The Blood-Gold Market never slept.
By day, merchants shouted over the din of haggling voices, their stalls stacked with everything from silks and spices to blades and black-market relics. By night, when the torches lit up the winding alleys and shadows stretched long, the true trade began—assassins sold their services, mercenaries auctioned stolen spoils, and noble families' envoys made deals behind sealed doors.
Tonight, however, the air was different. Thick. The entire market pulsed with a tension that even the coin-counters and thieves could feel. It wasn't just trade anymore—it was a battlefield disguised as commerce.
Raze adjusted the hood over his head as he stepped into the throng, his hand brushing the hilt of the dagger strapped at his hip. Every sense screamed caution. The whispers he'd caught earlier in the day were true: the Syndicate was here.
And they weren't here to bargain.
He passed a row of stalls where gamblers were rolling bone dice. A drunk shouted, slammed the table, and lost half his purse to jeers. Raze didn't stop. His eyes scanned the edges of the crowd. He wasn't looking for buyers. He was looking for hunters.
"The market's hot tonight," a gruff voice muttered beside him. It was Bronn, the thick-shouldered smuggler Raze had worked with once before. Bronn's beard was braided with copper rings, his eyes shifting nervously. "I don't like it, Raze. Too many blades in one place."
Raze didn't answer. He was watching a cloaked figure slip through the crowd, brushing against a merchant. The merchant didn't notice the knife until it was already pressed against his ribs. The deal was quick—too quick. A purse changed hands. The figure melted away.
Not a robbery. A message.
The Syndicate was making itself known.
Deeper into the market, the gilded arch of the Exchange Hall loomed. Inside, deals were struck in whispers, contracts sealed with blood signatures. It was said that every coin that entered the Exchange Hall came out stained—either with lies, or with blood.
Raze stepped inside.
At the far end, a table of nobles sat with masked Syndicate envoys. Their words were muffled, but Raze caught fragments: "shipment… caravans… tribute."
Then a sharp clang broke the air. A blade hit the floor. The hall fell silent.
"Raze."
The voice was cold. Familiar.
Out of the shadows stepped Veynar, the Syndicate enforcer. His armor was blackened steel, his gauntlets carved with jagged sigils. His eyes were cruel, but sharper still was the smirk on his lips.
"You've been busy," Veynar said, his boots echoing on the stone as he approached. "But you walk too freely in places that belong to us."
Raze's hand tightened on his dagger. "The market belongs to whoever can hold it."
Veynar chuckled, low and venomous. "Then let's see how much blood your words are worth."
The first strike came fast. Veynar lunged with a curved blade, the steel screeching as Raze parried. Sparks rained across the hall. Merchants scattered. Nobles shouted. Coins spilled from overturned chests and clattered across the marble floor.
Steel clashed again. And again. The hall became a storm of blades.
Veynar pressed forward with brute strength, each strike meant to crush. Raze slipped, twisted, countered with speed and precision. He wasn't stronger. But he was sharper.
Blood sprayed when Raze slashed Veynar's arm. The enforcer only laughed, red dripping from his gauntlet.
"This market will drown in blood before dawn," Veynar roared. "And every coin will carry our mark!"
With a savage swing, he sent a merchant's stall crashing into splinters. Coins scattered everywhere, rolling through bloodstains, glinting in torchlight.
The fight spilled outside.
Crowds surged. Some fled, some stayed, hungry for violence. The Blood-Gold Market thrived on spectacle, and now it had one.
Bronn appeared at Raze's side, swinging a hammer. "Looks like you found trouble!"
"Or it found me," Raze hissed, ducking another strike. He kicked a barrel into Veynar's path.
The Syndicate wasn't idle. More cloaked figures surged from the alleys, blades flashing. The market erupted into chaos. Guards hired by merchants tried to fight them off, but gold was no shield against the Syndicate's fury.
Blood pooled in the gutters. Merchants screamed as their goods were looted, their stalls torn apart.
And through it all, Raze fought.
His dagger carved through Syndicate assassins, each kill adding to the whispers that followed him: ghost, butcher, shadow. But for every one he felled, two more took their place.
The turning point came when Veynar raised a signal horn. He blew once, long and harsh. From the rooftops, black powder bombs rained down.
Explosions tore through the market. Fire spread. Gold melted in the flames. The air reeked of ash and iron.
"This is the Syndicate's claim!" Veynar shouted, his voice echoing over the chaos. "The Blood-Gold Market belongs to us!"
But Raze wasn't done.
He leapt through the fire, tackled Veynar, and drove him into the cobblestones. Their blades locked again, inches from each other's throats.
"You think gold buys loyalty?" Raze snarled. "It only buys fear."
"Fear rules better than loyalty ever could," Veynar spat back.
Their struggle ended in blood. Raze twisted, his dagger plunging into Veynar's chest. The enforcer gasped, eyes wide, before collapsing onto the scattered coins beneath them. His blood soaked the gold, staining it crimson.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of fire.
The crowd that had not fled now stared in awe. Whispers rose.
"He killed a Syndicate enforcer.""No one does that and lives.""Who is he?"
Raze stood, chest heaving, dagger dripping red. Around his boots, the coins shimmered in the firelight—drenched in blood.
For a moment, he thought of walking away. Let the market burn. Let the Syndicate claim its ashes.
But then he saw the fear in the merchants' eyes. The hunger in the Syndicate's ranks.
And he knew this was only the beginning.
The Blood-Gold Market would never be the same.
And neither would he.