Chapter 6: The Floating Market

“Floating Market” colour pencil drawing by Chaiga T. Cheska

The first night on the river had shaken them all. The creature’s attack, the protective runes Nix had woven beneath the hull in those tense moments, the revelations about Ulfgar’s death and Lisera’s true nature, all of it had left the crew watchful and the brothers subdued. But as dawn had broken that next morning, the Mistwing had sailed on, and gradually, over the days that followed, a cautious peace had settled over the vessel.

Three days had passed since that dark encounter beneath the hull, and the river had carried them on without further incident. Winter’s grip had loosened, melting the last of the drifting ice until the Emaris ran clear and strong, every living thing within it sharp to the eye. In the chalk-bright water, fish arrowed between rocks like silver thoughts made visible, and even the pale curve of a river snail’s shell gleamed where the current turned it, catching light as if polished by the river’s own hand. The hull sang faintly under their feet, the low resonance of oak in conversation with the water, a dialogue older than memory.

The morning had broken cloudless, with wisps of white idling high above in a sky of clean blue, stretched taut as sailcloth. To the right, the land unrolled in great green swells, the slopes punctuated here and there by lone hawthorns or squat oaks, their branches still bare but beginning to show the first copper blush of spring. Hedgerows sketched neat lines around the fields, dark stitches holding the landscape together. The wind drew patterns in the waving orange seas of Rainsong Beans, their deep-blue spiral pods flashing like quick strokes of ink in the sun, a living calligraphy written across the hills.

Bran leaned over the railing, his delight evident when he pointed out a low meadow shimmering with the rose-lavender haze of Thistledawn bloom, the flowers moving in unison like a single creature breathing, potent enough to quiet the foulest temper in beast or man. The scent reached them even from this distance, sweet and drowsy as honey melting in warm milk.

To the left, the horizon was altogether stranger. The faint mirage of towers shimmered in the distance, so pale and bright that they might have been cut from crystal or woven from morning mist; the sunlight found their edges and broke into thin shards of brilliance that hurt the eye to look upon directly. Between them rose a vast forest, endless ranks of birch, their silver-white trunks ascending in sheer lines so tall that even the sentinel oaks of home would have crouched in their shadow like children at their mother’s knee. The forest seemed to glow with its own pale light, as if the trees themselves remembered being stars.

Oren, most often found at the mid-deck rail, had struck up an easy kinship with Bo. Of similar age, they shared the patience for fine, precise work, the kind that required steady hands and steadier minds. Bo had shown him the old craft of runic knot-weaving, a binding of cord and magic together, and Oren’s deft hands had already worked patterns into the Mistwing’s rail to renew the vessel’s warding against wind and water. The new runes glowed faintly in the morning light, silver-blue against the dark oak.

Tavik, noting how wholly his elder brother was absorbed, had taken it upon himself to walk the deck in measured circuits, the sentry in him unwilling to stand idle. His tunic sleeves were pushed to his elbows, forearms bronzed by the strengthening sun, his stance relaxed but watchful, eyes scanning the banks and water with the unconscious vigilance of one trained to see threats before they fully form.

Bran, meanwhile, occupied himself in the galley, turning river fish and dried grains into meals so satisfying that even Captain Sten had been moved to rare praise. When not cooking, Bran often sat cross-legged in the sun, eyes half-shut in a meditative stillness, his face tilted towards the warmth like a flower tracking light. Though more often than not, his attention would drift to wherever Ingrid happened to be working, then quickly away again when she glanced his direction, as predictable as a tide following the moon.

Tavik had noticed. So had Oren. The two elder brothers had taken to exchanging meaningful looks whenever Bran stammered through some excuse to linger near the bow where Ingrid often worked the rigging, her hands moving through the ropes with the assured grace of long practice.

“Need help with those knots?” Bran had asked her that morning, his voice pitched slightly too high, wavering like an uncertain note.

Ingrid had looked up from the rope she was splicing, her fingers never pausing in their work, and smiled pleasantly. “I’ve been tying knots since before I could walk, but thank you.”

Bran had retreated, ears flaming red as autumn leaves, directly into Tavik’s wolfish grin.

“Impressive,” Tavik had murmured, his voice rich with brotherly love.

“Shut up.”

“Really. I’m sure she’s so captivated.” Laughed Tavik as his younger brother glowered at him.

