Epilogue
Taron
I hate the Night Market. Mostly because it feels like home. The one place in the world where I can melt away and exist. Here, among the masked and hooded. Among crooks and lowlifes and swindlers.
Tonight, the Night Market is hidden in the bowels of Grimshade Keep, an abandoned fortress with ivy-choked walls on the outskirts of Rava.
I move slowly through the lanes of market stalls, cloaked in a disguise that does little to shield my bitter mood. Madame Vera strides ahead of me. Her red velvet cloak hangs low over her face, revealing only the tip of her sharp nose.
The entitlement in her stride is sickening.
The way Henk uses his broad frame to force a path in the crowd for her, ushering her forward like she’s royalty.
The market hums with hushed negotiations.
But even in the crush of people, Madame Vera’s presence coils around me like smoke.
It’s suffocating, and intoxicating, too, the way her voice is a constant echo pressing against my skull.
It would be so easy to escape. To melt into the crowd and flee into the safety of the night. But I can’t. My body physically won’t let me. How have I let it come to this?
Talia’s face flickers through my thoughts. Her soft brown eyes. Wide. Pleading. She haunts me. The way she used to look at me, trying to hide what she was thinking. But I could always tell how she was picking me apart.
She hated me, and then she trusted me. I failed her, and then I left her there. A traitor to the throne, they’re calling her. A murderer. They tossed her in the palace dungeons, where she’s probably wasting away right now.
I dig my nails into my palms until it hurts. I put her there. I should’ve been stronger, should’ve fought harder against Madame Vera’s grasp.
But instead, I’m here, trailing after her like a dog.
“There they are!” Madame Vera confirms with a short nod. Her gaze is predatory as it catches three hooded figures standing in a dimly lit corner of the market, where the meagre light struggles to penetrate the thick air.
We worm our way through the crowd towards them. One of the men stands tall, his wider frame radiating authority over the others. I only need to look into his eyes briefly to know they betray a shrewdness that sets my teeth on edge.
They’re not merchants – the same way we’re not here to peruse illicit goods.
These hooded figures belong to the Midnight Guild, an organization only whispered about in dark corners and taverns.
They’re the backbone of the Night Market, responsible for building it into the thriving thing it is today.
Madame Vera has long woven her web among them.
It’s the Halo family name that hangs like a beacon over the guild.
They’re the bloodlines of Valerius’s most loyal supporters. Those who had once thrived under his tyrannical rule, who were stripped of their fortunes when the Astrals brought him down and, to this day, still nurture their rage.
We don’t exchange any words with the figures, but we follow them. The trio leads us deeper into the market, the winding path twisting between stalls brimming with stolen relics that gleam under the flickering light.
Bundles of herbs hang from strings suspended over a spice stall, their potent scents weaving through the heavier air of the keep’s underground passageways.
Henk helps himself to a pinch of ground voidroot from a crock. The merchant says nothing. She’s an old woman, sitting hunched over a pot of steaming liquid. It smells of morphean poppy and something sweet.
Henk reaches into his pocket and takes out a pipe. He’s gained a few more scars across his face since I last saw him. Madame Vera must’ve been working him hard in my absence. He loads his pipe with the voidroot and lights it.
“What’re you gawking at, runt?” he barks at me, but his deep-set eyes turn foggy with euphoria as he takes a pull of his pipe, and I’m immediately forgotten.
We pass stalls pawning everything from endangered clams to stolen solar equipment and tonics that promise great illness to the drinker. In the heart of the market, the solar recharging station is crowded with customers.
A throng of Helio merchants hurry in and out of a tent bursting with rays of light. One such merchant emerges with two buckets balancing on his shoulders, filled to the brim with snapped sunblade leaves. They must be farming the stuff themselves, to be able to maintain this rate of service.
At the edge of the crowd stands a woman, her dark fabrics melding seamlessly with the dim surroundings. Her face is draped with a red scarf, leaving only her eyes visible to follow our movements. She’s with the guild – I can tell.
