Page 13 of The City Of Fractured Memory

Halfway across, Stryx slows, her head turning to stare down through the gaps between the planks. The glow of the lanterns strung along the bridge flicker against the pale hair that peeks out from under her hood, her expression caught somewhere between awe and unease.

I bite back a curse and catch her wrist. “Don’t linger. You fall, you’re gone. The Voyd doesn’t let go, there’s no way back.”

Her eyes dart back to me and she swallows hard before quickening her pace. I keep us moving, boots drumming a steady rhythm against the swaying boards until the bridge ends and we step into Eidravelle, the distant spires of the Memosyne rising towards us.

The heart of Velmora hums as it always does at night, the tiered walkways crowded with merchants and messengers, banners fluttering between towers, the faint shimmer of the moon through the Veil overhead casting the city in its ever-present silver-blue haze. The Division looms ahead of us, but we turn the other way, weaving through the arteries of the central quarter, heading for the next bridge.

By the time the gates to Aethermere appear, Stryx is stiff beside me. The iron arches leading to that quarter are blackened with soot, the lanterns cracked, and the guards posted there don’t bother to hide their apathy. The bridge to Dhakira has no need of guards, but this entrance is always watched, and for good reason. Beyond, the bridge stretches into shadow, its lanterns few and far between, leading to a sprawl of leaning rooftops and broken stone.

Aethermere––the underbelly of Velmora––hosts our prison, the black market and its endless rot. The place where the seedy, unfavourable citizens linger and live by their own rules.

Stryx lingers at the threshold, her jaw tightening as she grinds her teeth. “Do we really need to go over there?” she murmurs, her voice low.

I glance at her, then back at the bridge. The air carries the smell of smoke, spice, and blood all tangled together, and I can feel the weight of eyes already on us, even from this distance.

“Yes,” I say flatly. “And no one here will hand us answers with a smile. So keep your head down and keep moving.”

She purses her lips, but she nods, following me as we step onto the second bridge, the one that leads us into the shadows.

The streets of Aethermere fold in on themselves the deeper we go, alleys narrowing, shadows lengthening, the smell of smoke and sweat thickening until it clings to my clothes. The hum of Eidravelle behind us fades, replaced by a different kind of rhythm––drums from taverns, coin clinking in greedy hands, the low thrum of dangerous whispers haunting street corners.

Ahead, the quarter ends in a sheer wall of stone, the southern cliff that cradles Aethermere like a jagged hand. Carved into it, the dark mouths of numerous caves gape wide, their entrances lit by guttering braziers. A queue of figures winds toward the largest opening; cloaked merchants, shrouded buyers, faces hidden behind masks or smeared with paint to disguise features.

The Maw––Velmora’s black market.

It’s cruelly beautiful in the way it flaunts what the rest of the city denies.

Stryx shifts uncomfortably beside me, her hand brushing the hilt of a blade I know is hidden in her coat. “It smells wrong,” she mutters.

She’s right. Even from here, the air seeping from the caverns is too rich, heavy with incense and charred meat. We step inside with the lingering crowd and the world darkens.

The caves sprawl into a labyrinth of chambers linked by dripping tunnels, each space alive with the pulse of trade all the while facing the looming threat of the spiked stalactites dangling dangerously from the ceiling. Stalls huddle against the rock walls, their tables spilling with wares both dazzling and profane; apparent bottled starlight corked in crystal phials, weapons that hum, imbued with magic, cages filled with creatures that blink with too-mortal eyes. Candles flicker in sconces carved into the rock, their smoke curling like restless spirits. The air sparkles faintly with glamour, cast by merchants eager to gild their goods. Coins change hands in rapid bursts, the clatter of deals punctuated by laughter that never quite reaches the eyes.

We pass a narrow ledge where an apothecary offers powders ground from bones, the jars stacked precariously high. Another cavern glitters with silks dyed colours that don’t exist in nature, fluttering like the wings of poisonous moths. Further still, the market deepens into a pit where auctioneers cry out over the roar of a crowd, offering anything and everything, relics from before the Veil, maps inked in blood, even Echofae slaves.

The tunnels weave endlessly, each chamber stranger and more dangerous than the last. The deeper we go, the more the rock itself seems to press down on us, the ceiling low, the air stale with secrets.

Stryx keeps glancing over her shoulder and I can’t blame her. In the Maw, everyone’s a predator, but tonight, so are we. I have questions, and I won’t stop until I get the answers.

I approach a stall guarded by a merchant cloaked in shadow, a hood hanging heavy over his face as smoke from his pipe slowly spills from the darkness and hovers over the many glittering bottles of tattoo ink. I pull out the drawing of the tattoo I made yesterday and unfold it, offering it to him. He puffs out another cloud of smoke before stepping forward and taking it from me with a gnarled hand, studying it with a tilt of his head.

“What is this fanciful scribbling?” he growls, turning the parchment as he looks closer at my drawing.

“It’s a tattoo,” I reply, my voice low. “Do you recognise it?”

His hood sways as he shakes his head in answer.

“You’re in the trade. Has anyone requested ink like this recently? This same tattoo has been found on two murder victims,” I press, but he grumbles his refusal to answer.

I huff a sigh before snatching the parchment back and marching to the next tattoo stall without bothering to expense with farewells.

“What are you doing?” Stryx hisses in my ear as she hurries to keep up with me, tugging her hood further over her face.

“Where best to figure out the meaning of a tattoo than the place where everyone comes to get them?” I whisper back, gesturing towards the surrounding merchants, most of whom are uncloaked and covered in swirling patterns of ink across their limbs and faces.

I wander up to the next stall. Like the previous merchant, the man refuses to answer, barely looking at my drawing before waving me off. Over the next hour, I get the same treatment at each of the stalls before I eventually give up, leaning against the rough stone wall with a sigh.

Stryx gives me a lopsided smile as she lets her head fall back against the stone. “Shall we get out of here, then?” she asks hopefully. “I don’t think the people here are too keen on outsiders asking questions.”