DEADALUS author of AETHERBORN
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CHAPTER 225
🕑 Added 2025-07-02 17:28:50 +0000 UTCThe back room was little more than a curtain and a crooked shelf that stank of mildew. But behind it, a narrow door sat tucked into the wall, half-covered by a moth-eaten tapestry depicting a crumbling tower.
The dwarf pushed the tapestry aside and nodded toward it. “Through here.”
Thorne eyed the door. “Where are we going?”
The dwarf didn’t look back as he tugged it open with a grunt. “To my real business.”
Beyond was a steep, rickety staircase, spiraling down into darkness. The air was cooler here, damp and full of the scent of old stone and hidden rot.
As they descended, the dwarf finally glanced over his shoulder. “Name’s Brennak, by the way. Brennak Stonebelly. Not that it matters.”
Thorne said nothing.
Brennak snorted. “You got a name, or should I just call you Knife?”
“Thorne,” he said simply.
“Just Thorne? Not ‘Thorne the Slightly Concerning,’ or ‘Thorne the Makes-Elves-Faint’?”
Thorne’s lip twitched. “Don’t usually need a title.”
“Well,” Brennak muttered, “you’ve earned one, after today.”
The steps groaned under their feet as they rounded another turn. The air was thick now, filled with a mineral tang that clung to the back of the throat.
“You’re not from Evermist,” Brennak said after a beat. “That I can smell. Not from the coastal cities either. You don’t walk like someone raised with walls around him.”
Thorne didn’t respond.
Brennak huffed. “Fine. Then how about this, where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“That obvious, huh?” Thorne asked with a smile.
“Louder than a death cry.”
The dwarf grinned but didn’t laugh this time. “You didn’t panic. Not once. Even when that blade was coming at you like a starving vulture. You stepped in. That’s trained instinct.”
Thorne didn’t answer, but his silence was more telling than words.
Brennak’s voice lowered, more thoughtful now. “You were raised in blood, weren’t you?”
“I was raised to survive,” Thorne said coolly.
“Same thing, sometimes.”
They passed an old iron torch bracket halfway down the stairwell, though it held no flame. Just a rune, softly glowing.
Brennak slowed slightly, his eyes catching something.
“You’ve got a mark,” he said. “There, on your palm.”
Thorne looked down.
The faint outline of the Purple Crow was visible on his palm, burned into his skin like an old brand.
Brennak’s brow furrowed. “That thing… reminds me of something. Something I don’t like.”
Thorne curled his hand quickly into a fist, stuffing it into his cloak pocket.
Stupid. He should’ve remembered to buy gloves. The mark had faded slightly, but under certain lighting, it gleamed like ink under water.
“Old thing,” he muttered. “Doesn’t mean anything now.”
“Mm,” Brennak said noncommittally. “That’s what people always say before the past bites them in the arse.”
Thorne glanced sidelong at him. “You asking for a bite?”
Brennak barked a dry laugh. “I’ve got enough scars, thanks.”
He let the silence sit for a moment.
“You’ve got the eyes of someone who's seen more death than years. You should be older. That... worries me more than anything.”
“You’re doing a lot of talking for someone who claims he doesn’t care.”
“I don’t,” Brennak said, though there was tension in the way he scratched at his beard. “But I like to know when I’m walking with a storm.”
They reached the bottom step, and the dwarf gestured forward.
The space that opened up before them was vast, a cavern, its ceiling lost in shadow, supported by columns of cracked marble and carved bone. It had the shape of a forgotten square, cut directly into the underbelly of the city.
Stalls filled the space like a maze, built from scavenged wood, tent cloth, and twisted iron. String-lights crisscrossed the air, hanging from post to post, their cords sagging under the weight of small, naked flames that burned without smoke. Some of them whispered. Others danced erratically, shifting color when people walked beneath them.
The smell of spices, iron, and aether residue clung to the air.
Everywhere Thorne looked, people were trading.
A man with three eyes peddled live beetles from a bucket. A floating orb of water hovered above a basin, containing a glowing eel. An old woman with gold thread braided into her scalp argued with a masked buyer over a staff that oozed sap.
Magic pulsed through the place, raw, unrefined, and heavy.
Brennak paused and looked up at Thorne.
“Welcome to the real market,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Let’s see if your secrets are worth anything.”
They stepped into the square, and Thorne slowed.
The underground market buzzed with a soft, magnetic hum, like the air itself was aware, full of secrets too old to name. Strange songs wafted from enchanted instruments. The scent of cinnamon smoke mixed with something vaguely electric, and every few steps, some magical trinket sparked or hissed or muttered under its breath.
Thorne turned his head slowly, drinking it in.
The string-lights dangled across the cavern like a canopy of stars, casting shifting shadows across the uneven ground. Stalls pressed close together, each more chaotic than the last, some piled high with bones and teeth, others displaying enchanted tattoos on strips of tanned skin, or cages filled with whispering moss.
Men and women stood behind their counters, haggling, laughing, bartering in tongues Thorne didn’t recognize.
As they passed, several of them bowed their heads slightly toward Brennak, murmuring:
“Afternoon, boss.”
