These damn Hawkers

The days that followed blurred together in a quiet rhythm. Nothing spectacular, nothing world-shaking – just the steady cadence of work, meals, and the slow mending of frayed edges between them.

Mornings began with the tavern’s clatter, Balthan grumbling about the quality of bread and plan for the day, Vesh reading prayers beneath his breath, Rika wordlessly rolling her shoulders as though shaking off yesterday’s storm. Tia noticed, with a relief that loosened her chest, that Rika’s tail twitched a little more each day. Not wagging, not quite playful – but alive again, not weighed down by hurt.

Work came next. Guild law might frown on stepping outside one’s destined path, but loopholes existed, and Balthan knew them all. So they found themselves carrying crates through the Blooming Bazaar, running messages between merchant houses, or haggling down prices for herbs. Tia often felt clumsy beside Balthan’s seasoned charm, but he never minded – he’d clap her on the back and say, “The secret is to act as though the price was already fair, then sigh loudly enough to make them pity you.” It worked more often than she wanted to admit.

Corin, though still quiet, rejoined them in these tasks. He moved like someone half-present, gaze down, but at least he was moving. In the evenings, he and Tia slipped away to Mystikos again, practising little spells – harmless fireworks that fizzled above their palms, or puffs of colored smoke that made them laugh until their sides hurt. Sometimes the sparks misfired and nearly set the papers ablaze, and Mystikos would flail and shout and then laugh along with them anyway. Tia noticed that when Corin laughed – really laughed – his shoulders unknotted just a little.

And then there was Ellis. They saw her most days in the bazaar, her hood tugged low but her steps unhurried, like she wanted to be caught. She always drifted toward the herb stalls, fingertips brushing leaves and petals as if testing whether they were real. Balthan would inevitably join her, lecturing on soil acidity or the drying process of rare moss. Ellis listened with such earnest delight that even his gravelly tone softened.

“I’d rather tend gardens forever,” she admitted more once, holding up a bundle of rosemary like a prize. “Empires are too big. Plants are… enough.”

Balthan only grunted, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Tia found herself smiling at the odd pair. Despite everything – the blank mark, the lies, the watchful guards at every checkpoint – life almost felt like a lull. Not safe, not really, not at all, but steady. A rhythm she could breathe inside.

Until it broke.

It was an ordinary afternoon, sunlight slanting over the bazaar, when a hawker clambered onto a crate near the fountain. His voice, rough and practiced, cut through the crowd with a sharp bell’s ring.

“By decree of the Council – hear, hear!”

The market quieted. Even the gulls circling above seemed to hush.

“The runaway princess has been deceived, led astray by false words! A pretender calling herself Celestia, daring to take the name of the human goddess, has lured her from her rightful guardians. This false apostle is no savior, but a seductress, corrupting a knight-in-training and spreading discordance within our walls!”

Gasps scattered like sparks. Merchants muttered, customers craned their necks. Somewhere behind Tia, someone spat the word apostle like a curse.

Her blood turned cold. The name – Celestia – hung in the air, heavy as an ax.

Beside her, Corin stiffened, his hand tightening around his tome. Balthan’s jaw clenched, Vesh’s brows furrowed in a storm. Rika’s tail froze, the fur along it bristling sharp.

And Ellis – Ellis stood just a few paces away, face drained of color, staring at the hawker as though the words had pierced her directly.

The hawker’s voice carried on, feeding the fire.

“Beware the false one! Report sightings to the nearest guard! Let not her lies infect your homes!”

The days after the hawker’s cry pressed down like a storm cloud.

These damn hawkers. Every. Single. Time. They just gotta enjoy spoiling fun.

Every corner of Ssarradon seemed to buzz with rumors. In the bazaar, merchants whispered of a false prophet corrupting youths. At the tavern, drunks muttered about a girl who dared call herself Celestia. Even in the temples, the prayers carried a sharper edge, a warning against deceit.

