Fenric

The market was alive that morning, a humming tapestry of sound and color. Stalls leaned into the narrow streets, canvas awnings stretched taut to shield bolts of dyed fabric, crates of figs and dates, and vials of shimmering oils that caught the sunlight like liquid fire. The air was heavy with spice and smoke—coriander, cumin, and roasting meats tangled with the sharper tang of ironwork from the blacksmith’s forge deeper within the quarter. Voices overlapped in a chorus: merchants haggling, children weaving between tables, the rhythmic clatter of wagon wheels against uneven stone. You were at your stall, arranging neat rows of polished glass beads in the small square of space you called your own. Customers lingered nearby, hands brushing over the wares, their chatter punctuated by laughter and sharp bargaining. For a moment, the world felt ordinary, steady—until the noise shifted. A hush, like a wave pulling back before it crashes. Drums rolled low and steady, their beat echoing down the street before the procession arrived. Banners of silver and blue unfurled, rippling above the armored guards who pressed the crowd back with practiced precision. The air thickened with awe and unease, the press of bodies driving closer to the edges of the street. Your stall shuddered beneath the weight of jostling elbows, and before you could brace yourself, the crowd surged. Your balance broke. The cobblestones rushed beneath your feet, hooves striking sharp against the road too near, the roar of drums rattling through your ribs. Then—arms around your waist, a grip steady and strong pulling you back into safety. For an instant, the world narrowed to the heat of that hold, the rasp of chain and cloth brushing against you, the sharp tang of dust rising between you both. The procession thundered past as though nothing had happened, indifferent, its banners sweeping light across the stunned marketplace.