Lucien Blackmoore moved through the tangled sprawl of Wyrmhollow's black market like a shadow with sharp edges—quiet but cutting. The market didn't just sprawl. It throbbed, alive with a savage kind of tension, a beast wound tight on nerves that could snap from the smallest wrong move.
Lucien slipped through the chaos like he owned every shattered promise, every ledger line written in blood and debt. His coat billowed behind him, pulling stale, static-laden air, carrying a faint trace of infernal smoke no one around dared to admit smelling. The Ledger pulsed beneath his ribs, a steady throb woven of inked bargains and soul-tethered debts, every beat heavy with history—his own history. It was a reminder etched in rhythm: every deal, every mark, every shadow he chased had cost something. It whispered to him, always: "Your boons burn innocents." He could still taste the bitterness from the guard they lost in the vault raid—the cost of ambition folded into every one of his moves.
He moved like a man who had learned to slip through cracks no one else saw. His eyes cut through the crowd like shards of glass trapped in a crooked grin, sharp and restless. Lucien didn't merely watch; he unraveled the market, piece by piece—what they sold, what they hid, who watched them, and who tried not to watch him back.
Zek stood out from the crowd like a dark, immovable statue—arms crossed, jaw tight, muscle thick beneath a battered synth-leather vest crusted with stains older than time. Obsidian Veil, no question. All brute force and no finesse. His face was a roadmap of old fights, scars and bruises telling tales of wreckage left in his wake. His eyes locked on Lucien like a predator waiting for permission to strike.
Lucien's grin flickered into place—crooked, sharp, not friendly, more like a match lit just to see what might burn. "Zek, my friend," he said, voice thick and slow, molasses dragging over gravel, "this market's a knife fight, but I'm the blade. Sign here, and you're golden."
No answer. Zek's fist came first—fast and mean—swinging wide and ugly toward Lucien's skull. Lucien leaned back, moving as if dodging a raindrop, coat flaring with the motion, the punch cutting through empty air where he'd just stood.
He spun, grin still sharp as shattered glass, brushing dust from his shoulder like the whole thing was a bore. "Careful, big guy," he said, voice dipped in mock sweetness and false concern, "you'll chip a knuckle and ruin your whole aesthetic."
Zek growled low, chest heaving, muscles taut like he wanted to throw himself at Lucien again, but the Ledger Keeper was already flicking a datapad onto a nearby stall table. The clink of it landing sliced through the market noise, sharp and deliberate.
"Sign here. Seal the deal. Walk out heavier than you came," Lucien said, voice smooth and lazy, like someone offering a poison with a smile.
Zek's fingers curled, twitching with frustration, torn between smashing the device or punching right through it. Around them, the market pulsed louder—vendors shouting over each other, dice clattering, and somewhere close by, a dull, wet thud was followed by a sharp scream.
Lucien didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His stare was a silent dare, carved from years of knowing too much. "I know more than you. And worse—I probably like you less."
Finally, Zek grunted, swallowed down his fury, and pressed his thumb to the pad. The screen chimed—deal done.
Lucien's grin stretched wider. "See? Easy as stealing candy from a corpse."
His gaze flicked to the cracked stone behind Zek's stall where a faint glow leaked out—not neon wiring or rigged signs, but something older. A sigil scorched into the rock, edges charred like a fresh scar. Crude. Sloppy. Familiar.
Lucien's smile thinned. "Another burned sigil? Someone's got no game."
Zek glanced back, jaw tightening like he'd caught a secret stuck in his teeth, but Lucien was already slipping away, dissolving into the crowd like smoke down a gutter. The bitter, metallic stench of old magic clung to the air behind him—no part of his style.
Zek's growl shredded the chaos into a yell, rage trailing like a kicked hornet's nest. Lucien didn't break stride. His laughter cut through the noise—light and sharp like cracked wind chimes caught in a storm.
Cassian's fingerprints were smeared all over this mess. Sloppy work. Loud. Dangerous in the dumbest way possible.
Lucien dove deeper into the market's underbelly, weaving through hunched bodies and half-built stalls like water slipping through fractured stone. The market didn't quiet; it pulsed louder, like it knew tension was boiling beneath his boots.
He didn't need to speak it aloud. He felt it in every slick breath, every shadowed corner. Cassian's chaos wasn't creeping anymore. It was bleeding, raw and wild, setting fire to years of fragile bridges Lucien had painstakingly built.
Lucien had always been the blade in the dark, not the hammer crashing doors. He wasn't about to let Cassian's reckless fires turn his world to ash.
