The fog thinned like a curtain pulling back, and the Hollow Market revealed itself in fractured colors and crooked light. Shanty towers leaned over narrow walkways, each one dripping with rusted lanterns, glass baubles, and bits of stolen sky. Stalls were crammed together so tightly their canopies tangled overhead, trapping the smell of spiced smoke, oil, and something faintly rotting.
The skiff slid into a dock made of mismatched planks bolted onto the skeleton of an old airship. A boy no older than twelve took the mooring rope without a word, his eyes pale and watchful.
Kaelen stepped onto the dock, keeping close to Orien. Here, every glance felt like a measurement — weighing coin, danger, and weakness all at once.
A woman with ink-black teeth spotted Orien first. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. "Didn't think I'd see you again," she rasped. "Not after what happened in Shardport."
Orien didn't slow his stride. "Keep walking, Kaelen."
But whispers bloomed in their wake, carried from mouth to mouth faster than they could move: Veilfire Orien… The Ghost Captain… He came back?
They passed a stall selling bottled storms, each swirling with tiny flashes of lightning. The merchant caught Orien's gaze and smirked. "If you're here for the same deal as last time, you'll need twice the coin and none of your tricks."
Kaelen shot him a look. "What deal?"
"Not here," Orien said sharply. "Too many ears. And too many debts."
The market grew louder as they pushed deeper. Somewhere ahead, a bell rang in three slow beats, and all at once the air seemed to tilt — conversations hushed, footsteps paused.
From the far end of the main walkway, a tall figure in lacquered bone armor stepped into view, their helm shaped like a hollowed-out skull. The crowd parted in silence.
"Orien," the figure said, voice echoing oddly in the space between the market stalls, "you owe me a life. And I've come to collect."