THE ILLUSIONIST OF ELDRALITH

SHADOWS IN THE MARKET

Morning came soft and gold, though Kaelen woke with ash in his mouth. The fire had long since died, leaving only gray smudges against the cobblestones where last night’s stage had stood. The air smelled of stale wine and smoke, the scents of celebration fading into the grit of ordinary life.

Caldre was never silent for long. Even before the sun climbed high, the city stirred awake with hawkers calling from their stalls, donkeys braying under heavy sacks of grain, the clatter of buckets at the public well.

Kaelen stretched, brushing sleep from his eyes. His cloak was still damp with dew, but he grinned as he saw the strongbox tucked beneath Dalia’s bedroll. Heavy. Full of copper and silver from the night’s revelry. Enough to buy bread, ink and maybe a new set of strings for Soen’s battered lute.

“Wake up, you sluggards,” Kaelen said, nudging Soen with his boot.

The bard groaned and pulled his lute case over his head like a shield. “Five more minutes and a kingdom’s ransom.”

“You’ll be lucky if you get a crust,” Dalia muttered, already sharpening her knives. Her dark hair was bound high, her eyes sharp despite the hour. “Market day means coin flows faster than wine. We should move before the good spots are gone.”

Orin grumbled as he packed their things with practiced care. “And before the soldiers notice us.” His eyes lingered on Kaelen. A warning without words.

Kaelen gave a careless shrug, though the old man’s gaze dug deeper than he liked. Yes, I used the words, he thought. Yes, maybe too boldly. But what is a trickster who never risks?

He brushed the worry aside. Today was for laughter, not dread.

The marketplace by daylight was another beast entirely. Where last night torches had cast a festival glow, now sunlight revealed the cracks and beggars hunched by the gates, merchants snapping at one another over stalls, guards pacing with hands on the hilts of spears.

Kaelen wove through it all, his troupe trailing behind, each falling into their roles. Soen strummed a lazy tune, drawing curious glances. Dalia juggled three knives while scolding a boy who reached too close. Orin muttered prices like a miser, ensuring no one cheated them on supplies.

Kaelen, as always, played the showman even off-stage. He winked at flower-sellers, plucked fruit from a cart only to toss it back before the vendor could scold him, spun small illusions for children who squealed with delight. A dove bursting into petals, a ribbon of smoke curled into a dragon before it dissolved.

“Coins for wonders!” he called his grin sharp as he held out a hand. And coins did fall, clinking into his palm, for who could resist a moment of magic in a life ruled by toil?

Yet even as he worked, Kaelen’s eyes wandered. He saw the banners above the square; Eldralith’s crest, the silver stag, faded and worn. Few saluted it anymore. He heard the whispers of merchants: tax levies increasing, soldiers from Veyra garrisoned in the east. He caught the fear in people’s eyes when a patrol passed, though the soldiers wore Eldralith colors.

An old kingdom eaten hollow, Kaelen thought grimly. Like wood riddled with worms. Only waiting for the boot of an empire to crush it.

The shift came before midday.

A trumpet blast cut through the noise of the market, shrill and commanding. Merchants fell silent. Beggars scuttled away like mice. Even the guards stiffened. Kaelen turned, and his heart sank.

The Vera’s had arrived.

Not an army, no. Just an envoy with twenty soldiers in lacquered armor, their crimson cloaks bright against the dust. But their presence was enough to choke the square. At their head rode a man whose face Kaelen recognized even before whispers named him.

Commander Veyrik.

The “Iron Hawk.”

Kaelen had heard the stories: a soldier who’d carved his way through half a dozen border wars, who crushed rebellions with efficiency that chilled the blood. Veyrik was no king, no emperor, but his shadow stretched far enough that people bowed even when he did not look. And now he was here, in Caldre.

The market bent around the envoy as reeds before a storm. Merchants bowed low, guards saluted with trembling hands. The stag banner of Eldralith fluttered weakly above, but no one cheered. All eyes were on the crimson cloaks.

Kaelen felt his stomach twist.

Dalia muttered under her breath, “We should go.”

Orin’s jaw tightened. “Too late. Eyes are already on us.”

Indeed, some of the soldiers had turned, noticing Kaelen’s little smoke-dragon that still hung lazily in the air. One muttered something sharp in Veyran tongue.

Kaelen’s grin faltered but only for a breath. He smoothed it back into place, bowing low as if all of this had been deliberate.

“Welcome, noble sirs!” he called, loud enough for the square to hear. “Even conquerors need entertainment, do they not? Allow me to show you a trick that might make even iron hawks laugh!”

A ripple of nervous laughter went through the crowd. Brave. Foolish. Exactly what Kaelen did best?

He lifted his hands, every eye watching. Inside, his pulse hammered. Don’t use the words. Don’t. Not now.

The coin trick, then. Simple. Safe.

He tossed a silver piece into the air. It glittered, spun and burst into three. Gasps. A harmless sleight-of-hand, one he’d done a thousand times. The coins cascaded into his palm, clinked together.

But something in him burned. The presence of those soldiers, the weight of Veyrik’s cold eyes, it stoked him, dared him. Show them. Show them what they can’t own.

Before he could stop himself, Kaelen whispered the old tongue. Just a word. Just a taste.

The coins flared. Not with the dull gleam of silver, but with fire. They melted into ribbons of light, spiraling above the square, forming the shape of a great winged hawk that blazed in the sun. It beat its wings once, scattering sparks across the crowd.

Children screamed in delight. Men gaped. Women clutched their mouths.

And Commander Veyrik’s eyes narrowed.

The hawk dissolved into mist. Silence followed, sharp and heavy. Kaelen bowed low, sweat dampening his brow.

“Just a trick, my lords,” he said lightly. “No more than smoke and strings.”

The soldiers muttered. Veyrik gave no word, no smile. He turned his horse and rode on, his cloak flaring like blood in the sun.

But Kaelen felt the weight of his gaze long after he passed.

When the square loosened, when breath returned to the people, Kaelen ducked into an alley with his troupe.

Dalia seized his collar, shoving him against a wall. “Are you mad? Do you want them to hang us all?”

Soen muttered, pale, “That wasn’t sleight-of-hand.”

Orin’s voice was low, shaking. “Fool boy. You’ve been seen.”

Kaelen tried to laugh it off, but the sound came brittle. His heart still raced with the fire of it, the hawk in the air, and the wonder in the people’s eyes. For a moment, he had felt unstoppable.

But beneath it was dread.

The Veyrans had seen, too.

And somewhere inside, Kaelen knew that a thread had been pulled. One that would not let him go, not until it dragged him into the storm that was coming.

That night, Kaelen dreamed of fire. Not stage fire, not tricks, but cities burning, banners torn down, voices screaming. And in the heart of it, the hawk he had conjured — no longer his trick, no longer his control. A hawk of flame that belonged to someone else, hunting him through the smoke. When he woke, the world was still dark. The fire had gone out. His troupe slept in uneasy silence.

Kaelen sat upright, staring into the embers. His hands trembled, and he whispered to himself: “I shouldn’t have done it.”

But in the depths of his chest, another voice which older and stronger whispered back:

It has begun.