And though the name had not yet been spoken aloud – though no one had pointed a finger – Tia could feel the net drawing tighter. Every casual glance lingered too long. Every laugh behind her back twisted into suspicion. She kept her cloak hood up more often, but it didn’t muffle the cold knot of dread in her chest.

She, Corin, and Mystikos tried to bury themselves in study. Blink-spells on coins, on pebbles, on spoons. Sparks that hopped half an inch, a cup that reappeared upside down or in halves, a candle flame that winked out then sputtered back to life across the room. Harmless little things – but never more than that.

Tia would stare at the diagrams until her eyes blurred, her head full of half-syllables that promised worlds beyond reach. Each flicker of success only sharpened the ache. If this was all she could do – cheap parlor tricks – how could she ever hope to bridge worlds?
Funnily enough, even if she did, all this new cool stuff would probably be useless.

One evening, as the last slant of sunset burned through the high window, their practice unraveled into laughter. They had stood all in the far corner, clearly afraid of a pebble and a cup until Corin’s pebble had vanished cleanly, only to reappear lodged perfectly inside Mystikos’ teacup. The mage howled as though it were the greatest miracle of his career, waving his arms so wildly he knocked over a stack of scrolls.

Tia was still grinning when it happened.

Then, a muted clang of a bell, drifting up from the front door below.

The three of them froze.

Mystikos’ head snapped up, eyes wide. “A customer.” The word left his mouth in a hushed, reverent awe – as if he’d just spoken of a unicorn. Then, louder: “A customer! Or – better yet! A prospective apprentice!”

He barreled toward the trapdoor, tripping over his own hem in his haste. “Compose yourselves! Or no, don’t – be natural! No, no – be mysterious, yes, that’s the word. First impressions – ” His muttering trailed as he scrambled down the ladder, beard swinging. Hat swinging even more.

Tia and Corin exchanged a look. She had never actually witnessed the front bell ring. Not with them on the inside.

The floorboards below creaked with voices. At first only Mystikos’ babble carried up, full of manic cheer. “Welcome, yes, welcome, you’ve come to the finest establishment of thaumaturgical – oh, forgive the ink stains, they’re traditional – please, mind the jars, they bite if startled!”

Then another voice cut through. Low, deliberate. Wrapped in silk and weight, the kind of voice that made every word sound like a pronouncement.

“Are you the one called Mystikos? Proprietor of this… tower?”

Tia’s skin prickled. She inched closer to the ladder, holding her breath.

“Yes, yes, that would be me, humble servant of the arcane arts, second floor, third floor, anywhere really – hah! – what brings you to my door, venerable sir?”

A pause. Then:

“I come in service of the Temple.”

The word dropped like a stone into still water.

Corin’s knuckles whitened around his tome.

“The Temple?” Mystikos echoed, and for once his voice faltered.

“Indeed. I am here on behalf of the Council of Priests. We have heard whispers of… irregularities. Strange marks. Stranger origins. And those who may harbor them.”

Tia’s breath caught in her throat.

Mystikos sputtered, his cheer returning like a nervous shield. “Irregularities? My good man, you’ll find nothing irregular here, aside from my housekeeping! I assure you, my work is purely theoretical, hardly threatening at all! Unless you count singed eyebrows – ah, but who among us has not – ”

The priest’s voice cut him clean. “The gods do not take kindly to meddling with what lies beyond the veil. If you are hiding such a one… you would do well to confess.”

The air between the words seemed to thrum.

Tia backed away from the trapdoor, heart hammering. Her mind flashed with images – of the hawker’s cry, of suspicious stares, of guards tightening their grip on halberds. They had found her. Or if not her, then they were close, close enough to smell the wrongness clinging to her.

Corin shook his head once, sharply, eyes wide with warning. Stay quiet. Don’t move.

Below, Mystikos laughed again – thin, strained. “Confess? Me? Hiding someone? Preposterous! I barely hide my own debts!” Papers rustled, a stool scraped. “Now, why don’t we discuss this like civil men over tea – ah, you don’t strike me as a tea sort of fellow, no, no, perhaps a strong cider? I assure you – ”

The priest’s reply was muffled now, lower, like a blade slipped into a sheath. Tia couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was enough: final, patient, inexorable.

