Home / War / Empire of the Plains / Chapter Three – The Exile’s Market
Chapter Three – The Exile’s Market
Author: Emí Otunba
last update2025-10-09 21:40:17

“Put that knife down, fisherman, before you lose the hand that holds it.”

Varr froze mid-motion, blade hovering over the half-roasted hare. The voice came from the darkness behind him—calm, amused, and dangerous.

Karan didn’t move. He was sitting cross-legged by the fire, cleaning his shakar. His head tilted slightly. “You

took your time showing yourself.”

From the shadows stepped a figure cloaked in gray, her movements fluid as smoke. Moonlight revealed

the gleam of bronze tattoos curling along her throat—spirals of wind and flame, symbols of blood lineage.

A Dortracy woman.

She pulled back her hood, and the light caught her eyes—black and bright as polished stone. “You make enough noise for a herd of fools. Half the plain could find you.”

Karan’s grip tightened subtly on his blade. “And yet only you did.”

The woman smiled faintly. “Perhaps the gods thought I’d need a good story.”

Varr muttered, “Or a corpse.”

She ignored him and looked at Karan. “You’re far from your clan, warrior. What’s your name?”

Karan met her gaze without flinching. “The dead don’t ask names.”

Her smile widened. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not dead.” She crouched near the fire, uninvited. The horse behind her snorted, restless. “You can call me Serah.”

Karan’s jaw shifted slightly. The name stirred memory. “Of the Ashen Riders.”

Her eyes narrowed, impressed. “So the stories about you are true.”

“What stories?” Varr asked, half-intrigued, half-worried.

Serah didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed on Karan. “That the Storm Warlord’s brother still breathes. That he killed his slavers with his bare hands and rides the wind like the old kings.”

“Stories grow fast,” Karan said flatly. “Usually faster than truth.”

“And truth?” she countered.

Karan sheathed his blade. “Truth is slower. But sharper.”

She chuckled low. “Then let’s see how sharp yours is.”


By morning, the three of them rode north under a sky the color of steel. The wind smelled of rain and dust; thunder chased the horizon.

Varr rode between them, clutching the reins awkwardly. “You two plan to keep glaring at each other till the gods get bored?”

Karan didn’t answer. His eyes scanned the open grass ahead, where the faint outline of walls rose from the haze. “There,” he said. “The Market.”

Serah followed his gaze. “You’ll find no welcome there, Stormborn.”

“Then I’ll buy one.”

“The Exile’s Market doesn’t trade in kindness.”

“Good,” Karan said. “I’m not buying kindness.”

The Exile’s Market

It wasn’t a city, not truly. It was a scar on the plains wooden barricades, tents of bone and hide, fires burning even in daylight. Smoke hung thick over the place, carrying the stench of sweat, iron, and unwashed ambition.

Men of every tribe wandered the streets Dortracy with broken braids, desert raiders, runaway soldiers from the lowlands, slavers, traders, and thieves. The air pulsed with noise: the clang of forges, the cry of horses, the clash of bargaining voices.

Varr swallowed hard. “Charming place.”

“Don’t speak,” Serah said. “Don’t stare. And don’t bleed—blood’s a contract here.”

Karan dismounted, tying his horse to a post carved with old runes. “Then let’s find what we came for.”

Serah arched an eyebrow. “Do you even know what that is?”

“Information,” Karan said. “About Raikor. About who stands with him.”

Serah’s expression cooled. “That knowledge has a price.”

He looked at her. “Everything does.”

They entered the heart of the market: a wide circle where warriors bartered spoils for horses and weapons.

In the center stood a blackened totem carved into the likeness of the Sky Stallion—Kor’Vareth, mane

carved in wild flame. Offerings of blood dried at its base.

Karan paused before it, head lowering briefly. “Kor’ath vekh.(Blood for the wind.)

A whisper passed through the crowd as if the totem itself had answered. Heads turned. Some recognized the tattoos along his arms, the half-braided remnant of his hair.

“Storm Clan,” someone hissed. “Exiled blood.”

Karan ignored them. But Serah leaned closer. “You draw eyes, Karan Dor’rak. Here, eyes cut faster than knives.”

“I’ve been cut worse,” he said quietly.

