Morning came wrapped in fog and promise.
The Market of Miracles was alive before sunrise — a sprawling warren of
stalls where anything could be bought, fixed, or stolen. Smugglers sold illegal
rune-dust by the handful, charlatans peddled bottled lightning, and dwarven
tinkerers shouted prices over the hiss of steam valves.
Gizmo moved through it like he belonged. He didn't. But belonging had never
been a requirement for survival.
He was searching for something — information, mostly. Rumors of Thalos,
whispers of the vault, echoes of forgotten things. Every word was a clue.
Every liar was a compass pointing away from the truth.
A halfling voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Careful, friend, that's counterfeit rune-ink. Burns through pockets faster than
ale through dwarves."
Gizmo turned.
The speaker was a wiry halfling with messy auburn hair, a smirk too big for his
face, and fingers that looked like they'd been in more locks than gloves. He
flipped a coin with the ease of someone born to risk.
"Name's Tibbin," he said. "Professional opportunist."
"Professional what?"
"Whatever pays better than honesty."
Gizmo laughed despite himself. "That explains the hands."
Tibbin grinned. "And the charm."
They watched a merchant try to sell a "genuine Shaper relic" to a
noblewoman. The thing was clearly a teapot with a rune carved into it.
"Humans," Tibbin sighed. "Give them mystery and they'll empty their
wallets."
"Give goblins curiosity and they'll empty the world," Gizmo replied.
"Dangerous philosophy."
"My favorite kind."
Minutes later, chaos erupted when a vendor's stall exploded in a burst of blue
light. Rune-ink splattered across the market, fizzling like fireflies. Gizmo dove
behind a cart, dragging Tibbin with him.
"Is this normal?" Gizmo asked.
"For Emberlight?" Tibbin grinned. "Yeah."
They emerged coughing, covered in soot.
The merchant responsible was already running — clutching a stolen rune-core.
Without hesitation, Tibbin gave chase. Gizmo sighed, grabbed his wrench, and
followed.
The pursuit wound through narrow alleys, across bridges, and into a courtyard
lined with pipes. The thief turned — a human, eyes wide with panic. He raised
the core like a weapon.
"Back off! It'll blow!"
"Only if you wired it wrong," Gizmo said calmly.
The thief blinked. "What?"
Gizmo flicked his wrist. The bracer on his arm hummed. A burst of blue light pulsed — the Orb's energy flashing through his glove. The rune-core sparked
once, then went silent.
"Lesson one," Gizmo said. "You can't bluff a man who built the lie you're
using."
Tibbin whistled. "Remind me not to play cards with you."
"You already were," Gizmo replied. "And you lost."
Tibbin grinned, brushing soot from his jacket. "I like you."
"That's a terrible idea."
"Even better."
By dusk, the Market of Miracles had quieted. Tibbin bought Gizmo a drink
with money that almost certainly wasn't his. They sat on the steps of a
gearhouse, watching the lamplighters awaken the city one flame at a time.
"You hear about the ruins beneath the city?" Tibbin asked.
Gizmo raised an eyebrow. "Which ones?"
"The ones the Guild pretends don't exist. Word is, there's something down
there humming again. And the Guild's scared."
"Humming?"
"Yeah. Like a song waiting for a singer."
Gizmo looked at the Orb. Its glow deepened — faint, but unmistakable.
He exhaled slowly. "Looks like we just found our next mistake."
Tibbin laughed. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Trust me," Gizmo said, finishing his drink, "it usually is."
(End of Chapter Five)