The ridge wasn’t particularly steep, but after two days of steady hiking and one night of watching Glint try to steal half our rations, it felt like a mountain.
We crested the rise in a loose line—Garrick up front, Thorne beside him, Calla trailing just behind—and then we stopped.
Because there it was.
Maldon.
Closer now. No longer a distant smear on the horizon, but a city taking shape in full—jagged towers rising sharp against the sky, shimmering spires catching the afternoon light, and thin threads of mana-light winding between rooftops like veins. Even from here, I could feel it. The hum. The pulse. Like the city had a heartbeat of its own, slow and steady beneath the stone.
“Looks… bigger than I expected,” I said, trying not to sound like I was swallowing my nerves.
Calla exhaled through her nose. “That’s because it is. Maldon was built to house a hundred thousand. More, if you count the outskirts.”
Garrick rested his hammer against his shoulder and gave a low grunt. “Guess this is it.”
We all just stood there for a second, letting the sight sink in. There was a weight to it. Not fear, exactly—just the quiet understanding that whatever came next, it would happen there. Behind those walls. In that city.
The end of the road.
Or the beginning of something else.
I was just about to start walking again when—
“OI! CHOSEN WITH THE SCOWLS! HOLD A MOMENT!”
The voice echoed up from behind us, cheerful and absurdly loud.
We turned in unison.
And there, rounding the bend like a particularly enthusiastic parade float, came Obsidian.
Or more specifically—Obsidian and his cart.
The walking marketplace himself.
Only… upgraded.
Obsidian strolled toward us like he owned the path, a ridiculous grin on his face and a brand-new cart squeaking and groaning behind him—stacked impossibly high with wares: trinkets, armor, weapons, snacks, something in a cage that might’ve been snoring. He was still wearing that wide-brimmed hat and velvet traveling cloak, one boot unlaced, one eye twinkling like he knew every secret we hadn’t even told each other yet.
“By the gods,” Thorne muttered. “Not again.”
I blinked. “You have a cart now?”
Obsidian stopped in front of us with a dramatic flourish, bowing so low his hat nearly hit the dirt. “Naturally! One must reinvest, dear Felix. Profits, growth, mobility! Besides…” He straightened with a sheepish chuckle. “I toppled over a ridge last week and nearly rolled off a cliff. Needed a bit more… stability.”
Garrick grunted. “Shame. Would’ve been quieter without you around.”
Obsidian beamed at him. “Ah, but what would life be without joy?”
Calla crossed her arms. “How did you even find us?”
He tapped the side of his nose. “Please. I’m a professional.”
I sighed, already resigned. “You’re a menace.”
“And you,” he said, pointing a finger at me like I’d just stolen something, “owe me a story, young man. After the things you’ve been through.”
He turned with an embellishment, flipping open a side panel on the cart to reveal rows of polished gear and glittering enchantments.
“Welcome,” Obsidian declared, arms wide, “to the finest traveling market you’ll never find in the same place twice. Come! Shop like the world’s not ending!”
 
Glint hopped off Garrick’s shoulder and padded right up to him, nose twitching. He sniffed once, then again—then gave the man’s boot a quick headbutt like they were old friends.
Obsidian beamed. “Ah, see? At least someone remembers me fondly.”
Garrick raised an eyebrow. “You two know each other?”
“I know everyone,” Obsidian said smoothly, giving Garrick a wink. “Though most don’t remember me the first time. Or the second.”
He turned to Thorne next and gave a low, sweeping bow. “Ah. The Collector. How’s the hunt?”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you—?”
“Tut tut,” he said, wagging a finger. “Spoilers.”
Then he faced Garrick, the grin softening ever so slightly. “Still carrying that weight, are we?”
Garrick’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
Obsidian nodded once—quietly, like it meant something—then shifted to Calla. “And you, dear scholar. Still chasing the truth you already know?”
