Ashes of the Veiled Market part 1

Compendium Entry: Choury — A Port Fading into Shadow
Choury rests on the temperate northern coast of Valeria Province, where the city’s stone terraces rise gradually from the wind-battered docks toward its older administrative quarters. Beyond its harbor spreads the vast, grey Northern Sea, and farther still the scattered Northern Archipelago, whose jagged silhouettes appear only on clear days. The sea air, the fickle weather, and the long mists that drift ashore have all shaped Choury’s temperament: practical, unhurried, and accustomed to the steady erosion of time.

Once, Choury held an important position in the province’s maritime trade, serving as a secondary but steady port for the Zarath Empire. This status has declined sharply in recent decades, as the larger port city of Gallapa to the west expanded its docks, drew in wealthier trading houses, and became the preferred destination for imperial merchants. By comparison, Choury appears increasingly outdated—still functional, still loyal to the Empire, but no longer central. The shift in commerce has weakened Choury’s economy, leaving its merchant families divided between stubborn pride and quiet desperation as opportunities drift westward.

The decline in legitimate commerce has changed the city’s character. Choury remains loyal to the Empire, yet imperial officials visit less frequently now, and the guard, though present, struggles to maintain authority with its limited resources. Smuggling is whispered to be common, especially through the old drainage channels and half-forgotten basements near the coast. Locals shrug at such things, treating these undercurrents as a feature of life rather than an aberration. The city has always had corners where law grows thin.

Among the citizens, there are persistent stories about a hidden organization called “The Veiled Market.” Whether this is a real group or a convenient explanation for unsolved crimes depends on whom one asks. Some say the Veiled Market is merely an old sailor’s tale created to frighten newcomers; others insist it is the true power lurking beneath Choury’s worn foundations. People claim that stolen goods vanish into the “shadow alleys,” that certain dockworkers answer to unseen masters, and that parts of the city’s understructure—remnants of older architecture or speculative ruins—serve as secret meeting places for those who barter in things they cannot openly sell. Yet no official record verifies its existence, and no imperial inquiry has confirmed such claims. Still, the name persists, passed between tavern tables and marketplace conversations like a rumor with too much momentum to die.

Choury’s atmosphere today reflects this ambiguity: outwardly a quiet coastal city overshadowed by Gallapa, but inwardly layered with unanswered questions. Merchant ships still dock here, though fewer each season; imperial agents still pass through, though briefly; relic seekers still linger in its inns before heading northward. Business continues, if slower than before, while the citizens adapt to the shrinking role their port now plays. For all its decline, Choury endures with a stubborn resilience, its public face steady while its unseen stories drift like the sea-mist between its narrow streets.

Whether the tale of the Veiled Market is truth, embellishment, or a mixture of both remains uncertain. Yet in Choury, uncertainty itself has become part of the city’s identity—one more lingering shadow cast by a port slowly slipping from prominence, but never quite forgotten.

Whispers Beneath the Bazaar
The city of Choury never slept — it merely shifted its sins to the night.

Lanterns burned low in the fog-choked streets, casting thin halos across the cobblestones. The scent of spice, soot, and old sweat clung to the air. Somewhere beneath all that noise, I was told, the Thieves Guild thrived — or as they called themselves now, the Veiled Market.

Captain Herman Holt was waiting for me at the barracks gate, his armor polished enough to reflect the torchlight like small suns. He wasn’t the type to smile, and tonight was no exception.

“Chosen or not,” he said, tone clipped, “you’ll tread carefully. These vermin deal in more than stolen gold — whispers say they’ve begun trading demon glass and black ichor from the frontier.”

I frowned. “And we’re investigating quietly. Meaning the Inquisition doesn’t want this public.”

He snorted. “When has the Inquisition ever wanted anything public?” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Go to the Bazaar at dusk. You’ll find a contact — Sophia Sidona. She’ll know you by the silver clasp on your cloak. Don’t speak her name where others can hear.”