Oren had intervened before Bran could shove Tavik overboard, his hand firm on Tavik’s shoulder. “Leave him be.”

“But it’s so entertaining.”

“It won’t be entertaining when he pushes you into the river.” Oren had stated, smirking.

“He wouldn’t dare.” Tavik dodged as Bran made a half-hearted swipe at him.

Even Nix, watching from his usual post at the starboard rail, had smiled at the exchange, though he didn’t quite understand why Bran’s face went so red or why Tavik found it so amusing. Still, the warmth between the brothers was pleasant to observe, like watching flames dance in a hearth, purposeless but beautiful.

Nix had become a fixture at the starboard rail from the moment the waters had shed their murk. He leaned over often, wild red hair falling across his hazel eyes, watching the pageantry of life beneath. His tunic, a simple brown linen belted at the waist, hung loose and comfortable, the fabric moving with the river breeze. Ingrid sometimes joined him, pointing out the darting Glintscale fish, their bodies scattering light in brief prisms as though they carried rainbows in their skins, or the Mireless Pike, whose untroubled passing stirred not a speck of silt, moving through the water like smoke through still air.

Nix came to know the Brook Chime crabs by their faint, bell-like ring when their shells struck stone, a music so delicate it seemed the river itself was learning to sing. He watched the pale Whisper Eels that slid between fronds like thoughts unspoken, their bodies translucent enough to see the shadow of their spines. Mistfrogs, grey-speckled and delicate as blown glass, leapt from rock to rock and turned their round eyes up at him as the ship passed, their throats pulsing with silent greetings.

He knew they were drawn to him, not to the vessel nor its crew, but to the quiet signature of his magic, the way moths are drawn to flame or iron to lodestone. Yet he no longer felt the threat that had once pressed cold against his spine, sharp as a blade between the shoulders. His latticework of runic wards, drawn three mornings past in the aftermath of the attack, held firm about the hull, shimmering faintly whenever something in the deep waters drew too near. The creature that had struck the Mistwing had not returned, held at bay by the protective magic Nix had woven into the vessel’s timbers.

It was early afternoon when the three brothers and Nix stepped out into the sunshine after Bran’s latest culinary experiment, a rich Deepwater Grain Stew with Wanderer’s Hearth Cakes still warm from the pan, their crusts golden and fragrant. The deck still carried the scent of it, mingling with the sharper tang of river-spray and tarred rope, creating a perfume that spoke of safety and plenty.

The Mistwing slid down the Emaris as if drawn by an unseen hand, her hull whispering against the current like silk against skin. Nix stood near the stern rail, one palm resting on the sun-warmed wood, feeling the vessel’s heartbeat through the grain, his attention drifting over the water without appearing to fix on anything in particular, seeing everything and nothing at once.

Bran was a few paces off, attempting to look casual as he leaned near where Ingrid worked, coiling rope, her movements efficient and unconscious. “The, uh, the river’s running smooth today,” he ventured, the words emerging like reluctant prisoners.

Ingrid glanced up, tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear, and nodded pleasantly. “Captain says it’ll hold like this all the way to the Ravines.”

“That’s... good. Very good. Smooth is good.”

She smiled and returned to her work, oblivious to the way Bran’s hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides, fighting some internal battle with themselves.

Tavik, passing by with a water skin, couldn’t resist. “Smooth is good?” he muttered, just loud enough for Bran to hear, his voice dripping with fraternal mockery. “Truly romantic conversation, little brother.”

Bran shot him a murderous look, the kind that promised retribution.

Oren, standing nearby examining one of his newly-woven wards, shook his head with fond exasperation. “You’re not helping, Tavik.”

“I’m not trying to help,” Tavik said. “I’m documenting this for posterity.”

“There’s nothing to document,” Bran hissed.

“Oh, I disagree. Future generations need to know about the romantic conversation of…ow!” Tavik rubbed his arm where Bran had punched him.

Nix, watching this exchange from the rail, tilted his head curiously, the gesture birdlike and thoughtful. The brothers’ behaviour was strange, but their affection for one another was clear, woven into every barb and jest. He smiled to himself and turned back to the water.

And there, beneath the bright scatter of sunlight, the water began to fold in on itself, the eddies tightening into deliberate shapes, purposeful as a craftsman’s hands. The runes came slowly, as if they had all the time in the world, forming letter by graceful letter in the living current.

