The instant the blur collided with me, I nearly staggered, but reflexes—bless their split-second magic—saved me. My body pivoted like a well-oiled machine, right foot sliding back to anchor me, heel angled just so to soak up the impact. My arms counterbanced instinctively, and my fingers flexed in preparation—ready to defend, but wisely holding their fire. The force that might’ve toppled me fizzled harmlessly, dissipating through my adjusted posture instead of bowling me over. Crisis averted.

  I gnced at the girl now sprawled on the ground, rubbing her head, looking every bit the picture of “oops.”

  Oddly, I noticed something else, too: masks—or the distinct ck thereof. In this bustling crowd of a few hundred souls, maybe one or two other people wore them. Otherwise, it was just me, pying the lone masked crusader in a sea of bare faces. The same went for the girl in front of me.

  She was Saryn—a serpent kin—impossible to miss with those distinctive features. Green scales patterned her neck, and her golden-green eyes, slit-pupiled and gleaming, were sharp. Delicate, flexible spines extended behind her ears, their translucent tips catching the light just right. Long bck braids cascaded down her back, dotted with intricate accessories that screamed wealth.

  Speaking of wealth, her attire wasn’t exactly low-district chic. The fabric alone could pay for someone’s next ten meals, and that wasn’t counting the craftsmanship. It wasn’t just her either—most of the people here were dressed like they’d wandered in from the upper or middle districts. I guess that made sense; this market was famed for its rare and exotic goods, a magnet for anyone with coin to burn.

  The Saryn girl was clutching a bag that, thanks to our little encounter, had vomited its contents onto the ground. Ingredients y scattered—herbs, powders, oils, metals, and a few other curiosities that raised an eyebrow. She gasped and dropped to her knees, scrambling to gather her things.

  “Ahh, I’m so sorry!” she said, her voice rushed and panicked as she tried to corral the wayward items. “I wasn’t paying attention!”

  I sighed, crouching to help her. Honestly, my first instinct had been to throw a punch—old habits die hard when you’re used to monsters barreling into you. But this wasn’t a fight, and I didn’t want to accidentally unch her into next week.

  As I handed her the items, my eyes caught on something—a mirror. A beautifully ornate one, engraved with intricate, glowing sigils. Specifically, I recognized a web of runes for containment and protection. My frown deepened.

  And then there were the other ingredients. Iridescent Draught, rare metals, and more rare powders. It clicked: these were the makings of a ritual—specifically one involving Parda. My stomach twisted. Was she pnning a mirror summoning? If so, everyone around her might be in for a very bad day.

  What worried me most was the mirror itself. The runes were etched directly onto the frame—a gring mistake. Those symbols belonged in a ritual circle, tethered to the caster, not carved into a reflective surface where they could go haywire. Who thought this was a good idea?

  But maybe I was overthinking. Paranoia’s a side effect of my line of work. I handed the st of her items back and stood, forcing a polite smile.

  She bowed, still flustered. "Again, I’m so, so sorry for that!"

  "Don’t worry about it," I said, waving it off. "I wasn’t the one who fell. You okay?"

  She winced, shifting her weight awkwardly. "Might’ve nded wrong on my foot, but eh, I’ll live! One healing potion, and I’m good as new..." She trailed off, gncing toward the market stalls with growing distress. "After I get home, that is. Oh ancestors, I still need to find a few more ingredients—half of which I don’t even know how to identify! And it’s almost night! I’M SCREWED if I’m te by even a minute!"

  She had the energy of a brook after a rainstorm—words tumbling out, fast, unfiltered, entirely too much. Most people, when caught with ingredients that carried even a whiff of illegality, would cm up. Get cagey. Start inching toward the nearest exit. Not her. Either she was blissfully ignorant of what she’d bought or too naive to care.

  "I think you’re correct, mistress," Alice’s voice chimed in, calm and precise. "I detect an undercurrent of excitement and mild anxiety. Not even a whisper of dread—the kind any reasonable person should feel before attempting something as reckless as mirror summoning."

