Chapter Twelve : Merchant Quarter
The cart rolled into the heart of Avalon's trading quarter, and the world shifted.
The wide lanes narrowed into tight corridors of commerce. Buildings leaned toward each other like gossiping neighbors, their upper floors casting long shadows over the street. Awnings stretched from stall to stall, stitched in faded reds and greens, flapping gently in the breeze. The air was thick with the scent of spice, smoke, and sun-warmed grain. Voices rose and fell in a rhythm older than coin—barter, laughter, the occasional bark of a merchant defending his price.
Stone paths ran like veins through the district, black and chiseled, polished smooth by years of boots and wheels. Chariots rattled past, their drivers shouting warnings. Children darted between carts, chasing each other with sticks and half-eaten fruit. A man hammered iron in a lean-to, sparks flying like fireflies. A woman sold dried herbs from a stall draped in blue cloth, her fingers stained green from mint and sage.
It was alive. Not just busy—alive. The kind of place that didn't sleep, only paused.
He took it all in from the cart, eyes flicking from stall to stall, from face to face. He felt like a thread being pulled through a tapestry he didn't understand. And beneath it all, that same feeling lingered—the sense that something immense was watching. Not the people. Not the merchants. Something deeper. Like the city itself had taken note of him and was quietly waiting.
The cart slowed beside a squat stone building with a faded wooden sign carved in old runes. The old man pulled the reins, then turned to him with a grunt.
"Right then, lad," he said, voice rough and touched with that old-world drawl. "Ye'll be offloadin' the sacks into the storehouse, just there. Mind the barley—don't stack it too high. And the donkey—he's earned his feed. Stable's round back. Toss him the carrots and wheat stalks from the cart. He'll find his own peace."
He nodded, climbing down without a word. The old man paused, watching him for a moment.
"What name shall I call thee?" he asked.
He hesitated. A name. He didn't have one. Not really. Whatever he'd been called before—if anything—had burned away with the rest of the ruined city. But he remembered that half-charred poster dangling from a broken beam in a tavern swallowed by flame. A name had survived the fire, crooked and smeared but still there.
"Xiall," he said.
The old man nodded once. "Then Xiall it is."
He got to work. The sacks were heavy, but his arms had grown used to weight. He hauled barley first, stacking it in the cool shade of the storehouse. The crates of dried fruit came next—figs, dates, and something that smelled faintly of smoke and honey. He moved fast, not just to finish, but to keep his mind from wandering. The city's hum pressed in from all sides, and the feeling of being watched hadn't faded.
People passed. Some glanced. Some stared. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. Like he was something rare. A relic. A defenseless treasure. It made his skin crawl—and weirdly, made him feel like he should be charging admission. What am I, eye candy now? he thought, half amused, half uncomfortable. Great. Avalon's newest exhibit: Road Dust and Regret.
When the cart was empty, he led the donkey around back. The stable was small but clean, with a trough and a pile of straw that looked recently turned. He dropped in the carrots and wheat stalks he'd set aside. The donkey snorted once, then began to eat with slow, deliberate bites.
He leaned against the stable wall, letting the sounds of the market drift over him. Somewhere nearby, a bell rang. A merchant shouted about fresh dates. A child laughed. The city moved like a tide, and he was just one more piece of driftwood caught in it.
Inside the shop, he stepped through the door and froze.
She was there.
A girl—maybe his age, maybe a little younger—stood at the counter, tying sacks of barley for a bulky customer. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose braid, strands falling around her face. Her eyes were dark amber, sharp and calm. She wore a simple green dress, sleeves rolled up, apron tied tight. Nothing fancy. But she had that kind of quiet, pristine beauty that made you forget what you were supposed to be doing.
He stared. She looked up.
They locked eyes.
Silence.
He tried to smile. Just a little. Something to break the tension.
Her expression shifted—from surprise to something colder.
"You reek," she said.
He blinked. "What?"
"You smell. Bad."
She covered her nose and turned back to the customer like it was nothing.
He stood there, stunned. Then it hit him. The sweat. The grime. The road. The donkey. Oh gods. He sniffed his shirt. Oh no. His brain short-circuited. I smell like a dying goat. In a swamp. Wearing socks.
He didn't say anything. Just turned and walked deeper into the shop, hoping to find the old man and maybe a hole to crawl into.
He found him in a dim back room, hunched over a ledger, a cup of green tea steaming beside him. The old man looked up, quill still in hand.
"I've finished loading the store unit," Xiall said quietly. "Fed the donkey too. Gave it some carrots and wheat stalks."
The old man nodded, still writing. "Good."
Xiall hesitated, then added, "Old man—"
The old man raised a brow, not looking up. "Mathew," he said, cutting in. "Though most call me Old Matt. Figured you'd keep callin' me 'old man' until I gave ye somethin' better."
Xiall nodded, grateful. "Right. Thanks."
He scratched the back of his neck. "Do I smell... that bad?"
Old Matt sniffed once, then nodded. "Strongly."
Xiall groaned.
"There's a bath upstairs," Matt added. "Soap's in the wooden box. Go on. You'll scare off the customers."
Xiall didn't argue. He bolted up the stairs like he was escaping a crime scene.
The bath was in a small room above the shop. A copper tub sat near a narrow window. Steam curled from a kettle on a brazier. The wooden box held a rough bar of soap—pale, cracked, and smelling of rosemary and ash. It looked like something made by hand, probably was.
He stripped fast and sank into the warm water. It hit him like a hug. His muscles loosened. His brain slowed down. He grabbed the soap and scrubbed like he was trying to erase the last hour. The scent filled the room—sharp, earthy, clean. He dunked his head, rubbed his arms, tried to forget the girl's face when she said "you reek."
He leaned back, arms resting on the tub's rim, steam fogging the window.
Then he heard it.
A whisper.
Soft. Too soft to be real.
"Eden."
His eyes snapped open.
The name hung in the air like smoke.
His breath caught. His skin went cold despite the water. That name—he hadn't heard it since the ruins. Since the fire. Since everything went sideways.
He sat up, heart pounding.
"Eden."
It came again, barely audible, like the steam itself was speaking.
He stared at the door. At the window. At the soap in his hand.
No one was there,but the name was.
It came with a cold ,distant shrill...a sickening whisper.. haunting and vivid
"Eden"