The jailers screamed.
I watched, impassive, as the tormentors discovered at last the taste of iron and fear. A cacophony of strangled cries, bones crushed between eager jaws, pleas drowned in chaos.
One did not scream.
The merchant.
He lay on his back, a thin stream of blood pouring from his hollowed sockets. Something stood upon his chest. A small ostrich. Its beak slicked in crimson. It turned its head toward me, strangely satisfied.
I arched a brow, faintly impressed. “You,” I said, nodding at the ostrich. “Yes, you. The one who plucked his eyes. You’re coming with me.”
Then I turned on my heel, walking through the carnage at an unhurried pace, idly avoiding the splashes of blood.
It reminded me of my past centuries.
Except back then, I had been the executioner.
“Damn confectioner…” I muttered with a bitter sneer.
Since when did I have a conscience?
18
Enchanted objects always carry an echo of their creator. Over time, they develop wills of their own—capricious, stubborn, and utterly unpredictable. They observe, judge, and sometimes refuse to obey altogether.
LEMPICKA
Arawn had forgotten me.
With his tall silhouette towering above the crowd, he should have been easy to find. Yet, in the chaos of bodies jostling me from every side, I couldn’t see him anywhere. My fists clenched as a pang of frustration knotted in my stomach. He had completely abandoned me.
It was easy for him—opening a path with a single stormy glance. But me? I had to keep my hood in place, clutch his broom against me, and try not to trip over my own feet. I had none of his imposing presence, and my eyes, far too wide, were not built for menacing stares.
At the edge of the market, a couple fiddled with enchanted trinkets without buying a thing. Clearly, he had lied to me. Butwhy? My heart stumbled at the thought, but I quickly chased away that weakness with a mischievous smile. He wasn’t even looking for me. Then I wouldn’t waste my time looking for him either.
“After all, he’s the one who lost me,” I muttered, resolute.
If he wanted to wander off alone, fine. I’d just take the chance to explore every stall of the market.
But no matter how many stalls I passed, Arawn’s scowling face continued haunting my thoughts. That was when a pink cloud slipped between my feet. Not a cloud—a rabbit, soft as spun sugar. It hopped around my ankles, leaving behind shimmering wisps of mist. Its trail was laced with threads of morning dew, like the kind clinging to spiderwebs, sparkling just before dawn.
I bent to touch it, but it leaped away before my fingers reached, then glanced back over its shoulder, as if saying: follow me. And so, I did.
It hopped onto the stall of a little girl with white braids, dressed in a pink kimono and a rabbit mask. In her hands, she spun a pearly-pink lighter. The rabbit evaporated instantly. The lighter looked almost identical to Arawn’s. Same rounded shape, that discreet click at the lid, the translucent center holding a liquid. Except this one had a thread wrapped around the cap, braided with pink petals and crystals.
“Your lighter… I know someone who has one just like it,” I said.
She flicked it between her fingers. “There are very few of them. The last was forged a thousand years ago, when its maker died. Is it an heirloom?”
“In a way,” I admitted, uneasy. “But his is broken. Only mist comes out of it, and dies right away.”
She lit hers with a snap. The rabbit reappeared, vaporous, playful, circling me.
“Then your friend is broken inside. How is the thread? The thread is the charm that binds it to its guide. Without it, no light. If it’s frayed, someone has to offer him a new one for protection.”
His thread was worn. Very worn. A thin cord, almost unraveling, its color dull. “It’s… damaged.”
She ducked under her table and returned with a small box of double latches. She opened it. Inside were dozens of threads: pale gold, ashen blue, crimson red. All beautiful. My gaze fell on one woven with tiny pale crystals, like frost or liquid diamonds.
