and I'll give you a vial of Oblivion's Breath. Inhale it, and the guards will see a beggar, a ghost—anyone but you."
The man's hands shook. "That… that's the only thing that keeps me awake at night. If I lose it…"
"Then you'll sleep easier," Kaelen said, coldly. "Or die screaming in a cell. Your choice."
The man hesitated, then nodded. "Do it."
Kaelen reached out.
His fingers glowed faintly—a trick from his dream-walking days, amplified by the shop—and brushed the man's temple.
Images flooded his mind: a dim room, a drunken father, a dagger plunging.
He wrenched the memory free; the man gasped, his eyes going hollow.
From the shelves, a vial materialized—black glass, swirling with smoke.
"Take it," Kaelen said.
The man fumbled for it, then bolted for the door.
It opened, and he was gone.
Kaelen exhaled.
His arm… it didn't hurt as much.
He looked down; the rot had receded, leaving pink, healing skin.
*The trade fed the shop. The shop fed me.*
A rustle made him turn.
An old man stood in the doorway, his eyes milky with blindness.
He wore a tattered cloak, and in his hand was a staff carved with runes.
"Hemlock," Kaelen said.
The blind fortune-teller who haunted the slums, muttering about "gates" and "hungry gods." He'd seen the man once, years ago, when Kaelen still had coin to spare.
Hemlock tilted his head, as if "seeing" Kaelen.
"You've woken it," he said, voice creaking. "The Emporium. It was silent for decades. Now… it hungers."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "How do you know—"
But Hemlock was already shuffling away, his staff tapping the floor.
"Pray it doesn't hunger for you," he called over his shoulder.
Alone again, Kaelen turned to the ledger.
New text glowed:
**MADNESS ECHOES: 1/100**
**NEXT UPGRADE: Unlock "Dreamweaver's Thread" (Weave false dreams into reality)**
He smiled—a thin, sharp thing.
The pain was gone, for now.
The curse had been staved off.
But the Voice's words lingered: *Complete your first trade. Or your soul becomes mine.*
He'd survived the first test.
But the shop wanted more.
And Kaelen… he wanted to live.
The mirror above the counter suddenly cleared.
In it, he saw himself—not the rotting corpse, but a man with eyes that glinted like obsidian, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Next time," the Voice purred, "the cost will be higher."
Kaelen's smile widened.
*Let it be.*
He needed to prepare.
The ledger had mentioned "pure memory" as a commodity.
And he had one.
A memory of his sister, Liora, laughing as they'd stolen apples from the market.
Bright, untainted—perfect.
But could he give it up?
The mirror fogged again.
Kaelen's fingers brushed the chain binding the ledger.
---
*(Note: The final paragraph seems to be the beginning of a separate segment, possibly a draft or alternate version of the opening. I've included its translation below, maintaining the tense and perspective shift it presents, though it doesn't seamlessly connect to the previous ending.)*
The rain fell in thin, icy needles, stinging Kaelen's chapped cheeks as he slumped against a mold-spotted brick wall.
His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a blade twisting in his chest.
*Another seizure,* he thought dimly, pressing a trembling hand to his temple.
The curse—the dreamer's rot—was eating him alive.
For weeks, it had started with the dreams: writhing shadows that oozed behind his eyelids, voices that spoke in a language older than stone, a hunger that gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Then the physical toll.
Nails blackening, skin flaking like ash, joints locking as if fused with cold iron.
He'd been a sought-after "dream interpreter" for minor nobles, once.
Now?
A corpse that hadn't yet learned to lie still.
"Pathetic," he croaked, spitting blood onto the cobblestones.
The alley stank of rotting fish and unemptied chamber pots.
Somewhere above, a dog yowled.
No one would find him here.
Not in the Dregs, where the city's refuse pooled.
Then—a sound.
Not the rain, not the distant clatter of taverns.
A low, wet squelch, like a tongue dragging over stone.
Kaelen lifted his head.
Across the alley, where there had been nothing but a boarded-up tannery an hour before, stood a shop.
It loomed, defying the grime of the Dregs.
Its walls were a sickly, pulsating gray, as if the bricks themselves were alive.
The door—carved with writhing runes—bulged slightly, as though inhaling.
Above it, a sign creaked in the wind, its wood warped and splintered.
The letters were not painted, but etched:
**WHISPERING EMPORIUM**
**TRADES IN MADNESS.**
**PRICES IN SANITY.**
Kaelen's pulse quickened, despite the pain.
His fingers dug into the wall.
*You're hallucinating,* he told himself.
The curse was frying his brain.
But the shop… it felt real.
The air around it hummed, charged with static.
When he squinted, he thought he saw shadows pooling beneath its floorboards, as if the building were rooted in something deeper than dirt.
A voice, soft as moth wings, slid into his ear.
"You're dying," it said.
Not male, not female—just a rustle of parchment, a breath through cracked glass.
