Chapter 13: Chapter 13

The market never stayed in one place for long. It wasn’t hidden, exactly, just inconvenient to find unless you knew what you were looking for. That was the point. It went where it wouldn’t be disturbed, where no one with power or influence would bother acknowledging its existence. The Hollows had plenty of places like that.

Tonight, it had settled deep in the district’s lower quarters, threading itself through half-collapsed alleys and tenements no one had lived in for years. It wasn’t hard to find if you knew the city’s patterns, if you understood where it could thrive for a night before being forced to uproot again. Some nights, it belonged to the thieves. Some nights, the enchanters.

Tonight, it belonged to the desperate.

Kristos walked without hesitation, because hesitation meant you didn’t belong. He moved like someone who had been here longer than the market itself: weight balanced, steps measured, shoulders squared against the press of thinning bodies. The market had formed where it wouldn’t choke under its own weight, where it could stretch itself into the cracks of the city unnoticed. And Kristos, every inch of him accustomed to the rhythm of a city that had tried and failed to kill him before, fit into those cracks without effort.

The streets leading there were hushed, just waiting. A flickering lamp behind a shuttered window. A door cracked open just enough for someone to listen. The city had ears, and they were all turned toward the market.

He passed a group of beggars huddled against a crumbling wall, their faces buried in threadbare cloaks. Just waiting. The ones who knew better never slept near the market. Some things took more than coin, and a warm body could be a trade. His coat shifted with each step, the worn leather brushing against the weighted belt strapped around his waist. Beneath it, the rough wool of his shirt clung to his back, damp with the city’s stale humidity. His boots scuffed against the uneven stone, their well-worn soles finding familiarity in unstable ground.

He turned another corner, and the first traces of it bled through the dark.

Streetlamps hummed low, their glow weak against the damp air. The smell of old parchment, burnt tallow, and damp wool mixed with something sharper: metal, sweat, the faintest bite of ozone from an overworked enchantment. Voices murmured in clipped tones, bargaining without enthusiasm.

No one lingered tonight.

The market still breathed, but it's pulse was thin.

Kristos saw it in the way vendors packed their goods with brisk efficiency, movements sharp, deliberate. The stalls were thinner than usual, the space between them wider, as if the market itself was making room for something it didn’t want to touch. A woman hunched over a crate of old tomes, whispering to a buyer who never once met her eyes. A cluster of men in thick cloaks stood near a smoldering brazier, voices too low to catch, one of them slipping a thin parchment into another’s palm. A shadow moved along the rooftops, watching.

The market wasn’t empty.

But it was leaving.

He already knew where to go.

And just ahead:

A familiar figure stood beneath a tattered awning, shifting from foot to foot, his head snapping toward every wrong shadow. His fingers twitched near his belt, not for coin, not for comfort. For a knife. For a cigarette. For something to keep himself from unraveling.

Kristos exhaled sharply, jaw tightening as he spotted Imp beneath the awning. The flickering lamp light caught the sharp planes of his face, emphasizing the deep-set green of his eyes, narrowed in quiet irritation. His stubble caught the dim glow, a rough shadow against skin hardened by years of exposure. He didn’t need to scan the thinning market. He already knew why he’d been summoned.

And he already knew why Imp had dragged him here instead of choosing somewhere simpler. It was pointless caution. If the Viper wanted him dead, a crowded market wouldn’t stop it. If the Viper wanted to make an example of him, a crowded market just ensured an audience. Imp’s paranoia had never been useful, just exhausting.

"Imp."

Imp flinched at his own name, then let out a nervous chuckle, rolling his shoulders as if to shake something off. It didn’t work.

"Fortier." Imp’s voice was low, clipped, strained. His fingers curled, then flexed. "Took your time."

Kristos slowed to a stop, broad shoulders rolling beneath his weathered coat. His stance was solid, unshaken, the kind that absorbed weight rather than shifted beneath it. He watched the market shift around them, unmoving as the crowd ebbed and flowed, a fixed point in the current.

“I walked.”

Imp let out a breath—one that had too much weight in it.

“Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Well. You always do.”

Then, quieter, twitching again toward his belt,

“Too many eyes tonight. Feels like something’s up.”

Kristos almost rolled his eyes. Almost.

“It’s always something with you.”

Dismissive. Half-annoyed, half-amused.

Like this wasn’t the start of something.