NIX.

The name was as clear as if it had been spoken aloud, written in a script older than words. The river was talking to him!

An irrepressible laugh, bright and boyish as birdsong, leapt from Nix’s lips, his entire demeanour alight with the thrill of being known, of being named by something ancient and vast. The subtle tracery of runes etched along his forearms, usually dim, half-hidden beneath sleeve and shadow, now shimmered with new-found energy, flickering in synchrony with the joy that danced in his eyes like sunlight on water. He cupped his hands and, with a deft twist of his slender fingers, called forth a gathering of luminance: a small, silvery orb coalescing in his palm, radiant as starlight filtered through shallow water, cool and bright as a captured moon.

Grinning with a mischief that belonged to riverbanks and summer afternoons, to children who have never known fear, he tossed the little ball of light across the river’s skin.

It skittered over the surface, skipping like a delighted child playing chase, leaving in its wake looping, luminous shapes, runes spoke not in the language of stone or page but in the living, fluid tongue of the clan, each character glowing briefly before dissolving back into the current. The message unfurled itself in winking script, dancing across the water like laughter made visible: “I am pleased you know my name. Would you care to play?”

The river, as if delighted by such a courteous overture, replied in kind. The waters folded, sunlight catching on their crests like diamonds scattered across blue silk, and a sentence, clear as a bell’s peal, emerged in flowing script: “With all my heart, little mage.”

In the next instant, as though the Emaris herself could no longer bear the constraints of the channel, an arc of pearl-fine river water lifted from the surface. It spun through the air, a living filament, a strand of quicksilver caught mid-dance, and swept in a graceful circle about Nix at the rail. Suspended droplets, each one a perfect sphere no larger than a cherry stone, shimmered with all the hues of blue and green, refracting the afternoon sun like a handful of captured jewels, tiny prisms holding entire rainbows in their bellies.

Nix’s laughter pealed anew, unguarded and effervescent as spring water over stones, as he traced each gleaming orb with the tip of his finger, infusing it with a gentle radiance that pulsed like a heartbeat. In that contact, he shaped a feeling, goodwill, unadorned and sincere, and sent it flowing into the water like a gift given freely, expecting nothing in return.

The droplets seemed to shiver in delight, darting around Nix in a wild, joyful spiral before bouncing along the length of the railing, their shivering forms leaving fleeting trails of coloured light that hung in the air like the memory of music. It was as if the whole river had joined him in play, the world itself conspiring in this communion of boy and current, magic and water finding their common tongue.

All life on deck had stilled. Tavik, hand still midway to his brother’s shoulder, stared in rapt fascination, his usual sentry’s poise momentarily forgotten, jaw slack as a landed fish. Bran, pressed close at the rail, wore an expression hovering somewhere between awe and incredulity, lips parted in a silent oath, eyes wide enough to hold the sky. Even Captain Sten’s flinty brow unclenched, disbelief rendering him wordless, his weathered face suddenly young with wonder. The laughter, the light, the shimmering ballet of water and magic had drawn every soul to the rail, each transfixed by the sight of Nix, unmistakably other, unmistakably magical, unmistakably alive in a way that made the ordinary world seem dim by comparison.

It was Oren who, first among them, found his voice. “Nix, what in the world are you doing?”

Nix, still beaming, looked up at him with a lopsided, irrepressible grin, a gleam of the river’s joy still dancing in his eyes like fireflies in summer dusk. “Only playing. And” his face brightened further, impossible as it seemed, and he announced with casual certainty, as if commenting on the weather, “the Floating Market is near.”

A beat of startled silence passed, thick as honey. Ingrid, perched at the quarterdeck, spun to peer at him, astonishment making her voice sharp as chimes struck in a high wind. “How could you possibly know that?”

Nix’s response was untroubled, delivered with the easy candour of one who has nothing left to hide, who has forgotten that some things should be secret. “The river told me so.”

Behind him, Bran leaned in at Tavik’s side, eyes wide as coins, watching the last droplets of light skip along the railing and vanish like dying stars, as though the river itself had winked in conspiracy. The sense of something changing in Nix, something deepening, quickening, settled on the deck, unspoken yet undeniable, like the scent of a storm on the turn or the first frost of autumn in the air.