  That... tracked. She hadn’t flinched when I eyed her stash, hadn’t even hesitated. Her sheer ck of wariness all but screamed inexperience.

  Still. Better safe than disaster-adjacent.

  "I’ve got a fair bit of experience with rare reagents and alchemical components," I said smoothly. "If you’d like, I’ll trade you directions for a favor." A win-win situation: I’d grab some materials for myself while preventing a potential disaster. Probably.

  Her spines fred, iridescent as dragonfly wings. "Trade? But you’re—! I mean—! Oh, Sasha, you absolute turnip, she’s being kind!" She cpped a hand over her mouth too te, scaled cheeks darkening to emerald. "...Teacher says I have a 'mouth faster than a greased weasel,'" She muttered the st part under her breath, seemingly oblivious.

  Sasha. I filed the name away, along with the tremor in her cws as she thrust a crumpled list at me. The parchment reeked of vender and panic sweat.

  "Lustreleaf Extract—got that from the scariest apothecary! She had knives on her belt, Ancestors weep! And Spectral Quartz—that nice gentleman near the fountain gave me a discount! Well, after I tripped into his cart..." She tapped each item like a child recounting birthday gifts, oblivious to the damning pattern forming: binding agents, temporal stabilizers, soul anchors.

  “Ah, the world is good. Ancestors are kind.” She beamed.

  "Charming," I deadpanned.

  Alice’s snort echoed in my skull. “ This one wouldn’t recognize a red fg if it stabbed her.”

  I shook my head, sighing as I gnced over her list. Lustreleaf Extract. Mercurial Tear. Spectral Quartz Slivers. Nocturnite Ash. My brows furrowed. The deeper I read, the more certain I became—these weren’t random ingredients. This screamed Parda tampering.

  “Well,” I muttered under my breath, already weaving through the crowd toward the stalls, “let’s see what kind of mess we’re cleaning up today.”

  “These are some pricey ingredients,” I said, stopping at a stall where two men were deep in conversation with the vendor. My tone was light, as if I was more impressed by the cost than concerned with the purpose. “I’m curious, though—what are you pnning to do with such extravagant stuff?” I leaned on the word extravagant, letting awe coat my voice to mask any hint of prying.

  Predictably, she didn’t catch on. Of course, she didn’t. Her wide-eyed grin grew even brighter, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Oh, gold’s nothing! Teacher says gold’s just ‘crystallized doubt’—whatever that means! Also, hmm, it’s supposed to be a secret, but I’ll tell you because you helped me for nothing in return!” She nodded to herself, as if this justification made perfect sense. She couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. Whisper would’ve eaten her alive in five seconds ft.

  “It’s for my teacher! He’s incredibly wise, and we’re going to try creating a subspace mana pocket! A stable one!” She hopped in pce, nearly spilling her bag again, before catching herself with a hasty cough. “Ahem. Anyway, I’ve been really interested in studying mana arts that don’t involve combat. And these are for that. Totally non-violent.”

  Alice’s voice hummed in my mind, calm as always. “She’s telling the truth, mistress. She doesn’t seem to realize these could be used for a dangerous summoning.”

  That checked out. I kept my face neutral, thumbing the vial of Nocturnite Ash on the counter. “Four silvers,” the vendor barked, eyes narrowing at Sasha’s scales—a tell he’d infte prices for anyone with upper-district gloss.

  “Four?” I snorted, sliding the vial back. “That’s robbery. I’ve seen purer ash in a back-alley hookah.”

  “Three-fifty. Final offer.”

  “Two. And I don’t mention the interesting fungus growing in your shadowroot stock.”

  He paled. Sasha blinked, oblivious to the bckmail blooming beside her. The vendor shoved two vials at me for three silvers, his smile brittle. Victory. Not bad.

