The stairway ended without warning.
One moment Aric and Lyra were climbing black stone steps under a ceiling of dripping stalactites. The next, they stepped through an archway of green light and emerged into a sky full of chimes.
It wasn't a city in any sense Aric knew. The Eighth Domain opened like a cavern turned inside-out, its walls a honeycomb of staircases and balconies that spiralled around a central shaft. Bridges of brass and black iron criss-crossed the void. From every balcony and bridge hung thousands of bells — glass, bronze, silver, clay — swaying gently in a current of air that smelled of spice, warm metal and rain.
Each bell emitted a faint sound, but not a note. Words. Murmurs. Some whispered in languages he didn't know, some laughed, some sobbed. All together they wove a constant susurrus like surf on pebbles.
Lyra stopped dead beside him. "Vale…" she breathed. "Do you hear them?"
He listened. The bells' voices were soft, but distinct. '…bring me back…' one murmured. '…don't forget…' sighed another. '…still waiting…' whispered a third.
"Names," Aric said quietly. "Fragments of Names, bottled and sold."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "It's beautiful. And wrong."
"Most things here are."
They stepped onto the nearest bridge. It vibrated underfoot, humming faintly like a stringed instrument. Below, in the central shaft, stalls and platforms floated at different heights, suspended by chains or threads. Traders in hooded robes or glittering masks hawked goods from carpets spread with bells, shards of crystal, jars of smoke. Shadows walked independently of their owners, whispering offers to passers-by.
Lyra's eyes darted everywhere, wide with wonder. "It's like a bazaar from a dream."
"Nightmare," Aric corrected. But even he couldn't hide a flicker of fascination. Every sense was overloaded: the gleam of glass bells catching green light, the scent of saffron and ozone, the cool brush of air stirred by unseen wings.
A small figure darted past them — a child-sized creature with a fox mask, carrying a tray of thimbles. Each thimble held a tiny spinning thread. It chirped something and scampered off. Lyra laughed softly despite herself.
Aric kept his eyes moving. "First rule of markets: assume everyone's selling something. Second rule: if you don't know the price, you're the product."
"You're charming as always," she said dryly.
He grinned. "Keeps me alive."
At the end of the bridge a wide platform opened, lined with stalls. Signs carved into the brass railings read in a dozen scripts: MARKET OF LOST BELLS – ALL TONGUES WELCOME. Beyond, a stair spiralled down into the throng below.
A tall woman in a coat of copper feathers stepped into their path. Her mask was a simple oval of white clay, but her eyes glowed faintly blue. She held a staff tipped with a bell.
"Newcomers," she said. Her voice echoed like two notes at once. "Welcome. State your Names for the record."
Aric inclined his head slightly. "We're just passing through."
"Everyone is." She dipped her head in return. "No harm, no theft, no unlicensed ringing. The toll for leaving is one sound you have never made before. Fail to pay, and the Market keeps you until you can."
Lyra frowned. "One sound?"
The woman's blue eyes flickered like candlelight. "A sound. A syllable, a laugh, a scream. It becomes a bell, and the Market rings it when you are gone."
Aric asked, "And if we don't?"
The woman smiled behind her mask. "Then you stay until you do. Some stay forever."
She stepped aside. "Enjoy your trade."
Aric murmured as they passed, "Sounds simple."
Lyra shot him a look. "Nothing here is simple."
They descended the stair into the heart of the Market.
It was even more chaotic up close. Stalls floated at odd angles, connected by planks or narrow ropes. Traders shouted offers — but the shouts were melodies, snatches of songs, sometimes just notes. Customers replied in kind, haggling by counterpoint. Bells of every size hung above each stall, glowing faintly with captured sound. The air tasted of incense and metal; every breath was a chord.
Lyra leaned close. "Vale, what are we looking for?"
He scanned the crowd. "A Name-sign. The next piece of the fragment's trail."
"And what does it look like?"
He shrugged. "We'll know it when it rings."
She groaned softly. "Of course."
They moved through the crowd. A masked merchant with a snake's tongue offered them a bell of "forgotten victories." Another tried to sell them a whisper of a dead king. Lyra nearly bumped into a stall of floating teacups; the cups murmured lullabies to themselves.
Aric stopped at a railing and looked down. Far below, at the Market's lowest level, hung a single massive bell of black glass. It didn't move, but the entire structure seemed to hum around it. In the space beneath it, the air shimmered like heat over sand.
He thought, 'Center of the web.'
A shadow detached itself from a nearby stall and sidled up to him. It was humanoid but two-dimensional, like ink cast on air. Its voice was a whisper in his ear. "Looking for a Name-sign, traveller?"
Aric didn't look at it. "Maybe."
"I know where one rings."
"Price?"
The shadow chuckled, a dry hiss. "An unspoken truth."
Aric smiled faintly. "You first."
The shadow tsked and withdrew. "Clever." It slithered back under its owner's feet.
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "Friend of yours?"
"Everyone's friend until they're not."
They continued. At a stall shaped like a giant harp, an old man with silver nails was stringing tiny bells onto threads. He glanced up as they approached. His eyes were clouded but bright. "Ah. New Names. Seeking the road?"
Aric's gaze sharpened. "Maybe."
The old man plucked a string. It made a sound like a bird's cry. "There is a Name-sign ringing tonight. In the Hall of Echoes. But it will not ring for free."
Lyra asked, "What's the price?"
He smiled, showing teeth of glass. "A memory of a sound you regret."
Aric tilted his head. "Regret?"
The old man nodded. "A word you wish you hadn't spoken. A cry you wish you hadn't made. Give it, and the Hall opens."
Lyra's face tightened. "That's—"
"—how they do business," Aric finished. He looked at the old man. "We'll think about it."
"Do not think too long," the old man said softly. "The bells remember everything."
They moved away. Lyra hissed under her breath, "Vale, we can't keep trading pieces of ourselves."
"We won't," he said. "We'll trade something else."
She gave him a sceptical look. "Like what?"
He grinned. "Haven't figured it out yet."
Despite herself she laughed. "I hate you."
"No you don't."
They paused at a balcony overlooking the central shaft. From here the Market's full chaos spread out below them — hundreds of floating stalls, bridges, bells swaying and whispering. The sound was hypnotic, like a thousand tiny waves breaking at once.
Lyra rested her elbows on the railing. "It's beautiful," she murmured.
Aric glanced at her profile, at the faint smile tugging her lips despite exhaustion. "Yeah," he said softly. "It is."
For a heartbeat there was something almost human between them, not just fragments and Names.
Then a bell somewhere below rang sharply — not a whisper but a clear, single note that cut through the murmur like a blade. Both of them stiffened. The Mirror at Lyra's ribs pulsed once.
Aric's eyes narrowed. "There."
Lyra whispered, "What is it?"
He straightened. "The Name-sign. Hall of Echoes."
He turned to her, already calculating. "We have until it stops ringing."
She asked, "Plan?"
He smiled. "We'll improvise."
She rolled her eyes. "Tradition?"
"Tradition."
They headed back into the crowd, bells whispering above them, unaware that a tall figure in a silver mask had begun following at a distance, its shadow stretching far longer than it should.