Corin mouthed silently: We need to go.

But Tia just looked at him, a mix of confusion and fear.

Where the hell should they escape through? There’s really just a trapdoor down to doom… or a big glass window down onto stone pavement.
Now which one’s less painful?

The priest didn’t linger. His words left behind a hush, sharp as incense smoke, and then the door creaked, footsteps fading into the street.

Tia let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Corin’s hand trembled as he brushed his sleeve over his mouth.

Below, Mystikos stood rooted for a long moment. Then – loud enough for them to hear – he said, with false cheer, “A fine visit! Nothing irregular here at all, no sir, just a humble old man. Hah!”

Silence pressed for a heartbeat. Then came the shuffle of his boots, and the creak of the trapdoor as he began climbing back up. His muttering rose with him: “Priests, pah. Always sniffing about, acting like they invented mystery. Gods this, gods that – what do they know about late fees on enchanted ink, I ask you?”

He heaved himself halfway up, red-faced, when –

Ding.

The muted chime of the bell again.

Mystikos froze on the ladder. He closed his eyes. “Oh good heavens…” Then his face lit with sudden hope. “A real customer! Finally!”

He slid back down with far more speed than grace, cloak catching on the rung and nearly yanking him bald. Tia and Corin leaned forward instinctively, listening.

The door hinges squealed. A different voice this time – measured, crisp. “Good evening. I represent the Arcanum.”

Mystikos’ gasp was audible even from upstairs. “The Arcanum?!” His voice pitched an octave higher. “At last! Recognition! Summons to the Spire! I knew the day would come, my genius cannot be ignored forever – ”

The other voice cut him down without even raising volume. “We have registered irregular spurts of spatial interference in this quadrant. Disturbances of a minor, yet noticeable scale. Your… residence sits within the probable locus.”

Mystikos stammered. “Irregular spurts? You think I, Mystikos the Magnificent, would meddle so sloppily that it rattles your precious wards?”

“That,” the Arcanum envoy said flatly, “is precisely what we think.”

For a moment there was nothing but the sound of Mystikos spluttering, his hands no doubt flapping like frightened pigeons. Then, indignant: “Well! Perhaps it was me. Yes. Practicing cutting-edge… teacup displacement theory! You’ll see, when the history books write of my breakthroughs–”

“Just… keep it contained,” the voice interrupted, weary as if they’d had this conversation a dozen times before. “Or the Council will shut your little… ‘Tower’ down.”

The door clicked shut.

For a long beat, Mystikos stood silent. Then his boots stomped, and he began clambering back up again, wheezing. “The audacity! Complaining like I was rattling their chamber pots! I could be rattling their chamber pots if I wanted, mind you – half a syllable from me and poof! Their underpants on the balcony rail. But no, no, Mystikos isn’t worthy, Mystikos is always the scapesska’veth – oh, my knees, not built for this ladder–”

He emerged at last, red in the face, beard crooked, and jabbed his quill at the ceiling. “Mark my words, children, when I sit on the Arcanum’s Council, I shall remember this insult – ”

Ding.

The bell chimed a third time.

Mystikos froze mid-rant, one hand still raised. His eye twitched. “If that’s another complaint I swear I will transmogrify someone’s shoes into sparks.”

Down he went again, muttering and puffing, until the creak of the door carried up.

This voice was rougher. Stern, clipped. “Evening. Tharvessan Guard. We’ve had reports of unusual traffic to this… establishment.”

There was a pause. Then the soldier added, almost lazily: “Doesn’t exactly look like the sort of place that draws a crowd. Can’t imagine anyone voluntarily coming here.”

There was silence for the span of a heartbeat. Then Mystikos exploded.

“VOLUNTARILY?” His roar shook the walls. “I’ll have you know, good sir, that I am an esteemed practitioner of the arcane arts! Esteemed! Customers flock here in droves! Why, just this very week–”

Tia buried her face in her hands as the tirade poured out.

