The Melaka marketplace was a sensory explosion, a vibrant chaos that usually filled Aishah with exhilaration. Today, it was an overwhelming hum beneath the insistent thrum of the wooden fish pendant, still tucked beneath her tunic. The aroma of roasted spices mingled with sweet durian and the sharp tang of dried fish. Merchants hawked their wares in a cacophony of languages – Hokkien, Tamil, Arabic, and the melodic cadence of Old Malay. Bolts of silk shimmered beside piles of pungent cloves, while intricate silver jewelry glinted next to rough pottery.
Aishah was meant to be collecting a new batch of fine Chinese paper for Master Aris from Old Man Lim, the notoriously grumpy but reliable paper merchant in the Chinese quarter. Her mind, however, kept drifting back to the impossible map, the glowing diagram, and the tiger's fiery eyes. Was she going mad?
She pushed through a throng of porters carrying heavy sacks of rice, her gaze darting nervously. Every shadow seemed to hold a secret, every whispered conversation seemed to be about her. This was unlike her. Aishah was usually fearless, bustling through the crowds with an easy confidence. But the past two days had unsettled her.
Reaching Old Man Lim's stall, Aishah found him arguing good-naturedly with a shrewd-looking Indian spice merchant. She waited patiently, her eyes idly scanning the other stalls. Across the narrow lane, nestled between a stall selling exotic birds and another piled high with vibrant textiles, sat an old woman. She was weaving a straw mat, her fingers surprisingly nimble for her age. What drew Aishah's attention wasn't the mat, but the old woman's eyes. They were the color of deep amber, ancient and incredibly piercing, and they were fixed directly on Aishah.
A shiver traced its way down Aishah's spine. The wooden fish pendant throbbed, more intensely now, a rhythmic pulse against her skin.
The old woman smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. She wasn't a vendor; her stall held no goods, only herself and her weaving. As Aishah watched, mesmerized, the old woman subtly tilted her head, her gaze shifting slightly. Aishah followed her gaze and saw him: a tall, cloaked figure lingering near a pile of indigo dyes, his face obscured by the hood. Even from a distance, Aishah felt a chill emanate from him, a sense of something cold and calculating. He wasn't Browse; he was watching. And his eyes, even in shadow, seemed to be fixed on her.
Suddenly, the old woman's voice, surprisingly clear and strong, cut through the market's din. "Be wary, child. Not all ancient things wish to remain asleep." Her words weren't directed at anyone in particular, yet they resonated directly in Aishah's ears, chilling her to the bone.
Before Aishah could react, Old Man Lim finally turned to her. "Ah, Aishah! Here for the paper, are we? Just came in this morning, the finest quality from Guangzhou!"
When Aishah looked back, the old woman was still there, still weaving, but the cloaked figure was gone. Vanished. It was as if he had simply dissolved into the bustling crowd.
Aishah felt a knot of fear tighten in her stomach. The old woman's warning, the unsettling gaze of the cloaked figure, and the insistent thrum of the wooden fish – it was all too much to dismiss. This was no longer just about curious dreams or strange drawings. Someone was aware of her, aware of the pendant, and perhaps, aware of the ancient power stirring beneath Melaka's vibrant surface. The market's usual song of freedom had taken on a new, darker melody.