Calla froze. Just a beat. Her eyes didn’t narrow, didn’t widen. They just focused. Locked in.
“You’re full of riddles,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, already turning. “And bargains.”
Then he looked at Glint again, who had flopped down at his feet like a well-trained cat and was now eyeing his cart like it might contain treats. “You, I like the most,” Obsidian said cheerfully. “No questions. Just vibes.”
Finally, his gaze landed on me.
And I swear—for half a second—he looked serious.
“Shadowborn with secrets,” he said, voice lower. “My favorite kind.”
I tried to play it off with a smirk. “You keep saying that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is,” he said. “Right up until it isn’t.”
The smile returned.
“So!” He clapped his hands. “Who wants to buy something you absolutely don’t need but will almost certainly save your life at the last possible moment?”
 
Obsidian didn’t open his cart so much as unleash it.
Canvas straps flicked free, wooden slats folded down, enchanted hinges clicked, and suddenly the back of the wagon became a full display—tables, drawers, pop-out shelves, and more compartments than physics should allow. Racks of armor shimmered beside hanging chains of rings and necklaces. Scrolls floated gently in midair, rotating for full inspection. Weapons gleamed in light that hadn’t existed a second ago.
“Feast your eyes,” Obsidian said, spreading his arms as if unveiling a kingdom. “Wares rare enough to shame royalty, enchanted enough to bankrupt a duke, and marked down just enough to make you wonder if I’ve finally lost my edge!”Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Thorne snorted. “You never had an edge.”
“Madam,” he replied solemnly, “my edge is legendary. I simply keep it in a different pocket.”
We spread out, curiosity overcoming caution. I found myself lingering near a tray of rings, each nested in black velvet, each glowing faintly with some enchantment or other.
I drifted closer to the cart, fingers trailing over a row of shimmering necklaces and trinkets too tangled to be intentional, when Obsidian suddenly popped into view like an overexcited stage magician halfway through a disappearing act.
“Feast your eyes, my skeptical scoundrel,” he declared, sweeping his arm across the nearest shelf. “Here we have the Mug of Mourning—warms your drink to the perfect temperature and weeps dramatically whenever you forget it on a windowsill.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Or perhaps,” he continued, gesturing to a gaudy pink scarf embroidered with stitched eyes, “you’d prefer the Serpent’s Stole. Soft as spider-silk, enchanted to hiss at anyone who tries to steal your coin purse. And occasionally at birds. Or strong breezes.”
He turned on his heel and presented a brass compass that spun in lazy circles regardless of direction. “This beauty? The Wanderer’s Whim. Doesn’t point north. Or anywhere useful, really. But it does vibrate when you’re about to make a terrible decision.”
I blinked. “So… always?”
“Exactly,” he beamed.
He plucked a small ring from a velvet-lined box and held it up between two fingers like it might whisper secrets. “And this—ah, now this—is the Ring of Slightly Better Timing. Ever been late for something? Not anymore. Now you’ll be… slightly less late.”
I chuckled despite myself.
Obsidian winked. “Miracles take time. Mild improvements, however? Those I can sell by the dozen.”
Then his eyes flicked to the tray in front of me, where a ring with a pale green gem pulsed softly beneath my fingertips.
“Ah,” Obsidian said, appearing behind me like a ghost with flair. “The Ring of Regeneration. Steady and subtle. Restores your health bit by bit, as long as you’re not swinging wildly at things. Perfect for brooding rogues with poor sleep habits and too many stab wounds.”
“…Tempting,” I muttered.
“Isn’t it?” He leaned closer. “Of course, for someone like you, I could offer something a bit more… theatrical.”
He reached beneath the cart and withdrew a dark, expressionless mask. The surface shimmered like smoke caught in glass.
“The Mask of Many Faces. Lets you become someone else. Literally. New face, new voice. New name, if you want it.”
The second I looked at it, my gut twisted.
Something about the way it stared back made my skin crawl. Like it knew me. Or like it wanted to.
