Daylight is an assault. After hours spent in darkness, the pale morning sun feels as blinding as a supernova. I am back in my alley, the bag of ore on my shoulder weighing like all my possible futures.
I cannot return to the barracks with this. I have to hide it. I find a section of dilapidated wall behind a pile of trash where a few bricks are loose. I slide the bag into the cavity and replace the bricks as best I can. It's not perfect, but no one would think to look for treasure in such a filthy place.
My return to the barracks is uneventful. My confinement is still in effect, but no one seems to care. I am a ghost in their world, and that is an advantage.
My day is a torture of waiting. Hunger returns, but it's different. It's no longer just my skill. It's the hunger for the next step, the impatience to put my plan into action. I am sitting on a fortune, yet I am starving. The irony is bitter.
I use the forced inaction to think. The Black Market. Its name is whispered in grimy taverns and dark alleys. It's not a physical place, not somewhere you find on a map. It's a network, a series of discreet meetings, passwords, and contacts. Getting in requires an introduction. Trying to infiltrate it uninvited is the surest way to end up with a dagger between the ribs.
How do I find a way in? I have no contacts, no reputation. I am a nobody.
The answer comes to me as I watch the barracks guards. Not all of them are upright, disciplined soldiers. Some have shifty eyes, perpetually empty pockets, and a tendency to disappear during their rounds. Men who supplement their income through less... official means. Men like Silas.
Silas is a guard in his forties, with a weathered face and a perpetually weary look. He has a reputation as a compulsive gambler, always in debt. A man with debts needs money. And a man who needs money knows the places where it can be made quickly.
I spend the rest of the day observing him. I see him talking in low tones with a shady merchant, accepting a small purse that immediately disappears into his pocket. He's the one. He is my way in.
When night falls, I follow him. He leaves the barracks, not to patrol, but to head for a disreputable tavern in the wharf district, "The Drowned Goblin." I let him go inside and wait outside, hidden in the shadow of a warehouse.
An hour later, he stumbles out, reeking of cheap ale. He turns into a dark alley to take a shortcut back to the barracks. This is my moment.
I step out of the shadows and block his path. He jumps, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. When he recognizes me, the fear on his face turns to irritation.
"Valdios? What the hell are you doing here? You're confined, aren't you?"
"I need your help," I say in a low, direct voice.
He scoffs. "My help? Kid, I've got enough problems of my own. Scram."
"I have something that might interest you," I insist. "Something that can solve a lot of debt problems."
His expression freezes. The word "debts" has struck a nerve. "What are you talking about?"
I pull a single small piece of Soul Ore from my pocket. I kept it on me, just in case. In the faint glow of a distant streetlamp, the blue veins pulse weakly.
Silas's eyes widen. He's no expert, but anyone who has spent time in the underbelly has heard stories of magic ore. He recognizes value, if not the exact nature of the stone.
"By the abyss... Where did you get this?" he whispers.
"That doesn't matter. What matters is that I have more. A lot more. But I can't sell it on the open market. I need an introduction."
He understands immediately. His gaze shifts from the stone to my face, his mind calculating the risks and rewards.
"The Black Market," he says, more to himself than to me. "You want to play with the big boys, kid. It's a dangerous game."
"I don't have a choice."
He is silent for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. He sees my determination, my desperation. He sees a kid with nothing to lose, which makes me a potentially valuable asset, but also a huge risk.
"Alright," he says finally. "I can give you a name and a place. But it comes at a price. Ten percent of whatever you sell. And that stone, right now, as a down payment."
Ten percent. It's a huge cut. But it's the price of admission. "Deal," I say, holding out the stone.
He snatches it and makes it disappear into his pocket. "Tomorrow night. Midnight. The old stone bridge in the tanners' district. Look for a man with a raven on his shoulder. Give him this password: 'The moon is a silent thief.' He'll tell you where to go." He gives me one last look. "Don't draw attention. Don't talk to anyone else. And if things go south, I don't know you. Got it?"
"Got it."
He pushes past me without another word and vanishes into the night.
I stand alone in the alley, my heart pounding. I have a key. But it opens the door to a cage full of wolves.
The next night is the longest of my life. I don't go hunting. I conserve my energy. I need a clear head. Hunger gnaws at me, but I endure it. It's an old friend.
Shortly before midnight, I leave the barracks. The tanners' district is a nightmare of smells. The stench of rotting hides is so strong it makes me gag. The old stone bridge is a dilapidated silhouette arching over a channel of stagnant water.
A man is leaning against the parapet, exactly as Silas described. He is wrapped in a dark cloak, and on his shoulder, a raven as black as night watches me with beady, shining eyes.
I approach, my heart in my throat. "The moon is a silent thief," I whisper.
The man doesn't even look at me. He simply replies in a toneless voice, "And the stars are her accomplices." He pulls a small wooden token from his pocket and tosses it to me. "The back door of the warehouse at the end of the pier. Show them this."
Without another word, he walks away and melts into the shadows, the raven croaking softly on his shoulder.
I follow the pier to a large, seemingly abandoned warehouse. At the back door, two massive figures stand guard. I show them the token. One of them takes it, examines it, then nods. The door creaks open.
I step into a world of shadows and whispers. The warehouse is not empty. It is filled with makeshift stalls, lit by flickering lanterns. All sorts of people are here: hooded thieves, greedy-looking merchants, heavily armed mercenaries, and even a few elegant figures who can only be nobles slumming it. This is the Black Market.
The air is thick with secrets. Everything is for sale: poisons, information, stolen artifacts, forbidden skills written on dark scrolls. It is a supermarket of vice and power.
I feel completely out of my depth, a mouse in a nest of snakes. I clutch the bag of ore, hidden under my tunic, and begin looking for a potential buyer. I can't just go to the first person I see. I need to find a specialist, someone who won't just kill me and take my goods.
My gaze is drawn to an isolated stall at the back of the warehouse. Unlike the others, it isn't overloaded with merchandise. On a simple wooden table covered with black velvet are a few select items: a vial containing a pulsing liquid, a skull engraved with runes, and a few strange gemstones.
Behind the table sits a woman. She is old, her face a parchment of wrinkles, but her eyes are sharp and intelligent. They glow with an unnatural violet light. She wears dark, intricate robes, and numerous rings adorn her gnarled fingers. She doesn't hawk her wares to passersby. She waits, observing the market like a spider in the center of her web.
An inscription is carved on a small wooden plaque on her table: "The Appraiser."
She's the one. If anyone can estimate the value of my ore and possibly buy it without killing me, it's someone whose entire trade is evaluation.
I take a deep breath and walk toward her stall. She looks up at me, and her violet gaze seems to pierce through to my deepest secrets.