“–I entertained apprentices, scholars, priests – priests, mind you! And the Arcanum themselves! And now, to be slandered in my own doorway by some iron-booted watchdog with less imagination than a broomstick! Out! Out of my tower before I demonstrate what a broomstick can do when properly enchanted!”

The soldier’s reply was too quiet to catch. But the door slammed, and Mystikos’ stomps shook the floorboards as he thundered back up the ladder.

He appeared in the trapdoor like a stormcloud, face flushed purple, beard bristling. “The nerve! Traffic complaints! My customers questioned!” His voice cracked as he jabbed at the ceiling with his quill, flecks of ink flying. “Do they not know greatness when it stands before them?! Do they not–”

Ding.

The bell chimed again.

Mystikos let out a sound somewhere between a shriek and a sob. “Oh good heavens, let it be a real customer this time…”

He vanished down the ladder once more, muttering all the way.

Mystikos froze halfway down the ladder. His whole body sagged like a deflating wineskin. “If this is another accuser, I swear by the ninth circle of candlewax I shall – ” He coughed. Cleared his throat. Straightened what little dignity remained in his bent back. “Ahem. Professional. Composed. Master of arcana.”

Tia and Corin leaned over the railing again, bracing for another storm.

The front door creaked open.

A hesitant voice drifted up, young and clear: “Excuse me, sir? I was told you… you might have tinctures for stabilizing arcane circles?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, very slowly, Mystikos answered: “…Tinctures?” His tone carried the brittle edge of a man prepared to pounce on insult. But when the voice continued –

“Yes, for a circle I’m preparing. My instructor said yours were good. He, uh… also said you actually sell them cheaper than the apothecary stalls.”

– Mystikos’ entire demeanor changed.

“Oh! Oh-ho!” he barked, voice bursting with delight. “A customer! At last, a true seeker of quality! And wise enough to know that Mystikos’ tinctures are not only the finest in the district, but priced with the generosity of a saint!”

He threw the door open fully, ushering the nervous figure inside. A young scribe, robes dusted with chalk, eyes wide as though they’d stepped into a dragon’s lair. Mystikos clapped both ink-stained hands on the poor soul’s shoulders and practically sang, “Come, come, don’t lurk in the street! You honor my humble establishment with your patronage!”

From upstairs, Tia covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. Corin’s lips curved faintly – more amusement than he’d shown all day.

Below, Mystikos bustled about like a man half his age, sweeping parchment stacks off stools, sending quills rolling, nearly tripping over his own robe hem. “Now then! A tincture for stabilizing arcane circles, you say? A connoisseur’s request! A scholar’s request!” He wagged a finger. “Not like those dreary guards with their traffic complaints. Bah!”

After a few minutes, the front door closes once more and Mystikos scrambles up the ladder one last time. He scrambled a few coins into his chest.

Tia and Corin exchanged a glance. Both had to bite back laughter.

By the time they took their leave, the sun was long gone, the streets washed in torchlight and the last dregs of market chatter. Their walk back to the tavern was quieter than usual. The earlier laughter had faded, replaced by the rustle of cloaks and the occasional watchman’s boots. Rumors still clung to the air, whispers drifting through half-shuttered windows, and Tia tugged her hood lower, pulse ticking faster.

But nothing happened. No guards stopped them, no priest leapt from the shadows. Just the door of the tavern swinging open with its familiar creak, warmth spilling out.

Inside, the common room buzzed with its own rhythm – laughter, tankards clinking, Balthan’s familiar voice floating from across the hall. Tia and Corin slipped upstairs first, claiming exhaustion. Dinner was simple bread and stew brought to their room, eaten with barely a word between them.

Later, beneath the tavern’s patched rafters, Tia curled into her blanket. For once, her mind didn’t loop through every anxious thought. Instead, she thought of flickering motes of light, of Mystikos’ delighted grin, of how Corin’s quiet laughter had sounded more real than it had in days. Her eyes closed before she realized they were heavy.

And sleep came easily.