  Sasha gasped at the vials like I’d produced starlight. “You’re sorcery! How’d you even—? Never mind! Let’s find the Mercurial Tear next! It’s super rare, but the book says it ‘shimmers like a liar’s smile,’ whatever that—oh!” She lurched toward a spice stall, braids swinging. “That vendor’s apron! It’s got owls! Teacher loves owls! Well, except for the time one stole his wig mid-lecture…”

  She couldn’t stop talking—about her teacher, her studies, and somehow, her legendary skill at devouring sandwiches. That segued into a tale of a chef who supposedly despised her, though she seemed entirely unfazed by his wrath.

  Keeping up with her bouncing train of thought was like chasing an eel through muddy water. I pocketed the ash, watching as she charmed a stoic spice seller into gifting her a free cinnamon twist. Her ugh fizzed through the crowd, infectious as a yawn. Harmless? For now. But the ingredients in her satchel sang a darker tune.

  “It’s for her,” Sasha blurted, clutching a vial of Mercurial Tear like a holy relic. Her voice softened, spines drooping into something wistful. “My best friend! We used to stick glow-worms in our hair and pretend we were starry ancestors. Now she’s at the Alchemy Tower, decoding actual consteltions while I’m still… me.” She ughed, a brittle sound. “Her birthday’s next week. I wanted to weave her a proper star-map! Not some child’s glitter-scrawl, but a real one. The kind that sts.”

  Her fingers traced the vial’s ridges, scales dimming to mossy green. “She’s the reason I even tried mana arts. Said I had ‘untapped potential’—which, between us, probably meant ‘you’re terrible at everything else.’” A beat. Her grin reignited, all fang and fervor. “But subspace pockets? That I can do! Mostly. Sort of. Okay, once without setting the curtains on fire—”

  Oh, great. The odds of her friend being one of the apprentices I knew at the Tower? Higher than I’d like. But whatever. At least it didn’t seem like these ingredients were solely for summoning. Though her teacher still raised all kinds of red fgs in my head, I had bigger issues to handle.

  Her earnestness was a live wire—no guile, just raw, reckless hope. I’d met zealots and liars. She was neither. Just… a turnip.

  “Done,” I said, snapping the vendor’s ledger shut after haggling his price down to a pittance. “Your list’s complete. Try not to fold spacetime before dessert.”

  She gaped at the assembled ingredients, pupils blown wide. “You—! How did you even—?! Ancestors’ teeth, you’re a miracle worker!” Her bow was so deep, her braids swept the cobblestones. “If you’re ever in the Fang’s Ascent in Upper District, come find me! I’ll bake you so many honeycakes! Unless—do you hate honey? Wait, who hates honey? Unless you’re allergic? Are you allergic? Oh no, what if—”

  “Sasha.”

  “Right! Shutting up! Leaving! Not exploding!” She backpedaled straight into a stack of crates, sending cabbages rolling. “Not my fault this time!” she yelped under the vendor’s withering gre, then whipped back to me. “Thank you. Really!!”

  Then, just as suddenly, she spun and bolted, shouting over her shoulder: “And don’t worry! I’ll triple-check the runes! Quadruple! Maybe even quintuple!”

  She vanished into the throng, a whirlwind of scales, braids, and frantic determination. I could only hope she kept her head on straight—and avoided steamrolling anyone else.

  The market bustled on around me, but my gaze drifted toward the back office where Whisper had disappeared. My errands were mostly done, but curiosity gnawed at me. What exactly was Whisper digging into? If it involved the elf, that meant one of two things: trouble—or answers.

  The temptation to join her gang was real. Very real. But not yet. First, I needed to consult with Lotte or even divine a few things before committing to it.

  Just as I turned toward the room, the door opened. Whisper emerged, walking alongside a Voruun. Tall, green-skinned, and rippling with muscle, he had the unmistakable presence of someone used to commanding attention.

  And I recognized him.

  This was the same Voruun who’d shown up to fight Iron. The assumed leader. His chiseled face—tusks and all—was undeniably familiar. There was even a strange charm to his features, though that might’ve just been the adrenaline talking.

  He was also the very person I’d attacked that day.

  And now they were heading straight toward me.

  Eep!