Silas's riddle was their only map. The Night Market wasn't a place you could find in any city directory; it was an event, a temporal tide that ebbed and flowed in the city's forgotten corners. It manifested only when certain esoteric conditions were met, and finding it was the first test for any who sought its wares.
"So," Ronan said, looking at the cryptic list of components Silas had given them. "A crystallized temporal resonance core, some vintage vacuum tubes, and a soul in a bottle. Simple. We can just pop down to the corner store."
"The market only appears in places with a 'thin veil' between moments," Liam murmured, recalling snippets from forbidden texts at the Pact. "Places of great historical overlap. A crossroads where an ancient trail meets a modern highway, a church built on the ruins of a pagan temple, a theater where a tragedy occurred…"
"That narrows it down to half the city," Zara said dryly, cleaning her pistol for what felt like the tenth time since they'd arrived at Silas's workshop. "We need a more specific location."
This was where Ronan's power, muddied as it was by the Paradox Box, found a new purpose. He wasn't trying to predict the future, but to find a destination. He held Silas's list, closed his eyes, and focused not on what *would* happen, but on where the highest *probability* of finding these items existed. He cast his dice not onto the floor, but onto a sprawling map of the city laid out on Silas's workbench.
The ivory cubes skittered across the paper, their paths erratic. They seemed to be drawn and repelled by various locations, finally coming to a stop on a small, unassuming area marked as the "Old Caledonian Quarter," a district known for its centuries-old tenement buildings and a labyrinth of cobblestone alleyways.
"There," Ronan said, tapping the spot. "The luck is… strange there tonight. Thin. Stretched. That's our place."
The Caledonian Quarter at night was another world. The rain had subsided to a fine mist that hung in the air, blurring the edges of the gaslights and giving the ancient buildings a soft, spectral glow. They navigated the tight, winding alleys, the modern city seeming to fall away with every step. The sounds of traffic were replaced by the echo of their own footsteps and the distant, mournful cry of a train whistle.
They found it in a dead-end square, a place that felt utterly ordinary just moments before. But as they entered, the world seemed to shift on its axis. The air grew thick with the scent of strange spices, ozone, and something else—the smell of dust from a thousand different centuries. The square was now filled with stalls, lit not by electricity or gas, but by the soft, pulsing light of captured will-o'-wisps in glass jars and by fungi that glowed with an ethereal blue light.
The Night Market was alive. Vendors, some human and some distinctly not, stood behind their makeshift counters. A man with skin like polished obsidian sold bottled whispers. A woman whose shadow moved independently of her body traded in enchanted mirrors. Strange, multi-limbed creatures bartered over chests filled with coins from civilizations that never existed.
Liam was mesmerized. His temporal sense was overwhelmed by the sheer density of history here. Every object, every vendor, every cobblestone seemed to hum with a thousand stories. It was a library of the impossible.
Zara was the opposite of mesmerized. She was a coiled spring of tension, her hand never far from her weapon. Every shadow held a potential threat, every friendly smile a potential deception. This place was the embodiment of the chaos she fought to control.
Ronan, however, was in his element. This was a place governed by unspoken rules, luck, and strange exchanges—a living embodiment of his power. "Alright," he said with a grin. "First on the shopping list: one crystallized temporal resonance core. Any ideas where the 'impossible physics' aisle is?"
Their search led them to a stall tucked away in the deepest corner of the market, a place shrouded in darkness save for a single, flickering candle. The vendor was a being who seemed to be made of pure shadow, with only two glowing, silver points for eyes. Before him, on a velvet cloth, lay objects that shimmered with contained energy.
"You seek a resonance core," the shadow-vendor said, its voice a chorus of whispers. It wasn't a question. "One that has absorbed a significant, violent historical moment."
"Do you have one?" Zara asked, her tone direct.
The vendor gestured with a shadowy limb to a small, crystalline shard on the cloth. It was the size of a thumb, and trapped within its facets was a frozen, miniature explosion—a perfect, silent image of a blooming fireball. "This crystal was at the heart of the Tunguska event. It holds the echo of a Tunguska-class blast. Raw, powerful, and very, very loud in the timeline. The price is not in currency."
"What is it, then?" Liam asked.
The vendor's silver eyes fixed on him. "I trade in what is real. I trade in echoes. To purchase an echo of this magnitude, you must offer one of your own. A significant memory. One with emotional weight. One that has shaped you."
The three of them exchanged uneasy glances. "Any memory?" Ronan asked.
"The resonance must be balanced," the vendor whispered. "A memory of great sorrow, or great joy. Great fear, or great love. The choice is yours. But it must be authentic. And once given, it will be gone from you forever. You will know it happened, but you will no longer feel it."
This was a price none of them had anticipated. Zara's past was a fortress she refused to open. Ronan's memories were a chaotic mix he rarely revisited. Liam's, however, were dominated by one single, defining pillar: his brother.
"I'll do it," Liam said before the others could object.
"Liam, no," Zara said, grabbing his arm. "You don't know what that will do to you."
"It's the only way," he insisted, his voice quiet but firm. "It's a price. And we need that component." He turned back to the vendor, his resolve hardening. "What do I do?"
"Simply hold the crystal," the shadow whispered. "And choose."
Liam picked up the crystal. It was cold, and it vibrated with immense, contained power. He closed his eyes, sifting through the painful, precious memories of his brother. Not the end. Not the accident. That was too core to who he was; losing it might break him. He needed something smaller, but still potent.
He found it. A memory from when he was ten. His brother, older and infinitely cooler in his eyes, had spent an entire month's allowance to buy a rare, imported model rocket kit. They had spent a whole weekend building it together, Liam carefully painting the fins while his brother assembled the engine. The memory was saturated with the smell of model glue, the warmth of the sun on the field where they launched it, and the pure, unadulterated joy on his brother's face when it soared into the sky. It was a perfect, happy day.
He focused on that joy, that warmth, that feeling of fraternal love. He felt a sharp, painful tug in his mind, as if a thread was being pulled from a tapestry. The crystal in his hand flared with a brilliant, white light.
And then, it was over.
He opened his eyes. He still knew, factually, that he and his brother had built a rocket. He remembered the sequence of events. But the feeling—the warmth, the joy, the specific shade of his brother's smile—was gone. It was now just a collection of data. A historical record, scrubbed of its soul.
He had just performed a small act of erasure on himself. The irony was nauseating.
"The transaction is complete," the vendor whispered, its silver eyes gleaming with satisfaction. The crystal now pulsed with a steady, soft light.
Liam pocketed the crystal, the weight of it feeling obscene in his coat. As they turned to leave, Zara asked the vendor, "What about the other items? The vacuum tubes, the phylactery?"
The vendor let out a dry, rustling sound that might have been a laugh. "Those are not so easily purchased. The tubes belong to Orville Finch, the Collector of Lost Sounds. He does not trade. The phylactery… that is held by the Curator of the Silent Sanatorium. And he does not let his collection go."
They had their first component, but the vendor's words confirmed their fears. The easy part was over.