The market spread before them across fifty, perhaps more, broad-bellied barges. Lashed together side by side and end to end, they formed a single floating thoroughfare that shifted and swayed, a river street alive upon the water, breathing with the current’s rhythm. Beneath it all, the clear Emaris whispered with life: quicksilver darts of Glintscale cutting through shadow and sun, the slow curling glide of Whisper Eels weaving through the shade like silver ribbons plaited into dark hair. Above, the press of trade thrummed in every rope and board, a living fabric of commerce and conversation.

The outermost hulls bore the runework of river-mages, lines of magic scribed in water-safe ink and sealed with the co-operation of the Emaris herself, the runes glowing faintly with borrowed power. From a distance, their flanks appeared to be carved entirely of plunging white water, an endless curtain that broke the sunlight into a thousand shards, creating a halo of perpetual rainbow that shifted and reformed with every ripple. Many claimed the market’s halo was a charm against ill fortune; others believed it merely kept outsiders from straying in uninvited, though none could say which was true.

Heavy braided hawsers and beam-thick tillers were manned by weathered River hands whose labour kept the structure steady against the pull of the channel, their muscles long and ropy from years of wrestling water and wood. Discreet anchors lay biting into the silt below, each tethered to a barge with iron links as thick as a man’s leg, dark with rust and river weed. At the corners, low-decked steering craft nudged and corrected the slow drift, their oar-blades dipping with unhurried grace, patient as shepherds tending their flock.

Captain Sten brought the Mistwing in along the lee side, easing her between two great fenders to a mooring berth, the ship settling against the larger structure with barely a creak. Mooring poles marked with painted spirals rose from the water like bright totems, ceremonial and ancient; market hands leaned over the gap, catching the coiled ropes Ingrid tossed with practised ease. With a practised snap of knot and loop, they bound the Mistwing into the sway and rhythm of the floating street, making her part of the greater whole.

Once the last line was made fast, Sten stepped back from the rail and gestured to Ingrid and the boys, his calloused hand sweeping towards the market. “Go on. We will hold her here until you return,” he said, his voice gruff with affection, remaining aboard with Bo to mind the ship.

Ingrid was first across, hopping lightly onto the timber walkway, its whole frame creaking underfoot like an old song finding its voice. She turned, offering a hand to Oren, who swung across with ease, his movements economical and sure, before steadying Tavik and Nix. Bran came last, accepting Ingrid’s offered hand with a mumbled thanks, his ears going pink as spring roses when she smiled at him, her fingers warm against his palm.

“Careful on the planks,” she said, releasing his hand perhaps a moment longer than necessary. “They shift with the current.”

“Right. Careful. I’ll be... careful.” The word sounded increasingly meaningless with each repetition.

Tavik covered his laugh with a cough that fooled no one. Oren looked away, shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed mirth.

Nix watched, bemused, as Bran stumbled slightly on the walkway and pretended it was intentional, overcorrecting with exaggerated balance.

The walkway curled and wound ahead, shaded beneath canopies of dyed sailcloth, deep indigo, rust-red, and pale cream, sun-bleached to softness, the fabric rippling gently in the river breeze. Between the stalls, sellers sang their wares in rolling cadences that carried the familiar undertone of barter, voices layering over one another like birdsong at dawn:

“Moonstone charms! Your birth constellation, scribed while you wait!”

“Glassvine balm! Cool your hands, sweeten your sleep!”

The calls wove around them, drawing the boys’ glances from left to right in restless wonder, each stall a small world unto itself. Sellers leaned from counters set along their boat-edges, baskets brimming with bright fruit, jars winking with preserved herbs and pickled roots arranged in jewel-like rows. A fishmonger lifted a net-well from the shallows to show his catch, the silver bodies twisting in the sun, scales throwing back the light in brief constellations. Cloth merchants unrolled lengths of Highwind Flax, the weave so fine it whispered when touched, the fabric seeming to float between their fingers like captured mist.

The air was a layering of scents: the fresh mineral breath of the river, cold and clean as mountain snow; sweet thistle cordial poured over chips of winter-cellar ice, the sugar sharp on the tongue; the tang of driftwood smoke curling from small braziers where Mireless Pike cured to gold, their flesh taking on the colour of honey; and beneath it all, the dizzying perfume of Thistledawn blooms pinned behind the ears of the youngest traders, their scent drowsy and intoxicating.

