Lucien Blackmoore dropped himself into the center of the Ebon Bazaar like a man stepping onto a battlefield he already knew would bite. This wasn't just some shadowy offshoot of the immortal realms anymore—it had cracked open into something worse. The bones of the old place were still here, crooked stalls stitched together with curses and scrapwood, but now they sprawled wider, warier, like they'd seen too much and kept growing anyway. The air was thick with the stink of burnt iron and bad decisions, static clinging to his coat like a second skin. Smoke hung low, and the cold didn't creep so much as carve—biting straight through layers and settling in places you didn't know could ache.
He could feel it shift around him. Not wind, not magic exactly. The Bazaar had developed a pulse, and it didn't beat right. It twitched and growled, whispered in half-languages through fluttering silks and the rustle of chain-bound wares. Ghosts drifted, lazy and cruel, their faces warped in the flicker of oil flames. A few merchants traded openly. Most just stared, eyes hollow, waiting for a scream to start the night proper.
Lucien moved like he wasn't new to this mess. His crimson coat dragged a little behind him, edges fraying and scuffed from too many close calls and long nights spent in worse places. The lining rasped against his shirt, whispering like it remembered every contract carved into flesh. The Ledger pressed tight to his ribs under the fabric, its slow, cold thump more promise than pulse. Not his heart, not exactly. Just something inside him that wouldn't stop keeping count.
Zara was already there, leaning on her elbows at the edge of her stall like she owned the space with nothing but posture. Her silks shimmered wrong under the lantern light—part liquid, part razor. There was something feral in her stillness, like she'd bite first and figure out who you were later. She was the Bazaar's spine, even if half the realm liked to pretend otherwise. Everyone who mattered knew better.
Lucien's boots dragged soft over packed ash and cursed gravel. Sparks kicked off where his soles scraped glowing runes etched deep into the stones, the kind that hummed when you stepped on them and tasted your intent. He flicked a soul-token between two fingers, letting it stutter in the air like it wanted out.
"Zara, darlin'," he said, his voice low and hoarse from the cold or too many nights not sleeping right. "Place smells like ozone and regret, but you? You're still the only one here who doesn't blink when the walls start whispering."
Zara tilted her head, slow and sharp, like measuring a blade before a cut. "Lucien Blackmoore," she said, voice like frost cracking glass. "Didn't think you'd walk in tonight. Thought maybe Cassian got lucky."
He tossed the token onto her table. It hit with a dull click, bounced once, and spun out. The light in it was wrong. Dimmer than it should be, like it didn't want to be seen.
"Trade souls for a smile, right?" Lucien said. "But this one's bent. Counterfeit. Someone's playing dress-up in my colors, crashing my circle. And I don't hear anyone laughing."
Zara plucked it up like it might bite, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. Her silks cinched tighter around her wrists, reacting to something in the air—or in her. "Cassian's got his stink all over this," she muttered. "Sloppy, but loud enough to raise ghosts. He's hammering at the walls, trying to rattle your damn foundation loose."
Lucien exhaled through his nose, slow and bitter. His jaw worked. "He's not trying to win. Just wants to leave teeth marks. Problem is, every new sigil he warps burns a little deeper. People start to forget who wrote the rules first."
The ghosts nearby caught the mood shift. One paused mid-drift to leer at the token, its face peeling sideways in a grin too wide for its head. Traders at other stalls glanced over, slow, like dogs waiting to see who barks first. Even the lanterns seemed to flicker meaner.
Lucien scanned the edge of the crowd. Familiar eyes watched him from the gloom—some owed him, most didn't. A few were just waiting for blood. He leaned closer to Zara.
"We lock this down now," he said. "Before the Bazaar turns on itself."
Zara's smile didn't reach her eyes. "You saying we're the peacekeepers now, Lucien? You and me?"
"No," he said. "I'm saying we're the ones with enough scars to know what gets left behind when the blood dries."
Zara pressed the token flat against the wood. "He's aiming to crack the spine of this place. And if the Bazaar breaks, it won't grow back right. It'll rot."
Lucien nodded once. "Then we hold. Or we burn everything before he gets to it."
Zara tossed the token aside. It rolled once and vanished between the boards like the ground was hungry for it. She didn't look at it again.
"You want help?" she said. "You've got it. But this market's not a throne, Lucien. It's a goddamn mausoleum that thinks it's still breathing. Don't mistake smoke for life."
Lucien didn't answer. He just clenched his fist and let the smoke curl out between his fingers. The fake token was gone, but the stink of it lingered—burnt sugar and spite.
Behind them, the Bazaar stirred.
"Hey, Red!" someone shouted, the voice jagged and thin like broken wire. "That coat for sale? Or you just wearin' it to warn the rest of us?"
Lucien turned. Jax was squatting beside a stall jammed full of cursed junk and cracked glass. The man grinned wide with one tooth missing and fingers twitching like he was drumming a deal out of the smoke.
Lucien barked out a tired laugh. "Flashy's the point, Jax. You should try not looking like you dressed in a back-alley tantrum."
Jax cackled. "Back-alley tantrums got better odds than contracts these days. You sure you still got all your limbs signed in the right ink?"
Lucien tossed him a coin—one with no value, just for the smirk. "You keep talking, I'll sign your teeth next."
Jax caught it, winked, and vanished between hanging silks. The Bazaar swallowed him without so much as a burp.
Lucien turned back to Zara. "That static's climbing again. You feel it?"
"Yeah," she said. "Feels like the Ledger's holding its breath."
Lucien tapped his chest once, right where the Ledger pulsed under the coat. "It's not breath. It's waiting."
His voice thinned, caught in the cold. Zara's gaze locked with his for a beat too long.
"You sure this ends with you still standing?" she asked.
Lucien smiled, not soft. "Never been. But I'll crawl over what's left, if I have to."
Zara didn't smile back. Just gave him a nod sharp enough to draw blood. "Then go."
Lucien stepped away. The smoke curled tighter now, thicker around the ankles. He felt the market watching again—every curse, every echo, every eye stitched into shadow. He passed a vendor selling trinkets stitched from hair and wire, a man muttering prayers to a blade that answered in frost. A ghost brushed past, whispering a name that wasn't his but still sounded familiar. The Ledger thumped again—heavier now.
Zara's voice cut through once more, calm but sure. "He's not playing anymore. Cassian's building something behind the static."
Lucien didn't turn. "Then we tear it down before it grows teeth."
His coat flared behind him as he moved deeper, the crimson dragging like a wound through the haze. Lanterns above him flickered again, long and slow, and the smoke throbbed like breath.
The Bazaar was still alive. But barely.
And if Cassian wanted to turn it into a graveyard, Lucien would make damn sure it came at a cost he couldn't afford.