Don’t stare. Madame Vera’s voice creeps into my thoughts. Don’t stare. Don’t stare. It repeats, over and over, until each syllable is one of her sharp nails scratching against my mind. My head snaps away from the woman, and Madame Vera grins.
I grit my teeth, keeping my expression blank. I’m already giving her the satisfaction of my weakness. I refuse to give her the pleasure of my revulsion, too.
Finally, we emerge from the labyrinth of stalls into the deepest point of the Keep’s underground bowels. To one side, a makeshift tavern bustles. Servers dart between the tables arranged under a canopy of red and black fabrics, balancing trays and rushing to mop up spilled drinks.
Opposite the tavern, a small stage hosts an auction, where the most sought-after loot changes hands under the scrutinizing gaze of the market’s more affluential visitors.
If they’re lords and princes I wouldn’t know. Their faces are hidden behind masks and shadows.
“This way,” says one of the hooded figures. He gestures to a tapestry that lines the chamber’s wall in a dark corner. It’s meant to deceive, of course.
The tallest figure goes first, revealing an entrance behind the old fabric. Madame Vera clicks her heels and mutters a giddy chuckle. She follows the figures inside.
Come. A command ringing in my mind forces me after her.
Inside is a banquet hall. Crumbling stone arches and weathered pillars rise towards the high ceiling. Cobwebs hang in the corners like ghostly drapes, while a flickering chandelier casts eerie shadows along the walls.
Madame Vera is the first to lower her hood. The figures follow suit. I recognize the man in the middle, the tallest of the three figures with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back against his scalp. He’s Bartholomeus, a merchant who carries considerable influence within the Midnight Guild.
Bartholomeus takes Madame Vera’s hands into his and greets her with a peck. His fingers are adorned with several ornate rings – not Necroseals, but certainly jewels of incredible value. He brings her hands to his chest.
“My dear Vera, it’s been far too long,” he croons, his voice smooth as silk, echoing through the hall.
“Whose fault is that?” Madame Vera replies. She tilts her head, a move she reserves specifically for seducing unwitting men.
Bartholomeus commands the other two figures, muttering something about bringing refreshments for his guests, and they scurry off, disappearing into the shadows through a door opposite the banquet hall.
Almost immediately, a young boy materializes from nowhere, offering to take mine and Henk’s cloaks. I ease the fabric off my shoulders, muttering a low thanks.
“Got manners now, have you?” Henk snorts. He surrenders his cloak and puffs a cloud of black voidroot smoke into the boy’s face, laughing to himself when the boy erupts into a coughing fit.
Bartholomeus pulls out a chair at the grand table. It’s a harsh sound, the wood scraping across uneven stone. He gestures for Madame Vera to take a seat.
“Ever the gentleman,” she says, though her smile thins as she looks around the dusty room. “But I thought we were only briefly meeting here before retiring to that grand ship of yours?”
“Oh, we have much to discuss first,” Bartholomeus insists.
Madame Vera looks over her shoulder at me.
Attend me, she tells me with her mind.
It’s not as strong as one of her whispered commands, but I give into it and take my place against the wall across from her, forced to stare at the bald patch on Bartholomeus’s head as he claims his seat.
A flickering solar lantern in the centre of the table casts a shadow across the wall behind Madame Vera. It’s sharp and jagged, bending and twisting around the stone column.
I imagine it’s what a Soul Wraith would look like to Talia. The thought of her is painful.
“Tell me,” Bartholomeus asks, leaning across the table at Madame Vera. “Did you succeed in your plan? Have you found the burial place of your ancestor?”
Madame Vera raps her nails on the wood, clearly annoyed at being held up in this place. Still, she doesn’t take her gaze off the merchant – yet another of her tactics. “I did,” she says. “It was as we suspected.”
“In Solara,” Bartholomeus breathes. “But where?”
“Beneath the Temple of Emberforge,” is all she has to say.
The temple is a sacred place – most have heard of it, but not everyone believes it’s real. Some say it’s home to an order of incredibly powerful monks, devoted to protecting artefacts and knowledge that the High Council would prefer to remain hidden.