Overhead, ropes groaned softly in their pulleys, a constant background chorus of wood and hemp. Coins clinked in the palm and clattered into pouches, the sound of prosperity changing hands. Water lapped in the rhythm of some deep, old song, patient as breathing, and from a nearby stall came the bright jingle of Brook Chimes in glass jars, rung by laughing children who wished one another luck, their high voices carrying across the market like silver bells.

The crowd moved in gentle tides along the swaying planks: rivermen in sleeveless jerkins patched with sailcloth, their arms dark from sun and work; merchants in belted tunics dyed in their city’s colours, greens and blues and deep crimsons; fisher-wives in loose skirts knotted high, practical and efficient, baskets hooked in the crook of an arm. Travellers passed with satchels and netted bags, hampers strapped and ready to fill. Some carried poles with hooks to sling purchases across their backs, leaving their hands free for the press of trade, for gesturing and counting coins.

The market moved as the river moved, a gentle, continuous roll that required no thought once the body learned its rhythm. Those who walked its lanes learned quickly to step with the whole, surrendering to the sway, until the motion became second nature, as unconscious as breathing. Children ran sure-footed, weaving between strangers, following the flash of a Glintscale beneath the boards or the sudden flicker of a Glitterwing Damselfly settling on a sun-warmed rope, its wings throwing back miniature rainbows.

And all around them, the floating market breathed, a living street born of timber, rope, and current, its heart beating in time with the river itself, ancient and new all at once.

They had scarcely walked a dozen paces deeper into the market’s heart when a shifting ripple of attention passed through the crowd, as visible as wind on tall grass, bending everything in its path. One by one, the stream of shoppers slowed, heads turning, eyes wide and searching, hands stilling mid-gesture. A woman’s hand paused above a basket of starfruit, her fingers hovering like a bird uncertain of landing; a fishmonger’s call faltered mid-note, dying in his throat. All along the bustling planks, faces turned openly toward Nix, some in wonder, many in fright, a few with the wary awe one might reserve for a magical creature rarely glimpsed, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.

A gasp, sharp as the cut of winter air, escaped a child perched atop a pile of saffron sacks, his small hand pointing. Fingers joined his, chins lifted, the market’s babble subdued to a low, uncertain murmur, not quite silence, but the collective breath of those who had never seen the like before, who were trying to reconcile what their eyes showed them with what their minds said was possible.

Nix, sensitive to the ripple of attention that washed over him like cold water, tilted his head slightly, the movement unhurried, his eyes meeting those that followed. His ears twitched, angling towards sounds, tracking movements with the unconscious precision of something born to hunt. He moved with the fluid grace of something wild, each step deliberate, aware, his body reading the space around him in ways the crowd could not name. To the crowd, he was a wonder, a creature from old songs made flesh. To himself, he was simply being.

His hazel-green eyes, thoughtful and attentive, caught the market’s light with a steady gleam, holding depths the onlookers could not fathom. His long, pale blue fingers moved through the air with unconscious grace, and a delicate melody seemed to arise with every motion, a music so light it might have been conjured by the river itself, notes hanging in the air like dandelion seeds drifting on invisible currents.

Where suspicion had hung moments before, thick as fog, curiosity and gentle delight began to kindle. Children leaned forward, drawn by the sense of something quietly marvellous, their natural fear forgotten in the face of beauty. Merchants, their initial wariness softened, allowed curiosity to warm their glances, shoulders relaxing, hands opening. The crowd’s mood, once tense as a drawn bowstring, mellowed like honey spreading across warm bread.

Bran, suppressing a smile that threatened to split his face, murmured to Oren, “He would never claim it, but I have never met another who changes a place so simply by being present.”

Tavik, overhearing Bran, nodded, his warrior’s eye noting how the crowd’s body language shifted, hostility bleeding away into fascination. “And he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.”

Oren’s expression was gentle as he watched Nix move through the crowd, leaving wonder in his wake like footprints in fresh snow. “He’s learning who he is.”

Nix walked on, his skin deepening to a richer blue in the sunlight, the colour of deep water or summer twilight, the green runes upon his face glimmering when the light caught them just so, alive and moving. The music, light and fragile as spider silk, wove between the market stalls, drawing smiles from faces that moments before had been tight with suspicion.