Kristos exhaled through his nose, his irritation manifesting in the measured roll of his shoulders.

Imp did.

Enough that Kristos felt the shift, the weight of hesitation anchoring him in place. His fingers still twitched near his belt, still skirting the edges of a cigarette he wouldn’t smoke or a blade he wasn’t ready to draw. Imp inhaled sharply, as if bracing, then let it out in a humorless laugh.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Kristos’ jaw tightened. "No."

"Right. Of course not." Imp huffed, then shook his head. "Just figured, y’know, botched jobs, open contracts on your head, pissed-off crime lords—you might have some thoughts."

Imp’s gaze flicked over him—the tired cut of his features, the streaks of gray now threading through his dark, too-short hair. His deep-set eyes, once sharper, now carried a dull, measured patience, like a man past giving a damn but not past knowing better.

Kristos kept walking. "No thoughts worth sharing."

Imp made a strangled sound in his throat, somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. "You can’t just pretend none of this is happening, Fortier."

Kristos adjusted his coat, pushing past a hunched figure at the edge of the path. "Past giving a damn."

"That’s not real comforting," Imp muttered. His hands dipped into his coat pockets, fingers curling against the fabric. His steps caught up, too quick, like he was trying to outpace something else.

"Listen. About that job." The words came too fast. He swallowed, resetting.. A swallow. He forced it easy. "You gonna at least hear me out?"

Kristos’ steps stuttered, just slightly, but Imp caught it. Pounced on it.

"It’s clean," he pressed, but the words weren’t as smooth as they should have been. They landed a little too sharp, a little too thin. "No kids, no civilians, no mess. Just a job. Just a payout." He exhaled hard through his nose, shifting his weight. "And the guy asking? He’s not some gutter-rat throwing coins for desperation. He seems like good people."

Kristos exhaled sharply. He didn’t need to think about it. The answer was old, well-worn. "Good people don’t hire men like me."

Imp’s mouth pressed into a tight line. He didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He’d been fed that line himself, and right now, he wasn’t sure if Kristos was wrong.

"Maybe not. But they’re willing to hire you. And considering the alternatives, that should count for something." His fingers drummed against his pocket. Too quick. Stopping just as fast.

Kristos said nothing.

Imp pushed on, because stopping wasn’t an option anymore.

"I mean it, Fortier." The lightness in his voice was forced now, stretched too thin. His foot scuffed against the street, a sharp exhale slipping past his teeth. "I didn’t just throw your name out there. This guy came to me." His lips twitched, almost a grimace. "And you know what that means."

Kristos gave him a look, unreadable in the dim light.

"It means you’re already on someone’s radar." Imp’s fingers twitched like he wanted to shake something off. Maybe the weight pressing at his ribs. Maybe the way Azariah’s voice still curled in the back of his mind, slow and sure, a man who already knew the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"You need a way out, Fortier." He exhaled sharply, the words dropping lower. Less sales pitch, more survival instinct. "And this job? It gives you one."

Kristos turned sharply, cutting him a look. "You think there’s a way out?"

Imp’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He closed it. Then tried again. "You can’t just keep waiting for Mael to find you."

"And what?" Kristos’ voice was low, quiet. Not quite a threat. "Run?"

"Survive." Imp’s voice dipped, an edge of desperation sneaking in. "You could do worse than this offer."

Kristos didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he let the silence drag, the weight of it pressing against the narrowing alleys and the thinning crowd. A vendor finished packing up, their cart creaking into the distance. Somewhere nearby, boots scuffed against stone, a sound that should’ve been meaningless, but wasn’t.

Imp shifted beside him. "You don’t have to decide right now. Just don’t do anything stupid in the meantime."

Kristos let out a slow breath, then finally, finally looked at him.

"I don’t need you to hold my damn hand, Imp."

Imp met his gaze. For once, he didn’t flinch.

"Then quit making it look like you need saving."

Kristos had no response to that. His jaw tightened, the old scar along the bridge of his nose pulling as he exhaled, slow, measured, controlled.

The market lingered, faltering but not yet finished, though the air itself seemed to bristle, waiting.

Voices still rolled over each other in layered murmurs, vendors haggling, hands exchanging coin for things no one should be selling. A low hum of transactions, quiet deals, whispered names. But underneath it, something had shifted.

