The market of the southern ruins thrived in its chaos, eleven years after the kingdom's fall.
The land was fractured, its former glory replaced by the ruthless dance of power: the House of Daraja, a coalition of the rebel nobles shedding their ancestral names for the weighty legacy of Daraja; merchant guilds controlling the pulse of trade and wealth.
And the Nightwalkers, who carved a shadowed kingdom from the ashes. Among the region's most infamous enterprises was the slave trade, an inevitable outcome of the war that happened 10 years ago.
The market streets thrummed with life, narrow alleys lined with colorful stalls, the air thick with spices, sweet dates, and the clamor of haggling. Silks and tapestries fluttered in the breeze, brass lamps and ceramics catching the sun, while children weaved between camels and carts, their laughter mingling with the merchants' calls and the constant rhythm of the bustling souk.
At midday, the sun blazed overhead, scorching the streets and sands with an unrelenting heat. The air shimmered in wavering waves, rising from sun-baked stone and golden dunes, making the world feel heavy and almost liquid under the blazing sky.
Imperialis, outsiders from the West were an unusual sight here, their tailored garments and careful posture marking them immediately. One such figure moved with quiet purpose, a butler from the West, sent to procure am unusual commodity.
.oHis eyes were sharp, scanning, analyzing every stall.
After passing several merchants who could not meet his requirements, he finally stopped in front of a shop tucked into a narrow alley. The sign above read: Khamari's Wares, its dark wood polished by years of trade and the passing hands of countless buyers.
As he entered, the shopkeeper looked up, eyes glinting with curiosity. "And you are…?" His voice laced with the thick, lilting accent common to the south, each word rolling gently off his tongue yet carrying the weight of caution and inquiry.
"Nuel," the butler replied evenly, his tone calm yet commanding. There was no hint of hesitation.
For a long moment, they held each other's gaze, silent yet heavy with unspoken judgment. The merchant's eyes flickered with a knowing glint, and a faint smile touched his lips.
"Follow me, habibi," he said finally, his voice smooth, deliberate. "I think… I have that which you seek.
He followed behind, every sense alert. Tales of southern traders had reached even the western region—stories of men disappearing without a trace, imperial customers fetching high prices in the shadowed corners of the south. Nuel's pace was steady, but his eyes flicked from shadow to shadow, noting every movement, every sound.