“Come on,” Oren said quietly to his brothers. “Let’s not lose him in this crowd.”

They followed, keeping Nix in sight as he drifted between stalls, his curiosity drawing him towards a display of river stones, then to a merchant selling dried herbs, then to a basket of strange purple fruit he’d never seen before.

Bran, meanwhile, had made his way to a stall draped in garlands of mugwort and feverfew, the dried herbs releasing their sharp, medicinal scent into the warm air. He bent over jars of dried leaf and curls of root, weighing each with the slow care of a healer restocking his medicine kit, his fingers gentle as he examined the quality. Coins changed hands with the soft clink of silver; the apothecary nodded with a faint, approving smile, recognising one who knew his craft, and Bran tucked new vials into his battered satchel, the tang of crushed herbs trailing behind him like an invisible cloak.

“That’s good quality,” Ingrid’s voice came from behind him.

Bran nearly dropped the satchel. “Oh! Yes. Very good. Quality. The, uh, the feverfew is especially... feathery.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Feathery?”

“I meant fragrant. Fragrant feverfew. Which is... what it is.”

Tavik, who had somehow materialised at Bran’s elbow, made a strangled sound. Bran shot him a desperate look that clearly said help me, to which Tavik responded with a grin that clearly said absolutely not.

Tavik’s attention was caught by the weapon displays: blades in hammered bronze and river-iron, hafts wound with plaited grass for better grip. He tested the balance of a short axe with an archer’s eye, noting the slight warp in the steel, and set it down with a grunt. “A king’s ransom for a blade with a bend in it!”

The weapons merchant, a burly man with scars mapping his forearms, grunted. “That blade’s seen more battles than you’ve seen summers, boy.”

“Then it’s earned its retirement,” Tavik said cheerfully, moving to examine a set of throwing knives instead.

Ingrid had wandered to a stall selling woven river grass baskets, their patterns intricate and beautiful, practical art. Bran, seeing his opportunity like a hunter spotting prey, sidled over with what he clearly hoped was casual confidence, but which more closely resembled a nervous colt.

“Those are, uh, very nice baskets.”

Ingrid looked up and smiled, her face open and friendly. “They are. I’m thinking of getting one for my father. He’s always complaining that his navigation charts get water-damaged.”

“That’s... thoughtful. You’re very thoughtful. About baskets. And charts.” Each word emerged as if it had to be individually wrestled from his mouth.

She tilted her head, studying him with mild curiosity, a small line appearing between her brows. “Are you alright? You sound a bit odd.”

“Odd? No. Not odd. Perfectly normal. Just... observing baskets. With you. Together. Separately. At the same time.” He was aware, distantly, that words were leaving his mouth, but had lost all control over which ones.

Tavik, who had drifted close enough to hear, turned away quickly, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

Oren appeared at Bran’s elbow like a rescuing angel. “We should keep moving. Don’t want to lose track of Nix in this crowd.”

Bran shot him a grateful look that promised eternal devotion and made his escape, nearly tripping over a coil of rope in his haste. Ingrid, oblivious to the entire interaction, purchased her basket and moved on, humming softly to herself.

“Baskets,” Tavik said, once they were out of earshot, his voice strangled with mirth. “You talked about baskets.”

“I panicked.”

“Clearly.”

“Please shut up,” Bran muttered, though his lips twitched towards a smile despite his mortification.

“Feathery feverfew,” Tavik added, because he couldn’t help himself.

Bran shoved him, hard enough that Tavik stumbled into a stack of crates. The merchant shouted. Tavik laughed. Oren sighed and steered them both away before they could cause any real damage.

Catching up to Nix, Oren lingered near his young friend, matching his pace through the press of gawping faces and cautious vendors, his presence a steady anchor.

Then Nix stopped.

His ears twitched and his head tilted as if listening intently to something only he could hear, a frequency beyond human perception. His breathing changed, becoming deeper and more controlled, the measured breathing of one preparing for battle or magic. His hand moved to his chest, pressing against where the wound lay hidden beneath his tunic, fingers splaying across the hollow. His jaw clenched, teeth gritting against a surge of pain that lanced through him like a blade between the ribs.

Oren saw it immediately, his leader’s instinct sharp as always. “Nix?”