The black market breathed heavy around him—monster made of desperate trades and broken promises. Sweat, oil, old blood, synth spice thick like rotten fruit layered on every surface. Ugly rhythm, but rhythm all the same. Boots scraped the stones, coins slapped palms, stolen tech hummed barely alive.
He passed a hunched vendor shoving a half-glowing charm into cracked hands. The charm pulsed muddy green, like it had stolen a breath and didn't want to give it back. Behind the stall, a kid no older than ten watched wide-eyed, body coiled tight, fingers twitching like he planned to snatch and vanish before anyone noticed.
Lucien's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, more a warning cloaked in one. Everything here had a price. Even the wide-eyed.
He slipped through tight groups of bodies, nodding at faces he half-recognized. A few nodded back. Most didn't want to be seen near Lucien Blackmoore—too much heat, too many questions.
A wiry man brushed past him, dropping something small and glinting into Lucien's coat pocket. Lucien caught the movement but let it slide. Fast hands, twitchy eyes—either a desperate thief or a courier with a death wish.
The Ledger pulsed firmer now, tugging like a living thing. It knew this place, remembered every name owing blood or soul. Lucien's fingers brushed the cold plastic beneath his coat, warmth flickering beneath his touch.
The Ledger whispered in his mind: "Zek—status: volatile. Collections overdue. Risk elevated."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. Zek's fury wasn't just posturing—it was a threat to the delicate balance Lucien maintained. He needed to move fast.
Suddenly, Zek's voice exploded behind him. Lucien spun just in time to see the brute storming between stalls, knocking over a bucket of parts and nearly trampling a vendor's stool. People scattered like cockroaches. The market's pulse throbbed louder, panic slicing the noise.
Lucien's voice slid out smooth and lazy. "Easy, big guy. You're gonna tip the whole damn market."
Zek's nostrils flared, eyes blazing like hot coals. "This place's a joke, Blackmoore. I don't do charity."
Lucien held the datapad out again, tapping the screen. "Nothing here's free. Sign, walk out heavier than you came."
Zek looked like he might crush the thing, but something in Lucien's cold, patient stare stopped him. That knowing look—like Lucien already had the upper hand.
With a grunt, Zek pressed his mark again. Another deal sealed. Another string pulled tight.
Lucien let satisfaction roll through him slow and quiet. "See? Smooth."
Then the market cracked. A shout ripped the air like a whip. Two men near the south stalls erupted—one smashing the other into a table, the other drawing a short blade from his belt. The crowd split fast. One scream. A crash. The sound of something tearing.
Lucien didn't move. Just watched.
The black market wasn't just a place. It was a wild animal with teeth and spite, seconds from biting the wrong person.
But Lucien? He held the leash. Always had.
Cassian could light the fires. Lucien decided what burned.
The night wasn't done.
And neither was the game.
Ledger updates flickered behind Lucien's vision: "Target: Zek. Status: volatile. Collections overdue: 3. Risk level: elevated." Then, "Drone sweep commencing in 60 seconds." "Glyph traps ready. Pattern deviations noted." The system ran through predictive analysis as Lucien prepared the next move.
He pulled a trio of soulglass shards from his coat—decoys etched with false contracts and destination glyphs designed to scatter drone pursuit. The shards pulsed faintly, orange edges flickering like warning lights.
The Ledger whispered sharp: "Deploy decoys. False trail active."
Lucien slid a shard into the market's pulse, watching as drone signatures rippled in response. The glow behind his eyelids sharpened—the drone movements predicted, calculated, herded by the Ledger's unseen hand.
A cold pulse hit his mind: "Contact Dax—status critical."
Lucien hesitated. Dax was the only contact in this chaos who could tip the balance. But the Ledger's pulse urged sacrifice.
The air shifted. A Cassian cipher blazed on a cracked wall near the stalls—a crude, burned mark, signaling proxy presence.
Ledger voice throbbed: "His soul's on you."
Lucien's fingers clenched. He rigged a trap—a pulse of glyph wards and infernal locks, a snare for hunters in the dark.
Dax's screams echoed faintly in the back of his mind—haunting. The Ledger reminded: "His risk was your exit. His screams lingered."
Lucien swallowed, tightening his coat. The price of survival was steep. But in Wyrmhollow, only the sharp survived the fire.
He glanced at Tess—eyes bright with nearing freedom from debt—and muttered, voice low and harsh, "Cassian's traps are sloppy."
Ledger flickered, a smirk in its glow: "So are yours."
Lucien's smile was thin and sharp. The game wasn't over. Not by a long shot.