"But I can fix that. If you want it."
Kaelen's throat tightened.
"Who… are you?"
"The shop. The emporium. The keeper of balances." The voice chuckled, a dry, papery sound. "You've been seen, Kaelen of House Voss. The curse clings to you like a leech, but I can starve it. All I ask is… your cooperation."
He laughed, bitter and wet.
"Cooperation? From a corpse?"
"Not yet a corpse. Not if you step inside."
The door creaked open.
A warm, clove-scented breeze spilled into the alley, chasing the rain's chill.
Kaelen's stomach twisted.
He'd dealt in secrets, in the edges of the unknown.
This… this was beyond that.
But what did he have to lose?
He pushed himself upright, every muscle screaming, and staggered across the alley.
The doorframe felt soft under his palm, like pressed flesh.
Inside, the shop was a cavern of shadow, lit by a hundred floating orbs—no, *eyes*.
Pale, lidless, watching.
The voice spoke again, closer now.
"The rules are simple. You are the merchant. They come. They beg. You grant their desires… and take their price. 'Madness echoes'—the residue of their crumbling minds—will feed the shop. Feed *you*. But beware: every trade sharpens the knife at your throat. The world outside fears what you are. They'll come for you. The Inquisition. The cults. The things that crawl when the stars align."
Kaelen's vision blurred.
"Why… me?"
"Because you're broken. And broken things make the best vessels."
A sudden crash from outside.
The door banged open.
A man stumbled in, reeking of cheap ale and fear.
He was young, maybe twenty, with a jagged scar across his left cheek.
A dagger protruded from his belt—stained red.
"Help me," he panted, sliding to his knees. "They're after me. The Watch. I… I killed my father. Over a gambling debt. They'll hang me, or worse—"
Kaelen's gaze sharpened.
The man's eyes darted, pupils dilated.
*Fear,* he realized. *Raw, pulsing fear.*
The shop's orbs glowed brighter, as if tasting it.
The voice whispered, "First customer. Marius. Greedy. Cowardly. Desperate. What does he desire?"
"Protection," Kaelen said, his voice steadying.
The pain in his chest eased, just a little.
"He wants to vanish. To be invisible to the Watch, to the hangman's noose."
Marius gaped. "Yes! Yes, that's it! I'll pay—gold, silver, anything—"
"Not gold." Kaelen took a step forward, his fingers brushing the edge of the counter. It felt alive, warm, hungry. "Fear makes you weak. But fear is also… currency here. I'll take yours. All of it."
Marius paled. "What? No—you can't—"
"Or I let the Watch find you. They'll string you up, and your last thought will be of your father's blood on your hands." Kaelen leaned in, his voice low. "Your choice: a life without fear… or a noose."
Marius hesitated, then nodded, trembling. "Do it."
Kaelen held out his hand.
The shop's walls sang, a high, keening note.
When their palms met, something cold and slick slithered up Kaelen's arm—Marius's fear, writhing like a nest of eels.
The man's eyes went blank.
His shoulders relaxed.
"Go," Kaelen said. "Walk the streets. They won't see you. Not until you want them to."
Marius staggered to his feet, a vacant smile on his face.
He left, the door slamming behind him.
Then, Kaelen doubled over, gasping.
His veins glowed faintly, blue as winter ice.
The pain—the rot—had receded.
He could breathe.
*Really breathe.*
A chime rang.
The shop's walls shifted, expanding.
New shelves materialized, groaning under the weight of strange wares: an hourglass filled with liquid shadow, a jar of teeth that whispered, a tattered map with edges chewed by something not human.
The voice purred, "Madness echoes collected. Shop upgraded. Your curse… delayed. For now."
"Delayed?" Kaelen said, straightening up.
"The emporium sustains you. But it demands more. Trades. Sacrifices. The world is a storm, Kaelen. You're either the eye… or the debris."
A cough from the doorway.
Old Man Hemlock stood there, his milky eyes fixed on Kaelen.
The blind fortune-teller was a fixture of the Dregs, his predictions as reliable as they were grim.
He carried a staff carved with bone, and his cloak reeked of sage and old smoke.
"Fool," he rasped. "You've made a pact with the hungry dark. The Inquisition will smell this place. The Saints' hounds. And worse—things that slither from the stars. They'll tear you apart, shop and all."
Kaelen's lips curled into a faint smile.
"Then I'll tear them first."
Hemlock's mouth twitched.
"Mark my words, boy. The emporium isn't a savior. It's a cage. And you're the key."
He turned, shuffling into the rain.
Kaelen watched him go, then glanced at his hands.
The blackened nails were gone.
His skin, once ashen, had flushed pink.
The voice whispered, "Hungry, merchant?"
Kaelen smiled—a thin, sharp thing.
"Ravenous."
Outside, thunder rumbled.
Somewhere, a bell tolled.
But in the Whispering Emporium, the walls breathed.