That was the last he said before turning away, as if our conversation had never happened. The clamor of the barracks swallowed his footsteps.

Dusk bled across the city by the time I reached the Grand Bazaar. Merchants shouted over one another — hawking charms, perfumes, and dubious “dragon bones.” But the further I walked, the thinner the crowd became, until even the noise seemed to avoid this corner of the market.

A shadow moved near the shuttered apothecary. “You wear the clasp,” a woman’s voice said.

She stepped into the lamplight — dark hair cut to her jaw, eyes sharp as broken obsidian. The sigil of the Inquisition gleamed faintly beneath her cloak.

“Sophia Sidona,” I said quietly.

She smiled, humorless. “I see Captain Holt still trusts too easily.” She turned away, motioning for me to follow. “We’ll speak where walls don’t listen.”

We slipped through a narrow alley, past crates of contraband incense and a beggar pretending to sleep. At the far end, Sophia stopped beside an unmarked cellar door and whispered a phrase that tasted like iron on the air. The lock clicked open.

Inside, the chamber smelled of old candles and secrecy. She laid a small relic on the table — a stone black as ink, veined with faint silver runes.

“The Veilstone Sigil,” she said. “It will mask your divine aura. The Guild tests newcomers for such things. With this, you’ll be... no one.”

I looked at the relic. Even dormant, it pulsed faintly, as if breathing. “How does it work?”

“You touch it, and it remembers what you are — then hides it. It’s not pleasant.”

She pushed it toward me. “Once you use it, your face, your name, your aura — all will shift. The Guild must believe you’re one of them. A drifter. A thief looking for coin, not a crusader of light.”

I hesitated. “And if I refuse?”

Sophia met my gaze, unblinking. “Then you can go back to Captain Holt and tell him you fear the dark.”

The stone felt cold when I picked it up. The moment my skin touched it, the sigil flared — a whisper clawed into my thoughts, dragging light out of me and leaving a hollow echo. My reflection shimmered in the metal plate nearby — my eyes a different color, my features rougher, unfamiliar.

When it was over, Sophia nodded, approving. “Good. You’ll be known as Corin Sidona — my distant cousin. You’ll speak little, steal better, and ask nothing. The Veiled Market loves useful silence.”

I exhaled slowly, still dizzy. “And the first step?”

“A test theft,” she said, her lips curling into something between a grin and a grimace. “Steal from the Bazaar’s upper stalls — a noble’s coinpurse, perhaps, or one of those overpriced elixirs. Something to prove your hands aren’t all sermon and sword.”

She turned to leave, pausing by the door. “Remember this: we hunt evil in the dark. Sometimes, to catch it... we become what we hunt.”

When I emerged back into the Bazaar, the lights seemed dimmer. Somewhere in the noise of barter and laughter, I could already feel eyes watching me — measuring, weighing, wondering if this new thief would survive long enough to learn what the Veiled Market truly was.

And deep beneath the city, beyond the reach of any sun, something old and wrong was buying souls by the dozen.

The Price of Shadows
If the Bazaar was the city’s heart, then the Veiled Market was its pulse — hidden, rhythmic, and impossible to kill.

By the time I’d passed their “test theft,” I had a name, a reputation, and a thin scar across my knuckles from a noble’s signet ring. The Guild didn’t applaud. They just nodded, weighed my worth, and handed me a cup of spiced wine as if toasting another necessary sin.

That was my first night beneath the Bazaar — where the air hung heavy with perfume and corruption.

Sophia had warned me that once you’re inside, the Veiled Market doesn’t welcome you. It consumes you.

The Guild’s den sat in an abandoned wine cellar, though “cellar” was too small a word. It was a maze of carved tunnels, torchlight flickering against murals of old gods with hollow eyes. The smell of damp parchment, burnt incense, and coin filled every corner.

Rolan Dace, the Guild’s quartermaster, looked up from a desk piled high with ledgers and daggers. A man of few morals and fewer smiles.

