4. Things Get Out Of Hand
Things Get Out Of Hand
Timeline: Six hours after the opening of the Great Midsummer Market.
Elian
Iawoke from a dreamless nap to the foreign sensation of being warm, well-rested and nestled beneath a comforting weight.
For a lazy, disoriented moment, my surroundings refused to click into focus.
Golden sunlight filtered through the seams of the canvas stall, washing over my shoulders in a wave of gentle, prickling heat that made me want to melt back into the chair’s cushion.
Prying my eyes open, I squinted up at the small patch of sky visible through the roof flap. A flawless expanse of brilliant blue met my gaze. Not a cloud around. The sun sat pinned squarely at the apex of its celestial pedestal, radiating the unmistakable, blazing heat of high noon.
Noon.
Panic spiked through my veins like a splash of glacial water. I had slept through the opening morning of the Great Midsummer Market. What in the goddess’s name…? Why hadn’t Fern kicked me awake?
I scrambled to untangle myself from the plush, heavy folds of the midnight-blue fabric draped over my chest. I jolted upright, only to freeze as my fingers brushed the material.
The rich silk and silver-threaded lining belonged to the very man I’d ripped across the planar veil—by accident, thank you very much—from wherever elves engaged in conflict over citadels, wrote in elaborate runic characters and glowered a lot.
The memory of my cross-dimensional cock-up came flooding back in a dizzying rush.
Expecting a clusterfuck of disasters, I paused in a half-risen hover, my breath catching as two distinct sights registered.
First, tucked into the quiet corner of the storage area, lay a massive, curved sabre with a crimson pommel.
It rested atop a bundle of hardened leather and steel plates, which, in turn, had been arranged on top of three crates of Fern’s famous enchanted pomegramons—the prized, yellow-skinned citrusy hybrid fruit known for their zesty, ruby-seeded pulp.
Second, and far more alarming, there was Commander Kill’em himself.
His wide back completely blocked the light of the curtained threshold, as he manned my display counter, holding the front against a relentless crowd of enthusiastic punters.
I gaped.
Kill’em running my retail booth with the ruthless efficiency of a conqueror. Barking gruff, monosyllabic instructions at the patrons and having the normally sprawling, unruly market queue organised into two perfectly straight, disciplined lines.
I couldn’t complain about my usual business; the matchsticks commanded an excellent reputation, always drawing wealthy locals and travellers from afar.
If I wanted to, I could live comfortably only on what I earned during each Great Market for the remaining months until the next big event.
Yet, I had never seen my establishment lively to this extent, nor provoking an uproar I could only describe as… mass hysteria.
As I scanned the crowd pressing at the counter, an irritating pattern emerged. The patrons—both men and women alike—displayed interest clearly extending far beyond elemental alchemy.
A pair of male nobles at the front of the queue stood all hot and bothered, twirling their hair, their eyes locked onto the span of Kill’em’s shoulders.
Further back, two local weavers whispered behind their palms, giggling as they ogled his large, calloused hands, which were presently counting out currency.
“Goddess above,” one murmured loud enough to drift through the curtain, her cheeks flushed a bright pink. “You know what they say about big hands.”
“I didn’t know Elian had hired a Northern mercenary,” the other squealed. “I’d buy a box of plain gravel if he served it to me with that scowl.”
Tension locked my jaw. A sudden, irrational surge of territorial possessiveness flooded my chest. How dare they covet what is mine?
flashed through my mind, instantly followed by: Have I completely lost my mind?
I had no right to feel jealous over a man I had known for less than a day—even if we had shared intimate dreams. Even if he had blanketed me in his own cloak and… volunteered to defend my livelihood.
Pricking up my ears, I listened as Kill’em addressed the next customer, his voice calm, steady and utterly shameless.
“Four silver pieces for Frost-Fire,” Kill’em grunted, quoting an amount four times my standard asking price.
A gasp escaped me. Granted, I considered the Frost-Fire Match a brilliant invention of mine.
Specifically designed for sweltering summer nights—it produced a crackling, beautifully ambient firelight that cast a refreshing chill rather than heat, allowing a cosy hearth without melting.
True, it’d taken me a month to perfect the particular crystalline resin for this spell, but charging four silver pieces for it still constituted highway robbery.
