Page 43 of Reaper's Ruin
“The Dark Market has its own ways of communicating. They know better than to interfere with us now.”
“Thanks to you,” I said. “For what you did back there. With that guy.”
He shrugged, the movement rippling through the broad expanse of his shoulders. “It was nothing.”
“It was something. You... protected me. Thank you.” I hesitated, then added, “And he had it coming. I bet he’s done worse to other girls. Girls who didn’t have their own personal Reaper protector.”
Something in Rhyker’s expression shifted—a slight softening around the eyes that was gone almost as soon as it appeared. “Perhaps he’ll think twice next time.”
I smiled. “I hope so. Justice comes in many forms, I guess.”
Rhyker didn’t respond to that, his attention already shifting to our surroundings. “We’re close,” he said. “The weapons trader should be just ahead.”
The pathway widened suddenly, opening into what could only be described as a small village built beneath the city above. Unlike the chaotic maze of stalls and makeshift booths we’d passed through, this section housed permanent establishments—actual shops with solid doors and locked windows. Wrought iron signs hung above each entrance. A sword for the weaponsmith. A bubbling cauldron I assumed was for the potion maker. A cracked skull for... something I definitely didn’t want to investigate.
In the center of the square, a handful of vendors had set up smaller stalls, their voices competing as they called out to people passing by. “Venoms! Fresh from the Sylvan wilds!” “Protection amulets, guaranteed against three types of curses!” “Finest assassin’s tools, satisfaction guaranteed or your gold back!”
Rhyker guided me toward a shop at the far corner, its blood-red door marked by a sign depicting a crossed sword and dagger. A bell jangled softly as Rhyker pushed open the door. Inside, the shop was dimly lit but meticulously organized. Glass cases displayed smaller weapons—daggers, throwing stars, small swords. Larger items hung on the walls or stood on racks.
I stood, stunned, spinning around as I looked at the walls. They were a macabre display—weapons of every description mounted like trophies. Some I recognized—gleaming swords, wicked axes, sleek bows—but others defied explanation: multi-bladed contraptions with gears and triggers, curved weapons that seemedto shift shape as I looked at them, and what appeared to be gauntlets with retractable blades where fingernails should be.
This wasn’t just a weapons shop. This was an arsenal for those who had turned killing into an art form.
Behind a counter at the back, a wiry fae man looked up from a ledger. He was older than most we’d seen in the Dark Market, with silver streaking his red hair and a network of fine lines around his eyes. Those eyes—pale yellow, almost like a cat’s—narrowed slightly as he assessed us.
“Welcome to Morden’s,” he said, his tone neither friendly nor hostile. “What can I interest you in? I have a new shipment of Tide Court pearl blades, very rare. Or perhaps something from the Winter Collection? Frost-forged steel is quite popular this season.”
“We’re not here to buy,” Rhyker said. “We’re looking for information about a specific weapon.”
The trader—Morden, I presumed—leaned back slightly, his expression growing more guarded. “Information costs more than steel in my shop.”
Rhyker placed a small stack of coins on the counter. “We’ll pay fairly.”
Morden’s eyes flicked from the coins to Rhyker’s face, then to me. “What sort of weapon?”
“We need to identify a dagger,” I said, stepping forward. “With symbols etched into the blade.”
“You’ll need to be more specific.” Morden crossed his arms as he eyed us both up. “I’ve seen thousands of daggers with markings.”
“This one was...” I paused, trying to recall the details of the weapon that had ended my life. The chilling memory ignited a wave of pain as I remembered my death in detail, but I pressed on. “It had a curved blade. Not like a normal knife. And the symbols glowed as he—as it was used.”
Morden’s expression remained neutral as if glowing daggers was something commonplace around here. “I’ll need more than that.”
I sighed. “I’m not good at drawing, but I could try if you have a pen and paper.”
He furrowed his brow, and I realized pens were likely not a thing of Faelora.
“A pencil? Quill?” I kept on.
“Here. Let’s try this,” he said after a moment, reaching beneath the counter.
He withdrew a small crystal sphere, setting it on a wooden stand between us. With a few murmured words, the sphere began to glow with a soft blue light.
“We use this to create custom orders for clients. Lets them see everything before I get started. Place your hands on either side,” he instructed. “Focus on the dagger. The crystal will pull the image from your memory.”
Hesitantly, I placed my palms against the cool surface of the sphere. A strange tingling sensation spread up my arms, and the light within the crystal intensified.
“Think of every detail you can remember,” Morden said.