“Stonebelly.”
“Good to see you, Brennak.”
The dwarf responded with a grunt here, a nod there, his presence acknowledged with a strange blend of deference and familiarity.
Thorne raised an eyebrow.
“This all yours?” he asked.
Brennak smirked. “You sound surprised.”
“Not sure what I expected.”
“Upstairs, it’s all polished counters and overpriced fluff,” Brennak said, waving a hand. “Down here? This is real. No fakes, no filters. You want something rare, dangerous, cursed, illegal, this is where you find it.”
He pointed toward a stall where a hunched man was selling glowing rings embedded in melted glass. “Those are from the deep ruins of Nalkari. Each one has a spirit trapped inside, useless for spellcasting, but they whisper secrets in your sleep.”
Then he nodded to another vendor who was wrapping serpent-scale leather around the hilt of a thin rapier. “Vhyran steel,” he said. “Made from the bones of a sea wyrm. Cuts through aether wards like silk.”
They passed a blindfolded woman surrounded by floating hourglasses, their sand moving in reverse. Brennak muttered, “Don’t buy from her. She sells ‘what-ifs.’ Dangerous stuff. Ruined a whole family last season.”
Thorne watched it all, intrigued despite himself.
“People pay me to rent a stall,” Brennak continued. “A little coin for the space, a little more if they want protection. Every day’s different. No two visits are ever the same.”
They passed a stall where a merchant was selling small birds that, instead of chirping, recited poetry in gravelly voices.
“So,” Brennak said after a moment, glancing sideways at him, “what are you after?”
“I need to sell a few things,” Thorne said.
“Uh-huh. What kind of things?”
“Artifacts,” Thorne replied, voice steady.
Brennak stopped walking.
He gave Thorne a long, appraising look.
“You’ve got the face of someone who couldn’t just walk into any old shop with those ‘artifacts,’ I’m guessing.”
Thorne arched a single brow.
Brennak grunted, amused. “Thought so. Come on. I’ll take you to someone who can move product without asking questions.”
They started walking again, winding between color-shifting tents and smoking braziers. As they turned down a narrower path of stalls stacked with vials and talismans, Brennak spoke again.
“Anything else you’re looking for?”
Thorne nodded. “I could use a dagger or two.”
“Simple or enchanted?”
“Cheap,” Thorne said.
That earned a deep chuckle. “You’ve got a good sense of priorities. All right. Something sharp and not stupid. Got it.”
They stopped at a crooked stall nestled between two thick columns of veined stone, where ropes of dried herbs and silver bells hung low enough to brush Thorne’s shoulders. Purple smoke coiled from a shallow brazier on the counter, carrying the scent of myrrh and something more acrid, like burnt bone.
Behind the counter stood a thin, sharp-eyed man with skin like tanned parchment. Six rings gleamed on each hand, and a single magnifier lens was strapped over one eye. His robe shimmered between green and bronze, fabric etched with arcane symbols that shifted when he moved.
“Oi, Brennak,” the merchant called without looking up. “You bring me something decent, or is this another sack of seaglass and broken promises?”
Brennak jerked his chin toward Thorne. “You’ll want to see this lot.”
Thorne stepped forward and carefully opened his satchel, placing a small assortment of items on the velvet runner draped over the counter. He moved with deliberate ease, keeping the higher-value pieces tucked deeper, starting instead with the lesser ones.
A pair of battered amulets, warded once, long since burned out. A cracked scrying lens with a glimmer still trapped in its curve. Three lesser charms with faded runes. A pouch of small gems: topaz, smoky quartz, and a dull sapphire the size of a fingernail.
The merchant adjusted his lens and muttered under his breath as he examined each piece.
“Low-tier aetherite threading on this charm… binding’s weak… mm, this lens is still pulsing, someone clever might rebuild it...”
He sorted the items into quick, neat rows, flicking his fingers with the ease of a professional.
“These,” he said, tapping the trinkets, “I’ll give you two hundred for. The gems... that topaz is worth more than it looks. Probably Lirian cut. Make that another two-fifty.”
Thorne raised an eyebrow.
“Getting generous?” he asked.
The merchant shrugged. “Good wares. Rare to see real salvage these days.”
“I’m not done,” Thorne said.
From the depths of his satchel, he pulled a thin, silver cylinder, etched with lines so fine they seemed almost alive, pulsing faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat. The moment it touched the cloth, the velvet rippled, and the ambient light dimmed.
The merchant stiffened.
Brennak leaned forward. “What in the stonehell is that?”
Thorne tilted his head. “Pulled it from a vault. Years ago. Don’t know what it does.”
The merchant reached out, touched the surface gently and jerked back, hissing through his teeth.
“Charged,” he said with a sharp inhale. “Still loaded. This… this is a residual containment core. Tier 3 at minimum. Maybe Tier 4, if the charge is stable.”
“How much?” Thorne asked.
“Depends if it explodes,” the merchant muttered. “But… you could get twelve hundred. Fifteen if I’m feeling brave.”
Brennak let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a find.”
The merchant wrapped the piece with shaking hands, locking it in a reinforced case under the counter.
