The bell's clear note still hung in the air as Aric and Lyra threaded their way deeper into the Market. The stalls grew stranger the lower they went. Vendors here sold not only bells but things that seemed to belong to no sense at all: jars of silence that swallowed your voice when opened, paper boats folded from lost dreams, masks made of your own reflection.
The further down, the thicker the scents — saffron, cinnamon, burnt sugar and old iron — and the louder the susurrus of a thousand voices captured in glass. The bridges quivered like plucked strings beneath their feet.
Lyra stayed close, her threads coiling from her wrists to brush Aric's sleeve every few steps. "Everyone's staring," she murmured.
"They're staring at the fragment," Aric replied quietly. "It glows. We're carrying a beacon."
She covered the cage a little tighter under her cloak. "Maybe we should have left it with Sere."
"Too late now." He glanced over his shoulder. "Besides, I trust Sere even less than the Market."
They reached a low platform where a single stall had been built out of shadow. Not built in shadow — built out of it. Its walls were veils of darkness stitched with silver thread, its counter a slab of polished obsidian. No bells hung here. Instead, the air rippled faintly, as if light itself bent away.
A figure emerged from behind the counter. It wore no mask but had no face either, only a shifting silhouette, like smoke trying to imitate a man. Two eyes glowed faintly gold within the haze.
"Travellers," it said. Its voice was a chorus of whispers, overlapping but strangely musical. "You seek a Name-sign."
Aric's lips quirked. "Word travels fast."
The shadow-merchant spread its hands — long-fingered, translucent. "Everything here is a bell. Even your footsteps. Even your doubt."
Lyra muttered under her breath, "Creepy."
The merchant inclined its featureless head. "I collect what is unspoken. Truths left in throats. Secrets heavy as stones. You may call me Whisp."
Aric leaned an elbow on the counter. "Then you already know what we're here for."
"I do." The merchant's eyes glimmered. "The Hall of Echoes rings tonight. But without an invitation, it will not open. I hold an invitation."
"Price?" Aric asked.
"One unspoken truth," the shadow replied. "Something you have never voiced, even to yourself. I will taste it, shape it, and return only its echo."
Lyra tightened her grip on the cage. "We're not giving you our secrets."
Whisp tilted its head. "Then you will not enter the Hall."
Aric's mind worked. 'Unspoken truth. It doesn't need to be ours. It just needs to be true.' Aloud he said lightly, "Maybe we can negotiate."
The merchant's shadowy shoulders shifted. "Negotiate?"
He smiled faintly. "Trade instead of confession. You give me the invitation; I give you something valuable that isn't me."
Whisp's eyes dimmed, then brightened. "Intriguing. Few try."
Lyra whispered, "Vale, don't—"
He waved a hand. "Trust me."
"I hate that phrase."
"Consistency is comforting," he murmured back.
She rolled her eyes but said nothing.
Aric straightened and looked at Whisp. "I can offer you a sound you've never heard."
"All sounds have been heard," Whisp replied.
"Not this one." Aric tapped his coat where the Mirror lay hidden. "It's a door's sound. A door the Landlord himself hasn't opened."
The merchant's gold eyes flared like twin candles in a draft. "A door outside the Landlord's reach?"
"Interested?" Aric asked softly.
For a long moment the stall's shadows quivered, like curtains stirred by wind. Finally Whisp said, "Show me."
Aric hesitated, then slowly drew out the Mirror. It looked dull as moonstone, but when he angled it just so, a faint shimmer ran across its surface — not light but a ripple like sound through water. He tapped it once with his knuckle. The ripple deepened, then a low, strange tone spilled into the air: a sound like metal and thunder and breath all at once, something that made Lyra's hair lift from her neck.
Whisp's form trembled. The eyes widened. "Impossible," it whispered.
Aric smiled. "Possible enough."
The merchant leaned forward, shadow-hand reaching out but stopping just short. "I will take it."
"Not give. Trade," Aric said firmly. "You hear it. We get the invitation. That's all."
Whisp's eyes narrowed. "And if I simply take both?"
Aric's smile sharpened. "Then the door opens and eats you."