They approached a wooden pavilion hung with animal skulls—the hall of Mora the Bone-Teller, one of the Market’s oldest traders in secrets. Inside, the air reeked of incense and smoke.

An old woman sat on a pile of furs, her eyes clouded with age but sharp with knowledge. Bone charms rattled around her neck.

“Karan Dor’rak,” she rasped. “You’ve finally crawled from your grave.”

Varr flinched. “How does everyone know his name?”

“Because the wind carries it,” Mora said. “And the wind never forgets its sons.”

Karan stepped forward. “I seek word of Raikor Dor’rak.”

Mora’s milky eyes glinted faintly. “Your brother wears the Storm Crown now. He has sworn the tribes to the Iron Pact—an alliance with the kingdoms beyond the desert.”

Karan frowned. “An alliance with the lowlanders? Impossible.”

“Not impossible,” Mora said softly. “He promised them what they fear most: the plains united. And he offered them tribute.”

“What tribute?”

Mora’s lips curved. “Slaves. Horses. Blood. And something else.” She reached into a pouch and threw a

handful of metal disks onto the table. They clattered—coins marked with the Storm sigil and another crest: the sun of Velannis.

Serah’s head snapped up. “Velannis? That’s”

“The kingdoms across the Silver Sea,” Karan said. “The same who once tried to tame us.”

Mora nodded. “And now they buy your kin’s loyalty. Your brother’s ambition stretches farther than you think.”

The tent went silent. Only the hiss of incense filled the space.

Finally Karan spoke, voice low. “Where is he now?”

Mora smiled thinly. “Riding east. Gathering clans. And he hunts for something—something lost when your father died.”

Karan’s eyes hardened. “The Storm Crown.”

Mora’s smile widened. “You remember the old songs.”

“I remember everything he stole.”

Mora leaned forward, her breath smelling of ash and herbs. “Then remember this too: the crown listens only to those who can tame the wind. And the wind obeys only one who rides the Sky Stallion reborn.”

Karan said nothing, but Serah’s gaze flicked toward him, studying the mark on his chest—the blood-tattoo that curled like flame and storm.

Mora’s grin turned sly. “Be careful, son of storms. The gods love to raise men just to break them again.”

Outside, the market had grown louder, the wind sharper. Varr tugged his cloak tighter. “That old woman

gave me chills.”

“She gave you truth,” Serah said.

Karan walked ahead, silent. His mind burned with the image of Raikor crowned in stolen glory.

Serah caught up to him. “You mean to challenge him.”

“I mean to end him.”

“You’ll need more than a blade. He has armies now. Riders, priests, merchants.”

“Then I’ll take his riders. I’ll break his priests. And I’ll buy his merchants with fear.”

She studied him for a moment. “You speak like a king already.”

He stopped, facing her. “A king rules with peace. I ride with vengeance.”

Something flickered in her eyes—respect, or maybe warning. “Vengeance burns fast. Be sure you have enough left when it’s done.”

Before he could reply, a shout rose behind them.

A group of armored men pushed through the crowd—Storm Clan hunters, banners of red and gold fluttering.

Varr cursed. “They found us!”

Karan drew his shakar. “So much for peace.”

Serah’s blade was already out. “Try not to die. You’re more useful breathing.”

They fought in the open square, surrounded by fire and dust. The clash of steel filled the air. Karan moved with deadly precision, every strike a memory of betrayal sharpened to purpose.

Serah fought like a storm herself—fast, ruthless, dancing through the chaos. Varr tried to keep out of the way, throwing stones and curses in equal measure.

When it ended, three men lay dead, two wounded fled limping into the alleys. Blood steamed on the cracked earth.

The crowd watched in silence. No one stepped forward. No one challenged.

Karan wiped his blade, eyes on the totem of Kor’Vareth in the distance. “The wind has changed.”

Serah sheathed her sword. “So has your fate.”

He looked at her. “Fate is just another word for leash. I ride without one.”

She smiled faintly. “We’ll see.”

As night fell over the Exile’s Market, lightning split the sky. The wind carried whispers across the plains—of

a storm reborn, of a rider with fire in his eyes and blood on his hands.

In a far-off camp lit by hundreds of torches, Raikor Dor’rak lifted his head as thunder rolled.

“Brother,” he murmured, voice like ice, “you should have stayed dead.

 

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