The temple is in a village, nestled at the base of a dormant volcano, Mount Ignivor, in the southern reaches of Solara. Ashenhold, it’s called, after the layer of ash that covers its cobblestone streets and stone buildings.
I suppose it makes sense for Valerius to have been buried there. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of the public’s reach.
Bartholomeus is on his feet, pacing around the table.
His smile widens, revealing a mouthful of gold and silver teeth.
“At last, we have our destination.” He rubs his hands together.
“Tonight, we will celebrate. Raise a toast to your victory, and your escape. I trust my Peony treated you well on the Sea of Storms? She might be the smallest in my fleet, but she’s always been fast.”
“Your vessel sufficed, yes,” Madame Vera says.
“Sufficed? My dear Vera, she carried you to freedom! The entire Principal Guard is up in arms over what transpired on the island. What happened there?”
He gestures to a newspaper lying carelessly on the table.
I lean forward to read the headline, but I don’t even take in the words.
The front-page image has me pinned. It’s a photo of a young girl with wide eyes and tousled hair.
Talia. She looks fragile, barely staying upright within the grasp of a soldier.
The photo must’ve been taken the day she got arrested, because she’s still wearing her uniform from the Reckoning.
Even though the newspaper is printed in black and white, the photo shows a dark bruise spreading around her left cheekbone; a thin trickle of blood carving a path across her lips. The sight eats at me from the inside. I did that to her.
“That girl,” Bartholomeus says, tapping the paper, “the Emo you left on the island to take the fall has somehow escaped from the palace dungeons.” His voice drips with disdain, but his words are the most beautiful thing I’ve heard all day. Talia escaped?
Madame Vera’s face contorts with surprise, but she swiftly smooths it into an expression of disinterest. “Surprising, but not overly worrisome.”
Just then, the other two figures appear from the shadows, carrying trays laden with wine goblets.
Madame Vera downs a glass and inhales before standing. “Taron, dear,” she says, “it would seem the two of us need to talk.”
“How so?” I ask, mimicking her calm.
She studies me. “What did you tell the girl while you were in the tournament? How much does she know about our plan?”
My stomach twists. It’s a simple question requiring a simple answer. It should be an easy lie – nothing. But I can’t bring myself to say it. I turn my face away, but she’s not so easily deterred.
Madame Vera steps closer, her presence enveloping me in the form of her sickly perfume and wine-soaked breath.
Speak. A familiar chokehold locks around my soul. It’s a visceral feeling, like an ache in my chest – no, somewhere deeper – and it’s churning, twisting, barbing into my heart.
Speak. It hurts to resist, but I try. My head starts to throb as I struggle against the weight of her silent interrogation.
Speak. Finally, the urge to confess is too strong.
“She doesn’t know anything that she didn’t find out in the temple,” I force out, each word a struggle against the tightening sensation, as if she’s pulling the truth from me with a pair of pliers.
Madame Vera’s expression darkens. She tuts, clearly disappointed. “I expected more from you, Taron. Taking a liking to that stupid, ignorant girl…” she says. “But never mind what she thinks she knows. I have just the thing to keep her at bay.”
My brows twitch. “What do you mean?”
“Bartholomeus,” she turns to the merchant, “do you have the girl?”
“Of course, we’ve kept her here as you requested. She’s not been any trouble.” He summons one of the figures with the wine, whispering something inaudible.
The man leaves and we all wait in silence. Moments later, he returns, dragging a person with a bag over their head. She has a small frame and her skin is pale. I can see a blue tint on her dainty fingers.
The man gives the girl a shove forward, and she stumbles, only barely staying on her feet. A tiny gasp escapes from under the bag when the figure grabs it and yanks it away.
The girl’s light-blonde hair conceals her features, but I needn’t see her eyes to recognize her. Bile rushes up my throat. It’s Elara. Talia’s sister. Alive but clearly terrified. Her bottom lip trembles with fear.
My skin prickles with anger and something else. Not hope, not determination. But something closely resembling it.
Elara is alive, and Madame Vera plans on leveraging her somehow. And I know one thing. I can’t let her dig her claws into Talia again.
This changes everything.