A pause. Then, unexpectedly, the merchant laughed — a sound like dry paper burning. "Cunning. Very well."
It extended its hand. A small square of dark vellum formed there, stamped with a bell sigil that glowed faintly blue. "An invitation. It will let you into the Hall until the bell stops ringing."
Aric took it but didn't release the Mirror yet. "You first."
Whisp leaned closer. The shadows around its face deepened, and the faint tone from the Mirror echoed back — but warped, stretched, turned inside-out. The merchant shuddered as it "listened," threads of black smoke streaming from its body into the air.
Finally it drew back. "Enough."
Aric tucked the Mirror away. "Pleasure doing business."
Whisp's eyes glimmered. "You walk a narrow Path, traveller. Be careful it doesn't fray."
Lyra muttered, "We're always careful."
Whisp laughed again. "No. You're always lucky. That is different."
The shadows of the stall shifted, and in the darkness something like a face flickered — not Whisp's but another, pale and thin-lipped, watching them from far away. Then it was gone.
Lyra shivered. "Vale…"
"I saw it," he said quietly.
"What was it?"
"Nothing good."
She swallowed and forced a smile. "At least you didn't have to spill your darkest secret."
"Who says I didn't?" he said lightly.
She narrowed her eyes. "Did you?"
He grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
She smacked his arm. "One day you're going to run out of clever and then where will we be?"
"Dead," he said cheerfully. "But until then…"
"Ugh." She turned away, but he saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward.
Aric glanced back at the stall. Whisp was already gone, the shadows collapsing inward until nothing remained but the faint scent of smoke. Only the invitation in his hand proved the merchant had ever been there.
He slipped it into his coat. "Come on. We've got a Hall to crash."
They began to weave back through the crowd, but the Market felt subtly changed. The bells above their heads chimed a little louder, and several masked faces turned to follow their progress. The invitation pulsed faintly through the fabric of his coat like a small heartbeat.
Lyra leaned close. "Everyone's looking again."
"I know," Aric murmured. "We just told the Market something new. Now it wants to listen."
They reached a narrow stair spiralling down to a lower level. The brass rails here were engraved with words too faint to read; when Lyra brushed them with her fingers, they whispered in her ear and she yanked her hand back.
"Creepy," she muttered.
Aric's lips quirked. "It's saying hello."
They descended. The crowd thinned. The bells grew larger and more ornate, some as big as cauldrons, others shaped like animals or hands. The voices within them deepened into a low chorus. The air grew cool, heavy with the smell of wet stone and smoke.
At the bottom of the stair a broad bridge stretched out toward a great archway carved into the Market's wall. The arch was made of bone-white stone veined with blue. Above it hung a bell the size of a house, black glass etched with countless tiny Names. It didn't move, but it hummed with a pressure you felt in your teeth.
Two robed figures stood guard at the arch. Their masks were silver bells without clappers. They didn't speak, only raised their staffs in unison.
Aric produced the invitation. The sigil flared. The guards stepped aside silently, and the bell above gave a single, deep chime that reverberated through their bones.
Lyra shivered. "This is it?"
"This is it."
They stepped through the arch.
Inside, the Hall of Echoes wasn't a hall at all but a vast cavern whose walls were studded with bells like stars in a night sky. A river of black water ran down the centre, its surface rippling with faint images. Every sound they made echoed back at them, but not immediately — their own voices lagged a heartbeat behind, twisted slightly, like hearing yourself in a dream.
Lyra whispered, "I hate this place."
Aric felt the Mirror at his ribs throb once, as if answering something deeper in the cavern. He thought, 'The fragment's trail ends here.'
Then the echoes shifted. They were no longer his or Lyra's voices but another, soft and cold: "Welcome, carriers."
They both froze.
On the far bank of the black river, a tall figure stepped from the shadows. It wore a silver mask shaped like a bell and a robe of grey threads that moved like smoke. In its hands it carried a staff tipped with a broken clapper. Behind it, faint shapes moved — more masked figures, watching.
Lyra whispered, "Vale…"
Aric smiled without humour. "Looks like we're expected."