Alaric slipped back into the market with the ease of a man who belonged there. The sounds of haggling, clinking metal, and the heavy perfume of spices mingled in the air.
"Knowledge sure is power," he murmured under his breath, slipping past a pair of giggling women haggling over dyed scarves.
He paused now and then, letting his fingers brush across wooden beads, a bolt of deep-indigo cloth, a clay vial sealed with wax.
Every stop was a show.
A nod, a question.
A curious buyer trying to compare prices, nothing more.
But each word, each glance, every response from the merchants helped him sketch a clearer map of this place and the people who ran it.
Back in the cottage, he’d poured through many books and. Details about little about geography, regional herbs, the tincture practices of old alchemists.
Also, Sari’s occasional commentary had helped too.
And now? It was paying off.
One down.
Two to go.
Then he paused as something caught his attention.
A shrill sound of clay shattering, followed by a gasp made him look sideways.
At a small vendor’s corner, a young boy knelt beside a basket of oranges, his lip trembling as he tried to pick up the fruit that had rolled into the dust.
"What the fuck are you doing crawling around like a rat?" a man barked, standing over him.
Broad, sweaty, thick-necked, the kind of man whose belly pressed against his worn leather vest, he held a half-eaten skewer in one hand and the boy’s collar in the other.
"You bumped into me. You spilled my drink," he growled, shaking the child once for emphasis.
Alaric stilled, his eyes narrowing.
Then the merchant—a middle-aged woman with greying hair tucked in a scarf, rushed over, and spoke in pleading tone.
"Please, sir. He’s just a child. He didn’t mean—"
"Didn’t mean?" The man barked a laugh, then sneered. "Didn’t mean to ruin a drink that cost more than your whole bloody stall?"
He let go of the boy and stepped forward, not striking, but just too close, forcing the woman to shrink back. One hand reached lazily toward her woven coin pouch as if to "inspect" it.
But Alaric caught that sideways shift of his eyes, the way his fingers moved fast only when no one was looking directly.
A woman in the crowd muttered something under her breath. Another man began to step forward, but the bulky stranger turned just enough, resting his hand on the handle of a blade strapped low and dirty on his belt.
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The unspoken threat held.
A few bystanders looked away. Others turned and left. A crowd that had started to gather now quietly dissipated.
"Tch." The man spat in the dust and tossed the skewer toward the merchant’s feet.
"Keep your rats leashed."
He turned, muttering curses, and swaggered into the next alley.
The boy was still crouched in the dirt, blinking fast to hold back tears. His mother quietly ushered him behind the stall, whispering low.
Alaric said nothing.
But his gaze followed the man.
He remembered the pouch tucked awkwardly at the man’s side. A folded cloth, stained at the edges.
Then he quietly slipped away from the growing crowd, his eyes tracking the bulky man who had stormed off in a huff.
The man moved fast, muscling through the market like he owned the place, grumbling something under his breath as he adjusted the sash around his waist.
Alaric didn’t rush. He moved along the edge of the crowd with the same idle curiosity as before, just another traveler perusing wares, nodding to vendors, occasionally lifting an item and turning it over in his hands.
But his eyes never strayed far from the man ahead.
The bulky figure stopped near a cluster of quieter stalls, tucked further off from the main thoroughfare.
A few merchants there looked rougher than most, dusty coats, sun-leathered faces, goods stacked a little too neatly.
The man didn’t speak immediately. He merely stood with his arms crossed, as if waiting.
One of the vendors, a wiry fellow with a bent nose and a strange half-smile, noticed him and gave a small nod.
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That was enough.
They didn’t talk much.
A few words were exchanged, quiet and sharp.
The vendor unrolled a cloth wrap with metal trinkets, blades, none of which he’d shown to any other customer passing by.
Alaric didn’t interrupt.
He moved to a nearby stall, picked up a crude leather mask, ran his fingers across it, and asked the merchant about its origin. His tone was light, almost playful. But his ears stayed sharp.
Behind him, the bulky man gave a small coin pouch, then tapped a metal ring on his belt, a gesture the vendor seemed to recognize.
A moment later, both men parted.
Alaric watched as the man turned down a shadowed side path. He returned the mask with a casual thanks and moved off with the same pace.
The narrow path twisted between leaning stone buildings, their wooden beams jutting like ribs from cracked plaster walls.
This was a forgotten corner of the town, no vendors here, no chatter, no watching eyes.
Just the echo of distant footsteps and the faint murmur of a town going about its day.
Alaric slowed, fingers brushing the rough stone of a nearby wall. He kept his breathing even, steps light. But something was off.
The bulky man had vanished from view for just a moment.
Then—
A shift in air.
And suddenly, he felt a presence behind him.
"Alright, enough games."
The voice came sharp and low.
A heavy hand clamped down on Alaric’s shoulder and spun him halfway around, just enough to pin him between a crooked wall and a stack of discarded crates.
The bulky man loomed there, his eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
"Who are you?" he growled. "And what the hell do you want?"
Alaric’s gaze didn’t flinch. But inwardly—
Tch.Was I that sloppy? Damn it...
He shifted slightly, not enough to provoke, but just enough to lean casually against the wall.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward with a lazy smirk.
"Relax," he said, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "Do all your clients get this warm a welcome, or am I just special?"
The man didn’t bite. His hand hovered close to his belt, likely near a hidden blade. His eyes flicked once over Alaric’s frame, searching for anything beneath his words.
"You’ve been tailing me since the square," the man said. "And don’t give me that smile. I’ve slit throats for less."
Alaric tilted his head, letting silence stretch between them for a breath too long.
Then he spoke again in a low and cool.
"If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it when you stopped to adjust your waistband by the spice merchant. You didn’t even look behind you."
A pause.
The bulky man stiffened, just barely.
Alaric’s smile faded.
"I’m not here for your coin. Or your blood. But if you insist on making a scene, I can give you both."