The weaver in front of Kill’em didn’t seem to share my flabbergastation. On the contrary, she didn’t even blink, appearing ecstatic to be ripped off. She fumbled in her purse to hand over the coins just to appease the grumpy giant looming over her.
From time to time, Kill’em cast a brief, questioning glance towards the neighbouring stall.
Stationed behind his own counter, Fern mouthed something back, offering vigorous nods and making a pumping motion with his hands as though to egg the other one on.
A massive, delighted grin split my friend’s face.
Since he’d often complained about my undercharging, he was no doubt having the time of his life watching a lethal warlord execute a high-end market mugging of innocent civilians on my behalf.
What the actual fuck.
I forced myself to my feet. Before I managed to step forwards and confront the happy extortionist duo, a soul-shuddering sigh sounded right next to my shoulder.
“Isn’t he dreamy? Absolutely delicious.” Settie’s face moulded into an expression of sappy, vacant pining, stripping her countenance of any traces of the intelligence that usually resided there.
She tugged at my sleeve, her eyes wide. “Go on, tell me. Where the hell did you dig him up from? You’re so lucky.
Does he have a twin brother, perhaps? Are you going to get married? ”
“Married? Settie,” I hissed, a spike of mild irritation flaring within me for reasons I couldn’t quite comprehend.
“Stop saying nonsense. It’s nothing of the sort.
It’s… complicated. He comes from an entirely different realm.
He shouldn’t be here in the first place.
I can’t even say how stable or safe it is in terms of cross-dimensional fractures, black holes and whatnot.
For all I know, we both might be in big trouble. ”
A sobering thought occurred to me—a notion I hadn’t had time or presence of mind to consider before.
Had plucking Kill’em from his home plane disrupted some delicate, cosmic equilibrium?
I didn’t claim to be an expert in macro-arcana, nor did I pay much attention in theoretical magic classes, but what little I remembered from it suggested that a tear in the energy lining maintained by every realm would trigger a terrible domino effect. Or something equally apocalyptic.
A heavy sense of impending catastrophe settled over me. My heart rate kicked into a faster, more erratic rhythm, my breathing getting shallower., I began pulling at the hem of my tunic, my mind spiralling into a loop of worst-case scenarios as the gravity of my recklessness caught up with me.
“Well, I don’t care. Trouble-shmouble,” Settie countered, crossing her arms over her chest and poking her tongue out at me as if that display awarded her the final word.
“Obviously, whatever is going on between the two of you must be fated. Otherwise, why would the cosmos allow it? And from where I’m standing, the only black hole he’s interested in exploring is your own. ”
I spluttered; my cheeks set on fire. “Settyna. You little—”
“Did you know that he’s been at it since the early bell rang this morning?” she interrupted, unbothered by my outrage. “With only a tiny break for breakfast? He hasn’t even sat down once.”
“He… hasn’t?”
She shook her head, sending her auburn curls bouncing. “Anyway, Fern said I should take him over to Rowan’s shop later to help him choose some normal civilian clothes. And also—”
“Malvelian Fountenblym,” a crisp, magically amplified voice cut through the bustling noise of the market. “What have you done now?”
Shit. Only one person I knew insisted on calling me by my full formal given name, which I hated.
The crowd at the front of the booth parted, the punters murmuring in hushed whispers as a figure marched towards the counter.
The newcomer, wearing sweeping robes of office in pale gold, carried himself with an aristocratic rigidity.
He held a silver ledger-slate tucked beneath his arm, his lip curled as though the entire market smelled of rotting cabbage.
Cholerius Broxxy. My ex-classmate from the Element-ary and an old academic rival—currently the youngest ever High Arbiter to sit on the Everend Market Council.
Our eyes locked through the curtained gap, and my stomach plummeted. In that exact instant, I knew the reckoning I’d been dreading had arrived.
The crowd around my stand multiplied by the second, swelling into a dense, suffocating wall of gaping spectators.
Both affluent customers and nosy vendors from nearby stalls all pressed closer, gagging to find out what had warranted a visit from a High Arbiter.
At the same time—no, it didn’t escape my notice—to have a proper gander at Kill’em.
Market-goers were known not to turn their noses up at getting their scandal fix for free.
In a flash, we got promoted to the headline act of the day.