Nix’s face had gone pale, even for him, the blue of his skin taking on an ashen quality like snow under clouds. He kept his hand pressed to his chest, and beneath his palm, a faint purple healing light flickered, barely visible through the fabric, pulsing like a second heartbeat. The glow pulsed once, twice, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders, though his jaw remained tight, muscle jumping beneath the skin.

“The wound?” Oren asked quietly, his voice pitched for Nix’s ears alone.

A sharp nod. Nix’s eyes had gone distant, tracking something in the water below even as he dealt with the pain, his pupils beginning to narrow into vertical slits.

Oren reached out to place a hand on Nix’s shoulder, feeling the tension coiled there like a rope about to snap. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.” The word came through clenched teeth, forced past the pain. “Just... get back to the ship.”

Another pulse of purple light beneath Nix’s palm. His breathing steadied slightly, though sweat beaded at his temples like small jewels, catching the light.

Then his eyes sharpened, fixed on the water below with the intensity of a hawk spotting movement in long grass. “Go. Now.” His voice had changed, taken on an edge that wasn’t quite human, something ancient stirring beneath the surface.

“Nix...”

“It’s hunting me. Only me.” Nix’s pupils had narrowed further, vertical slits bisecting the hazel-green, predator eyes looking out from a boy’s face. “Get everyone back to the Mistwing.”

Tavik and Bran had noticed something was wrong and were pushing through the crowd towards them, Tavik’s hand already moving to clear a path. Oren caught Tavik’s eye, saw his brother’s hand move instinctively towards his knife, the warrior’s reflex.

“What’s wrong?” Tavik asked, arriving breathless, his voice sharp with concern. His look swept over Nix, taking in the pallor, the rigid stance, the hand pressed to his chest, reading the signs of pain like a tracker reading spoor. “Is it the wound or something else?”

Nix’s head turned towards them, the movement too fluid, as if he was living two lives, one that wanted to keep his friends and the market safe, whilst his other self, held something at bay in the river below. Nix focused on his friends, dragging his attention back from whatever called to him beneath the water, and said in a strained voice, “Go. Please.”

“It wants me. Not you. Get to safety!” The words came out strained, his gaze feeling pulled between his friends and the river, torn between two imperatives.

“Alright,” Oren said reluctantly, though every instinct screamed at him to stay. “But you follow us the moment you can. Do you understand me?”

Nix’s strained expression softened fractionally nodding at Oren and then much to the bafflement of his friends and others in the market, who had begun to edge away nervously, Nix lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the walkway, his back straight as a sword blade, hands resting on his legs, palms up in the ancient gesture of openness, and closed his eyes as if settling in for a long wait.

“Really, meditating? Now?” Tavik started, concern and confusion warring in his voice.

“Come on, Tavik.” Oren’s voice was steady, decisive, the voice of the eldest brother who would be obeyed, the voice that had guided them through a dozen crises. “Ingrid first. Then back to the ship. Move.”

He caught Tavik’s arm, then Bran’s, physically turning them, his grip firm enough to brook no argument. Both brothers resisted, every fibre wanting to stay, but Oren’s grip was iron.

“He’ll follow,” Oren said, though his voice shook slightly, betraying the fear beneath the command. “He’ll be all right. But we need to trust him. Now move.”

They moved, Tavik casting one last look over his shoulder at Nix, who sat alone in the centre of a slowly widening circle of wary market-goers, an island of stillness in the churning sea of humanity. The boy’s body looked serene in his meditation, at odds with the bustle and noise around him, impossibly calm.

Bran’s face was pale, drained of colour. “What is going on?”

“He’s acting differently than before.” Tavik’s voice was shaken, stripped of its usual confidence. “We must be ready, in case he needs our help.”

“He’s protecting us,” Oren said firmly, even as his own hands trembled like leaves in the wind. “And protecting everyone here. We get to the ship, we warn the captain, and we wait for him.”

They pushed through the crowd, Oren’s voice calling out: “Ingrid!”

Behind them, Nix sat alone, eyes closed, breathing deeply, purple light pulsing delicately from the palms of his hands like the steady rhythm of a distant drum, his eyes behind his closed lids tracking the shadow in the water below, watching something none of the others could see.

And beneath them, in the shadow-dappled water where light fractured into a thousand dancing fragments, something looked up at Nix and wondered what the boy sensed, what ancient knowing lived in those changing eyes.