A stillness gathered at the edges, subtle, but wrong. Like a ripple beneath calm water. A tightening. Heads turned slower. Footsteps missed their beat. Someone exhaled too softly, too carefully, as if waiting for something to pass unseen.

Then, lavender. Thick, cloying. Wrapped in something darker: burnt spice, old wood, the ghost of something sweet that had long since turned bitter.

The scent lingered.

It curled through the air, threading between the stink of bodies, oil smoke, and rotting fruit. It didn’t belong here.

That was how he knew.

Kristos’ breath went slow. Measured. Just awareness.

Kristos ignored it.

But then he saw her.

Her.

A miserable old hag, draped in the thin veneer of a grandmother, all soft words and slow smiles, the kind that feigned warmth even as they slipped poison between your lips. He saw her before she saw him. Or maybe that was a lie. Maybe she’d always seen him. Maybe she’d known the second he set foot in the market, the second he made the mistake of lingering, of thinking, just for a moment, that he still had choices.

She was moving through the stalls, slow, deliberate. Browsing. A cane set her pace (tap, tap, tap), steady as a heartbeat, measured as a clock winding down. The other hand held a cigar, dark-wrapped, already smoldering between her fingers. She browsed without urgency, touching things she had no intention of buying, letting her fingers trail across worn fabrics and musty tombs. Reminding the market she was there. Smoke curled behind her as she moved, settling over the stalls like dust that refused to be brushed away.

She was waiting. Just taking her time.

Her pale fingers traced the edge of a rusted dagger laid out on a cloth-covered stall, turning it slightly. Considering it. The vendor in front of her—a man with scars across his knuckles and a patch over one eye—stood too still, watching her the way a man watches the tide pulling out, knowing it’ll come back harder.

She lifted the blade delicately, ran a thumb over the dull, nicked edge. Then—a slow inhale. The ember flared, carving deeper shadows across her face.

“Tch.” A small shake of her head. ““Past its prime,” she murmured to no one, but Kristos knew better.

The vendor swallowed. “Still sharp enough.”

She hummed.

Kristos’ stomach tightened.

His steps slowed. His stomach tightened, not fear, not yet. Just recognition.

Imp noticed her, too. His breath hitched. He muttered something beside him, shifting, his fingers twitching toward Kristos’ sleeve.

“Kristos?”

Kristos didn’t answer. Imp may not have known who she was, but he did.

He knew, knew with the cold certainty of a knife pressed to his ribs, that she had not come for pleasantries.

She turned, as if hearing him think, not speak.

And her eyes found his.

A soft smile.

She left the vendor without another word, the dagger forgotten. The market moved around her, shifting. A ripple across still water. A mass pulling back just slightly, as if afraid to touch her. The movement of bodies, the shifting of weight, subtle, slight. No one stopped. No one turned to watch. But the air grew thick with awareness, the way a room changes when something violent is about to happen.

By the time she reached him, she was already shaking her head. The cane lifted, light and effortless, just a breath of movement, before tapping once, gently, against the tip of Kristos’ boot.

Not a strike. Just enough to mean something. A quiet inhale followed. Then, another slow exhale, lavender smoke curling between them, thick enough to feel.

Then, a sigh. A head shake. Her face softened into something almost sad, like she already knew how this would end.

Just disappointed. Like a grandmother at a funeral, mourning a grandson she had already written off. She peered up at him with a tired sort of affection.

The last of the smoke drifted between them, settling. Then, “Oh, Kristos.”

She sighed, shifting the cane in her grip as she took another slow drag from the cigar already resting between her fingers. The ember flared, casting the deep hollows of her face in flickering red light, the silver ring at its base catching the glow.

Smoke curled from her lips, thick with lavender and something darker: burnt spice, old wood, a sweetness that had soured with time. It moved through the market like a second presence, threading between the bodies, settling into the air like it belonged there.

The market was already stifling, thick with too many people, too much heat, but this, this was heavier. This was hers.

She didn’t look at Kristos immediately. She didn’t have to.

Instead, she exhaled in a slow, measured stream, tilting her head slightly, watching the smoke unfurl before her words came.

Then, finally, her hand lifted. Brushing the burned edge of his coat before he could stop it, smoothing nothing, fingers pressing just a little too long.

“Look at you.”