“Corin Sidona,” he rasped. “Word is, you’ve got nimble hands and quiet feet. That earns you work. And debt.”

“Debt?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

He grinned, all teeth and no warmth. “Everyone owes the Market something. We pay in silence, favors, or blood.” He slid a parchment toward me — a job order sealed with black wax. “You’ll start by collecting protection dues from a merchant who’s forgotten who protects him.”

The name on the parchment made me pause: Edrin Marron, spice trader. I’d seen him once, offering free bread to war orphans.

I forced a smirk. “And if he refuses?”

“Then teach him gratitude.”

That night, I walked through the narrow streets toward Marron’s shop. The city was quieter here — too quiet. Only the whisper of rain on stone.

Marron’s lantern still burned inside. He looked up when I entered, his eyes wary. “You’re not one of Rolan’s usual thugs,” he said.

I didn’t answer. The Veilstone Sigil thrummed faintly under my collar — reminding me that mercy and mission don’t always walk together.

He sighed, voice trembling. “I can’t pay them anymore. They’re asking for more each week. I’ve got family, you understand?”

My hand hovered over my dagger — not to draw it, but to make the illusion believable. “They’ll understand less if I return empty-handed.”

Marron looked at me then — really looked. “You’re not like them,” he said quietly. “Your eyes flinch when you lie.”

He wasn’t wrong.

After a moment, I dropped a coin pouch on the counter — my coins, not the Guild’s. “Pay your debt,” I muttered. “Say it came from a friend.”

He nodded slowly, gratitude and fear tangled together. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” I said, turning toward the door. “Keep it that way.”

Back in the cellar, Rolan didn’t question me. The Guild rarely did, so long as the silver flowed. He tossed me a cut of the take — ten percent, blood money by another name.

“Efficient,” he said. “You’ll fit right in.”

Behind him, Sophia leaned against a pillar, her hood drawn low. I caught her eye just long enough for her to see the truth.

Later, in the silence of the sleeping quarters, she approached me. “You gave Marron your own coin.”

“How did you—”

“I have ears,” she interrupted. “And eyes where it matters. The Inquisition appreciates your restraint, but remember why you’re here. Compassion doesn’t survive long in the Market.”

I looked down at my hands — calloused, trembling faintly. “Then I’ll make sure it dies last.”

The next morning brought another summons. This time from the Guildmaster himself.

I had heard of him only in whispers: a man they called The Broker, who could sell you absolution, loyalty, or a soul if the price was right. They said he’d once served the Empire — a former spymaster who turned against his own kind when gold proved more loyal than faith.

And now, he wanted to meet me.

The tunnels leading to his chamber were lined with relics — stolen icons, forbidden tomes, a demon’s horn polished to a shine. As I walked, I felt the Sigil’s pulse quicken, reacting to something old and foul nearby.

Sophia’s words echoed in my mind: Sometimes, to hunt evil, we become what we hunt.

I wasn’t sure which one I was anymore.

The Broker sat behind a desk of black glass, his face half-hidden beneath a porcelain mask painted with a merchant’s smile.

“I’ve been watching you, Sidona,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “You move like someone used to rules, but unlearning them quickly. Tell me, what is your price?”

“My price?”

“Everyone has one,” he said, leaning forward. “Money, power, redemption... or perhaps destruction. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

I held his gaze, letting silence answer.

He smiled behind the mask. “Good. Secrets are the best currency. You’ll do fine.”

He slid a new parchment toward me — no seal, no name. Only a location, and three words written in ink that shimmered faintly red under the torchlight:
“Retrieve the Offering.”

When I stepped back into the tunnels, Sophia was waiting. “The next job?” she asked.

“Something called ‘the Offering.’”

Her face hardened. “That’s not just smuggling. That’s ritual work. The Guild’s starting to touch demon trade routes.”

“So, it’s true,” I said. “They’ve made deals with the enemy.”

She nodded grimly. “And you’re going to find out just how deep the rot goes.”