I shook my head quickly. “No, thanks.”
Obsidian arched a brow. “Not yet, then.”
I picked up the ring instead. Slipped it on. It fit too well, as if it had always been mine.
Behind me, Thorne was testing the weight of a pair of bracers, punching the air like she was shadowboxing.
“Balanced,” she muttered. “Reinforced. Not flashy.”
“Weighted Dueling Bracers,” Obsidian chimed in. “Ideal for warriors who hit like a freight train and want to do it faster.”
She grunted, clearly impressed despite herself. Then, as she turned to put them down, her eyes snagged on something hanging from the far side of the cart—a thin, sealed sleeve of protective plastic… containing a pristine, foil-stamped Chosen trading card.
“Oh no,” I whispered under my breath.
Obsidian caught the glance. His grin was instant. “Yes. The Emberstrike Champion. Limited print run. Never reissued. Mint condition.”
Thorne tried to play it cool. “Huh. That’s… nostalgic, I guess.”
“Of course. Probably not worth your time. Unless,” he added casually, “you’re still missing her from your binder.”
Thorne’s head jerked. “How did you—?”
“Please,” he said, gesturing grandly. “I sell things. I know things.”
She folded her arms. “Not paying your asking price.”
“Didn’t think you would,” he said, already adjusting the tag. “But I do enjoy a good haggle.”
While they started whisper-arguing over value, Calla was already lost in another world. She’d wandered to the floating scrolls and tomes, hands moving reverently over the spines.
“This case,” she murmured. “It’s enchanted.”
“Scrollbound Grimoire Case,” Obsidian replied, voice softening. “Auto-organizing. Spell-stabilized. Keeps your pages from getting wet, scorched, or… possessed.”
“That happens?”
“Only once,” he said brightly.
She opened the case slowly—and froze.
Inside was a small black book bound in green-threaded leather. Its pages glowed faintly with text in a language that twisted the eyes. Even from where I stood, it gave me a headache.
“Do you know what this says?” she asked him.
Obsidian gave her a wide smile. “Not a clue.”
“Liar.”
“Absolutely.” He leaned forward, voice conspiratorial. “But half the fun is in the deciphering.”
She pulled it close, already flipping pages. “I’ll take it.”
Garrick, meanwhile, had said almost nothing. He’d browsed with quiet focus, methodical, like he was inspecting a weapons rack before a siege. Eventually, he picked up a ring made of dull stone etched with runes.
“Stoneheart Ring,” Obsidian said simply. “Nothing too fancy. Just makes you harder to break.”
Garrick nodded. “Good.”
Then he spotted something else.
Tucked among a pile of junk and half-discarded baubles was a simple pendant—nothing more than a triangle of beaten metal on a worn cord. But when he turned it over in his hand, his whole expression shifted. Jaw set. Shoulders tight.
He pulled out a few coins and dropped them into Obsidian’s hand without a word.
Obsidian didn’t say anything either. He just offered a short bow.
And then—finally—Glint.
The little creature had climbed onto the cart without anyone noticing and was now pawing gently at a bundle of colorful fabric. Obsidian reached out and looped something around its neck.
A collar. Thin. Rune-stitched. Faintly humming.
“A gift,” he said with a smile.
I opened my mouth to ask what it did.
“Not for protection,” he said before I could. “For belonging.”
Glint blinked up at him. Then curled up like he understood.
 
By the time the shopping frenzy tapered off, we were all a little lighter on coin and a lot heavier on magical trinkets, odd enchantments, and the creeping sense that we’d definitely overpaid for most of it.
Naturally, this led to the next phase of the Obsidian experience: bargaining backward.
“Alright,” Thorne muttered, fishing through her pack. “What’ll you give me for a pair of cracked bracers, two chipped mana flasks, and a dagger that whistles when you swing it?”
Obsidian perked up. “Whistles how, exactly?”