Her gaze dragged over him, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the hollows beneath his eyes, the gauntness that hadn't been there before. His broad shoulders carried the weight of something heavier than exhaustion, but he stood like a man refusing to acknowledge it.

Her veined hands reached out before he could stop them. Brushing soot from his coat, smoothing the ruined fabric where the fire had eaten too close. A tender gesture, if not for the way her fingers lingered just a little too long.

She wasn’t frail, though her bones had gone sharp beneath her thinning skin. Her coat was too clean for this district, dark, well-kept, practical in a way that meant she hadn’t dressed herself.

Someone else had.

Kristos swallowed the urge to step back. That would be a reaction. That would be an admission. His fingers twitched, small, involuntary, before stilling. He exhaled through his nose. Measured. Controlled.

Instead, he let her fuss.

She tutted under her breath, adjusting the collar of his cloak. A sigh, full of disappointment. Her fingers brushed his collar, adjusting it like a mother fussing over a child. The touch was light, but not a suggestion. It was habit. Claim.

“You never were one for keeping tidy,” she sighed. “Always in a rush. Always running. And now, look at the state of you.”

Kristos didn’t move.

Her fingers lingered. A heartbeat. Two. The smoothed fabric beneath her palm was nothing, just another meaningless gesture. And yet, she had not let go.

Kristos kept his face unreadable.

Her fingers trailed near the burns on his hands but never quite touched.

“You’ve been running yourself ragged, dear. And these,” she gestured toward his hands, sighing, “this will scar, you know. Such a shame.”

Her gaze drifted up, taking in the rest of him—the angular planes of his face, the deep lines carved into his brow, the nose that had been broken and never quite set right. The scar across the bridge of it, faint, but there. His stubble had grown uneven, like he hadn’t thought of a razor in weeks.

“You used to be quite striking.” Her pale blue eyes met his, holding just a second too long.

Kristos felt the weight of Imp shifting beside him. Tension rolling through the man’s shoulders, his stance subtly adjusting.

"You’ve gone and gotten yourself in so much trouble, haven’t you, Dear?"

Kristos said nothing.

Her lips pressed together, eyes drifting over him, assessing. She clicked her tongue softly.

"And after all the opportunities you’ve been given."

Imp was nervous.

More nervous than usual.

The old woman exhaled, slow. A quiet, thoughtful sound.

“You never did listen to me.”

The noise of the market had thinned in waves. Conversations didn’t die. They tapered off. A ripple moving outward. No one wanted to be the last voice left in the market. Vendors closed their stalls; they lingered for a moment, watching, before leaving.

“You always had such potential,” she mused. “And yet, here we are.”

She clicked her tongue, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve.

Somewhere, a door creaked. Then shut. Locked.A vendor closed up early, too hard. Too final.

The weight of her fingers on his coat shifted. Became something else.

A grip.

She smoothed the fabric once, twice. Then tighter.

Then she let go.

The warmth left her eyes. The softness in her voice thinned into something more precise.

“Tell me, Kristos,” Her voice softened, a murmur wound in regret. “Does running make you feel better? Does pretending you have choices help you sleep at night?”

Kristos’ pulse remained steady.

Her lips pressed together, not quite a frown. A sigh, small and private.

Then, for the first time, her hand gripped his sleeve. Just a second too firm.

A shift. A subtle but absolute change.

A vendor slammed his stall closed, too hard.

Somewhere, a door creaked. Then locked.

She let go.

Her voice changed.

She took another inhale, slow, deep, filling her lungs. The ember flared, painting the hollows of her face in burning light.

Then, she exhaled, directly between them.

The smoke curled between them, thick as a second skin. Kristos didn’t cough. Didn’t react. But he felt it, sitting low in his throat, pressing against his ribs like an unspoken word.

"You can’t run forever."

The finality in her words pressed against his ribs like a knife.

Kristos went still.

Just still. His breath felt too loud. His heartbeat, distant, like a sound coming from another room.

Imp swallowed hard beside him.

The old woman’s pale blue eyes never wavered, never blinked. The lamp light cut through the lines of her face, deepening them, making her something already buried.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown.

She just watched him.

"It’s almost funny, isn’t it?"

Not amusement. Not cruelty.

"All this time, and you still don’t see it coming."

Then she turned, and walked away.

Just done.

Her cane struck the stone ground, soft, deliberate. A measured tap, tap, tap, steady as the tick of a dying clock.