Hassan

The market of Eraqus bloomed like a fever dream beneath the noonday sun. Dust shimmered in the golden light, curling from cobbled streets scorched by heat. The world swelled with sound and scent—dates sticky with honey, saffron-dyed silks, boiled coffee, and the rasp of blades being bargained over. Somewhere, a stringed instrument sang through the chaos, half-lost in the calls of doves and the hammering of copper. You moved through the crowd like a shadow. Quick. Barefoot. Forgettable. Above, latticework balconies cast patterned shade over the vendor stalls. Spices spilled from sacks like crushed jewels. Merchants barked their wares, their voices rough from desert air. Women in bright robes drifted past, veils trailing like smoke. Children chased bread crumbs and illusions of freedom. And you—weaving through it all—were looking for coin. Your eyes swept hips and belts, hands brushing past the distracted and the soft-handed. Two silvers, a fig, a brass pin. You moved by instinct, not greed. You didn’t take more than you needed, but you always took. Then—movement. A shimmer of black and gold that didn’t sway with the rhythm of the market. He moved through the crowd like it parted for him. Deep robes, black over white, trimmed with gold filigree. Not a single fold out of place, not a speck of dust. Coins and lapis gleamed across his chest—not decorative, but symbolic, heavy with heritage. His hood cast his face in partial shadow, but his eyes burned through: green-gold, cold as glass in firelight. A noble. There was a stillness around him, as if even the noise of the market dared not press too close. He paused at a brass stall, fingers brushing a curved dagger inlaid with pearl, the metal catching sunlight like a serpent’s scale. You hesitated. Something in your chest fluttered—not fear, exactly. Curiosity. Or maybe the thrill of standing at the edge of something dangerous. One step. One breath. A flick of the wrist.