Thorne reached for the last item.
Wrapped in old oilcloth, he unrolled the violet orb onto the cloth. Smooth, cool, almost translucent. Light curled inside it like smoke sealed in crystal.
The moment it hit the table, the merchant stopped breathing.
The lens glowed brighter on his eye, whirring faintly.
Brennak, for once, went completely still.
Then...
“By the black veins of the mountain,” the dwarf muttered. “That’s… no way.”
The merchant leaned in, reverent. “It’s a core. Not a focus. A raw, untapped focus core. Active. Unbonded. And ancient.”
Thorne blinked. “What?”
The merchant ignored him. “You don’t just find these. This is pre-Sundering. Might’ve been grown, not forged. And it’s awake.”
Thorne stared at the orb, something tugging at the edge of recognition. The weight, the way it shimmered, it reminded him of the orb he had in the bonding ritual. Not the same... but similar. Like a sibling left behind.
Brennak looked at Thorne sideways.
“You sure you want to sell this?” he asked. “Something like this could be... very useful.”
The seller didn’t wait.
“I’ll give you 5,000.”
Thorne didn’t respond.
“6,000. Full platinum.”
Still silence.
“8,000,” the merchant said, voice rising, hands trembling slightly. “No tests. No verification. Straight coin. I’ll even cover the security seal.”
Thorne hesitated.
That number of coins could fund his life at Aetherhold for years. Uniforms, supplies, bribes, research. Information.
He glanced at the orb one last time.
“…Ten,” he said suddenly.
The seller blanched.
Then gave a stiff nod. “Done.”
Brennak whistled again. “Maker’s breath. That’s the best offer I’ve seen in years.”
The merchant moved quickly, pulling out a platinum-lined coffer and beginning to fill it with glimmering coins and slips of enchanted credit.
Thorne leaned back, watching silently, but his thoughts were no longer on the money.
Why did he have something that valuable?
And who had it belonged to before him?
As the merchant finalized the deal and slid the platinum-lined coffer toward him, a soft ding echoed in Thorne’s mind.
Skill Level Up: Haggling (15 → 18)
He blinked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. That explained the last-minute push for ten thousand.
He slid the coins into his satchel, adjusting the weight. It was heavier than it had ever been.
No more rationing coin. No more hoping he could stretch what was left.
The merchant gave a nervous little nod, still eying the now-vanished orb like he couldn’t believe he’d let it go.
Brennak clapped Thorne lightly on the back. “Come on, rich boy. Let’s get out before someone decides they want to reconsider that transaction.”
They slipped back into the winding path of the market, and Brennak led them deeper, the glow from the string-lights shifting around them like lazy stars.
“I’m still not sure you did the right thing,” the dwarf muttered. “Selling something like that. A raw core? You can’t buy a second one. Not in this lifetime.”
Thorne shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ve got expenses to cover, and I won’t have to beg Isadora for money when I need socks.”
Brennak barked a laugh.
“You’re dangerous, but I like your style.”
They passed a tent covered in hanging bones and runes etched into copper sheets. Brennak tilted his head thoughtfully.
“Still. If you ever feel like that satchel’s too light again, I might have some constructs that need recovering.”
Thorne glanced sideways.
“Constructs?”
Brennak shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Relics. Devices. Oddities. Magical things that shouldn’t be lying in the middle of a ruin somewhere. I’ve got my eyes on a few pieces, but… let’s just say my taste is a bit particular. Not all collectors know how to get their hands dirty.”
Thorne hummed, intrigued.
“And if I want something simpler?”
The dwarf scratched his beard. “Alchemical ingredients. Always in demand. Local brewers and scholars can’t get enough of ‘em. You can sell ten types of slime and walk out with a hundred gold easy.”
Thorne raised an eyebrow. “Where would I find them?”
“Outside the city,” Brennak said, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. “Wilderness is full of them. Aether beasts, magic-sick flora, crystallized nodes, nasty stuff, but valuable. There’s a dozen adventurer guilds in Evermist who do just that. Keep the population of aether-spawn down, sell the bits.”
Thorne fell quiet, chewing it over.
It wouldn’t be hard. Aetherhold was expensive, but now he had breathing room. A way to make more coin, if he played it right. And, more importantly… it gave him excuses to explore.
Opportunities to look for leads.
For Bea.
They turned another corner, and Brennak gestured toward a stall surrounded by racks of gleaming steel and leather. A broad-shouldered dwarf was sharpening a crescent-edged axe while a floating gauntlet hovered behind him, mimicking him movements like a ghostly twin.
“Here we are,” Brennak said. “Best place in the market for sharp, cheap, and slightly cursed.”
Comments
Prokopis Manolis
Thorne didn't realize what he was in possession of. It was probably a mistake that he wouldn't have made, if he had spent a little more time in Aetherhold and learnt the core's value.
Angela Roberts
Brennan has a good eye for talent and the wisdom to give Thorne space. I'm not sure he should have sold that core either.
Prokopis Manolis
And maybe he will give him some side quests 😉
Silver Beard
I like him- Bannek- perfectly fills the niche and opportunity to spare.
