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The cloth curtain that covered the shop entrance did not flutter like normal fabric. It moved like skin.
It was soft. It was heavy.
As if it had soaked up years of smoke and secrets until it learned to cling to them.
Sekhmet pushed it aside and stepped in.
Shhhk…
The sound faded quickly, swallowed by the shop's silence.
Inside, the air was colder than the market outside. Not winter-cold. Not natural-cold. It was the kind of chill that sat in the bones like a warning, like the room itself was telling visitors not to get comfortable.
A faint red glow lit the space from lanterns that were not lanterns. They looked like glass bulbs filled with thick crimson liquid, swirling slowly as if alive.
Drip… drip…
A slow sound of liquid dripping echoed somewhere deeper in the shop, steady and patient.
The shelves were packed.
Not with weapons.
Not with artifacts.
With jars.
Hundreds of jars.
Some small as a fist.
Some large as a head.
