The sun hung low and colorless above the fields, casting a pale haze that dulled even the sound of the caravan wheels. The land before Giggleburg looked sick—patches of grass the color of old bones, trees twisted toward the road as though trying to whisper warnings.
At the edge of that dying plain, the black gates of Giggleburg rose from the dust like the ribs of some buried beast.
Two guards waited there. One's helmet had fused into his skin; the other's horns had warped sideways as if melted by heat. The smell of rust and burnt leather drifted from them.
Nogare sat upright on the wagon bench, reins steady in his hands. His expression didn't flicker. "Trade goods for iron and bone," he said calmly. "We're late."
Zentake, lounging beside him, flashed a parchment with the easy confidence of a born liar. The forged merchant papers fluttered in the wind. "Straight from Korvath," he said. "Old stock, but good."
The guards stared at them for a long time. One grunted, "No sane man comes in anymore."
Nogare smiled faintly. "Then you'll have less competition."
A moment later, the gates groaned open. The sound was slow and heavy, echoing like a tomb door dragging against stone.
As they rolled through, the iron slammed shut behind them. The clang carried for miles.
Yoshiya felt it inside his chest—like the world had sealed them in.
Omina's hand brushed his arm, a silent warning.
Inside Giggleburg, the air felt thicker. Dust swirled around the wagon wheels as they crept through narrow streets lined with collapsed stone. Half the buildings leaned against each other like drunkards too tired to stand. The smell was ash and something sweeter, rotting.
"Charming neighborhood," Zentake muttered, scanning the rooftops.
Yoshiya didn't answer. His eyes caught something—a silhouette in a window, too still to be human. Then another. They vanished when he blinked.
Omina walked beside the wagon, her eyes darting from shadow to shadow. A faint whispering seemed to follow her, voices just beyond comprehension.
Nogare didn't seem to notice, or pretended not to. He drove the horses at a slow, steady pace. "Stay in character," he murmured. "Traders, not tourists."
A small group of citizens shuffled past them—thin, pale, faces blank. Their eyes were the color of fog. None of them spoke. Only the dragging rhythm of their feet filled the street.
"This place," Yoshiya whispered, "it's dying."
Nogare's reply was simple. "It's already dead."
They turned into a side street that sloped downward toward the river. At the end of it stood the remains of a mansion—its once-white pillars now gray and cracked, its gate hanging open as though waiting.
Nogare halted the caravan. "We stay here."
The horses whickered nervously. Even they seemed to feel it—the quiet that pressed on everything like a hand.
The mansion was a ruin of elegance. A chandelier lay shattered across the marble floor, its crystals scattered like fallen stars. Burned portraits hung crookedly on the walls, faces blackened and melting. A grand piano sat in one corner, its strings snapped, the wood warped from fire.
Omina knelt by the hearth and coaxed a small flame to life, its orange glow pushing back the shadows. Yoshiya sealed the windows with planks, each nail echoing through the empty hall. Nogare moved through the rooms in silence, mapping exits and vantage points.
Zentake rummaged through the cabinets. "Who knew ghosts had good taste?" he muttered, pulling out a silver spoon and twirling it between his fingers.
They gathered around the small fire for a quick meal—salted meat, stale bread, and bitter water. No one complained.
Nogare broke the silence first. "Tomorrow we begin. We move before dawn."
Omina's eyes flickered in the firelight. "And tonight?"
"Rest," Nogare said, as if the word were a commandment. "We'll need it."
Zentake gave a crooked grin. "I'll take a little walk. Trade doesn't wait."
Yoshiya looked up. "It's dangerous out there."
"Danger's what makes things valuable," Zentake replied, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
Nogare didn't stop him—only said, "Don't get caught."
Zentake saluted lazily and slipped into the night.
Hours passed. The fire burned low. The silence grew heavier. Wind moaned through the broken windows like someone sighing in another room.
Then—distantly—came a scream. Short. Cut off.
Yoshiya froze. Omina opened her eyes but said nothing. Nogare sat by the wall, cleaning his dagger with slow, precise movements.
He didn't even look up.
Yoshiya lay back down, staring at the cracked ceiling. His thoughts twisted. They were inside enemy territory, posing as traders, working with killers, moving like shadows through a broken world.
He whispered to no one, "Are we really heroes anymore?"
Omina, half-asleep beside him, murmured softly, "We're survivors."
Outside, faint footsteps echoed down the alley. Zentake's shadow appeared briefly in the doorway, then vanished again. He was grinning, humming under his breath, a bag of stolen gold at his hip.
The city didn't react. Giggleburg simply watched them—silent, patient, waiting.
By morning, smoke would rise again from its heart. But for now, the traders slept among its ghosts, their fire flickering weakly in the dark.