A market square blazed with color like a jewel dropped in the dusty heart of the medieval city. Dawn hadn't fully settled, yet the place throbbed with life—merchants already bellowing their prices as though volume alone might conquer rivals. Spices spilled from burlap sacks in vibrant dunes of crimson and gold, their scents weaving through the air like invisible serpents. Fresh bread steamed on wooden boards, the crusts crackling as if whispering secrets to anyone who lingered too long.
A crowd surged and eddied as though the square were breathing. A nimble-fingered pickpocket slipped through the press, eyes sharp, smile sharper. A traveling storyteller stood atop a crate, spinning a tale of a cursed king to a cluster of children—each gasp from the audience drawing a few more curious onlookers.
From the far edge came the clamor of a blacksmith's hammer, flashes of orange flying like miniature comets. The clangs nearly drowned out the anxious bleating of goats being haggled over by a farmer and a nobleman's steward whose patience was wearing thin. Overhead, banners snapped in the wind, their bright colors winking between timbered rooftops.
But underneath the bustle lurked something else: a tension as faint as a hairline crack in a wine jug. A cloaked stranger stood near the well, unmoving despite the crush of bodies. His gaze drifted from stall to stall with surgical precision—as though he wasn't here to buy anything, but to find someone.
The market was a place of trade, of gossip, of daily survival. Yet today, it felt like the first page of a story about to turn dangerous. And everyone, whether they knew it or not, was already part of it.
Within the crowd of people and their hustle and bustle were two distinct figures. They moved through the chaos like two characters out of a story no one in the market had heard before. One of them wore a kimono and the other a black medieval armor with a mask which resembled a Japanese demon, the Oni.
The mask she wore was a thing torn from nightmares and tradition both—a black, demon-shaped visage that turned every glance toward her into a double take.
Forged from lacquered metal, the mask clung to her face with the smooth, curved elegance of Japanese craftsmanship, yet its design was anything but gentle. Jagged fangs jutted upward from a snarling mouth, each tooth etched with faint runic grooves that caught the light like silver scars. The lips were pulled into a permanent, predatory grin—too wide, too knowing.
The cheeks swept upward into angular ridges, mimicking the exaggerated facial tension of a wrathful oni. Subtle etchings traced those ridges like veins of shadow, giving the illusion that the mask itself might be flexing or coiling beneath the morning sun. Around the eyes, the metal narrowed into sharp, fox-like slits—shadows pooling within them—making her gaze appear colder, more focused, as though she saw far more than she revealed.
Two short, curvedhorns rose from the brow—polished obsidian spikes that caught just enough light to gleam ominously. Between them, faint patterns—swirling like smoke—were carved into the surface, an artisan's nod to ancient tales of vengeful spirits.
When she moved, the mask shifted with her, and for a moment it seemed alive: a whisper of menace in a sea of market noise. It wasn't just a piece of armor. It was a warning.
The boy in the kimono walked lightly, almost floating above the dust and noise. His robe—ink-blue with pale silver threads catching the morning light—swirled around his ankles as he moved. Despite the clamor of merchants hawking wares and children darting underfoot, he navigated the crowd with effortless grace, slipping between people as though he could see the rhythm of the square before it happened. His dark hair brushed his shoulders, and his eyes—wide, curious, unafraid—soaked in every sight: the hanging meats, the clanging smithy, the bright chaos of silks snapping in the wind.
Beside him strode a woman clad in medieval black armor , a stark contrast to the boy's softness. Her pauldrons were matte and battle-worn, each dent a quiet memory. At her back, a longbow rose over her shoulder, the polished wood gleaming like a warning. A quiver of arrows rested against her hip, feathers rustling as she walked. She drew glances—some wary, some intrigued, many pretending not to stare—but she seemed to notice none of them. Her gaze stayed alert, scanning the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who expected trouble, and usually found it.
The crowd parted around her without needing to be asked.
Yet despite their differences—the boy's gentle curiosity and the woman's honed vigilance—they moved together with an odd harmony, as if the market's frantic energy bent just slightly to accommodate them. Children stared. Merchants paused mid-shout. Even a few guards exchanged puzzled looks as the unlikely pair slipped deeper into the square.
Two travelers out of place, and unmistakably heading toward something that would shake the day wide open.
"What are we doing here?"Nesta asked taking into account all the activities that were going on around him. He could remember vividly when they had reached the gates to the city, there were guards who were dressed in the same armor Clara was clad in but it seemed that he could tell that her own was superior as compared to theirs.
The expressions the guards made when they saw them approach the city were full of disdain even though there were a couple of people moving in and out of the city at that moment. Nesta could clearly tell that these people were holding some sort of grudge against his savior. Due to this though, he decided to take a mental note of everything and report what he saw to Clara at the right time.
Moving through the city had also made him aware of certain stuffs he thought was going to be different when he was informed about the journey. Although the city was prosperous on the outside, there were still a lot of setbacks that made him want to have a word with those in charge of the place.
From the scornful expressions of the guards to the number of beggars he saw around the wooden stores, his heart was indeed perturbed by everything.
A society where the rich is hailed and the poor is crushed until they break.
He sighed, placed a finger on his lip while staring at Clara's back which was more elegant despite the ominous aura surrounding her armor and the evil mask she was wearing at the moment.
Why the need to cover up your face? I mean you are beautiful and all that. You are not like me.
He wondered.
Something was clearly fishy here and he was ready to try and catch a glimpse of what it was.
Grasping the amulet around his neck, Nesta could feel a sudden surge of energy emanating from it. As his fingers closed around the amulet beneath his kimono, the world around him seemed to pull back—just a fraction, just enough for him to notice.
The metal was cool at first touch, cooler than it had any right to be under so many layers of cloth. Then a faint warmth bloomed beneath his palm, slow and steady, like a heartbeat that wasn't his. A shiver crawled up his spine, not from fear, but from recognition—an old and familiar presence stirring.
The noise of the market softened, the shouts and clangs and laughter blurring into a distant hum. For a heartbeat, he felt suspended between two places: the bustling square around him and something deeper, hidden, waiting. The amulet thrummed faintly, sending a gentle vibration through his chest, as if whispering a reminder he could almost—but not quite—hear.
A sense of calm threaded through him, settling his breath, sharpening his focus. But there was something else, too—a hint of warning, a tug at the edge of his awareness, as though the amulet sensed a shift in the air before he did.
He tightened his grip, and the warmth surged once more.
Whatever lay ahead, the amulet wanted him to know:
It was awake.
Read and support.