Thorne demonstrated. It made a sound like a kettle having a nervous breakdown.
He winced. “Oh, that’s awful. I love it. Five silver.”
“Make it seven.”
“Sold.”
Garrick laid out a small pile of worn gear—mostly armor pieces that had been dented beyond dignity. “Half this was cracked open by undead. The rest probably smells like them.”
Obsidian gave the pile a sniff. Then nodded. “Battle-worn. Aromatic. Very authentic. I’ll give you twelve silver and a polishing stone.”
“Deal.”
Calla didn’t even look up from her new book as she pulled a few baubles from her robe pockets—mana shards, burned scroll fragments, a little wand that had snapped in half during our last dungeon run.
“I’m not haggling,” she said flatly. “Take it and give me whatever.”
Obsidian swept it all into a pouch and handed her a glittering coin. “A single gold piece, because you’ve been charmingly rude.”
She blinked. “That’s… actually fair.”
“You’re welcome.”
Even I dug into my pack, pulling out a few odds and ends I hadn’t used in weeks. An old climbing rope enchanted to hum when wet, a dagger with a cracked hilt, and that cursed pair of boots that gave me blisters and made me faster. Not worth it.
Obsidian gave them a once-over. “Fifteen silver and a voucher for a cup of tea at the Wandering Kettle.”
“There’s no way that place still exists.”
“It does, if you know where to look.”
“…Sold.”
By the end of it, our bags were lighter, our purses slightly less empty, and Obsidian’s cart was somehow fuller than ever.
I watched as he stashed it all away, humming cheerfully to himself, stacking junk with relics and priceless oddities like it was all the same to him.
“Still alive, still shopping, and still full of bad decisions,” he said with a wink. “You lot truly are my favorite customers.”
“I bet we’re your only customers,” Calla muttered.
“That’s what you think.”
Garrick muttered something about buyers’ remorse while adjusting his new ring. Thorne kept glancing at her new foil Champion card like she was trying to convince herself it wasn’t the highlight of her week.
Glint, freshly collared with a soft, rune-threaded loop around its neck, was prancing through our bags like he had been the one who bought everything.
Obsidian clapped his hands, drawing our attention one last time.
“A pleasure, as always,” he said, bowing low. “A delight, a joy, a minor financial mistake—but one you’ll cherish forever.”
He snapped his fingers, and a puff of glittering smoke erupted from a pouch at his belt. From it, he pulled a wide, flat stone with a faded engraving.
“Let me leave you with a tale,” he said, dramatically holding it aloft. “Once, a Chosen tried to trade one of these for a kiss from the Wind Queen herself. She took the stone and turned his breath into a hurricane that destroyed six villages and a soup stand. Moral of the story: never underestimate soup.”
We all stared.
“…What?”
He grinned. “Exactly.”
Obsidian tipped his hat, turned in one smooth motion, and gave Glint a final two-fingered salute.
Then, without a word, he tapped the side of his cart.
A soft chime rang out—clear and strange—and the entire contraption shimmered. Not vanished, exactly. More like the light around it folded inward, peeling it out of existence thread by thread, until there was nothing left but a faint scent of oil and metal in the air.
I blinked. Glint tilted its head. Garrick let out a low whistle.
“Every damn time,” Thorne muttered.
“Does he teleport?” Calla asked.
“No,” I said. “Worse. He wanders.”
We stood there for a moment longer, the air still faintly charged where the cart had been.
Then we turned to the road ahead.
Maldon loomed in the distance—its walls rising high, towers catching the late-afternoon sun like blackened steel. The capital didn’t just stand. It watched.
We had new gear. New questions. And one last stretch of road before nightfall.
I could already feel the hum of the city’s mana, the pulse of too many lives packed into stone towers and secrets.
“C’mon, Shadowborn,” Thorne called back over her shoulder, her voice bright with that cocky little grin of hers. “Let’s go cause trouble somewhere important.”