Chapter 222: The Owl and the Gold

Chapter 221: The Owl and the Gold

Somewhere in the Black Market

The Black Market was buried beneath the spine of the mountain—an intricate network of tunnels and chambers carved out of cold stone and greed. The air here was thick with the scent of oil, old metal, and smoke. Lanterns swung from crooked beams, casting a dim orange haze that painted everything in half-light. Vendors shouted behind veils and masks, their voices echoing off the walls as coins clinked and parchment rustled in hurried exchanges. It was a place where one’s face was a liability, and secrets were the only true currency. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

Tobias—known here only as the Owl—stood behind his narrow wooden counter, his gloved hands resting loosely on the table’s edge. He wore two masks tonight. The first was a finely fitted layer of false skin, tinted slightly darker than his own and textured with faint scars to distort recognition. Over it rested his true mask—smooth and carved from blackened bone, its surface etched with faint featherlike ridges that caught the lantern light like the wings of a bird mid-flight. The lower part covered his mouth and jaw, leaving only his sharp, watchful eyes visible.

For days, he had been waiting.

The Black Market thrived on rhythm—trade, barter, silence, and disappearance. But this client, the one who had requested the Skylur remains, had disrupted that rhythm.

They had agreed on a specific day—a day to meet and exchange payments and goods—but the client was still not available.

He hated when clients pulled this kind of stunt. It was bad business. And it irked him.

He sat on a stool, rolling a gold coin between his fingers, the metal catching the flickering light as he counted the moments between heartbeats. Around him, the world moved in its usual chaos—smugglers hawking animal pelts, poison dealers trading whisper-for-whisper, couriers exchanging coded scrolls beneath their cloaks. No one cared about anyone else here. That was the beauty of it. Everyone minded their own sins.

Still, Tobias’ instincts prickled; his wolf was alert, picking up sounds.

The usual chatter—boots against the stone, the distant clang of metal from the blacksmith quarter, laughter from the gambling den a few tunnels away. But beneath it all, there was something else. A rhythm that didn’t fit.

Then, before he could pinpoint it, a voice broke through the air behind him.

"You’ve been difficult to find."

Tobias didn’t move. His shoulders remained square, and his hand stayed on the coin. He hadn’t heard the man approach. That alone was enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder. A man stood there—tall and broad, cloaked in a hood of deep gray. His mask was simple, featureless save for two slits where his eyes should be, reflecting the faint glint of the lantern light.

"Depending on who’s searching, I’m very easy to find," Tobias told him.

The man chuckled—a low, calm sound. Then he murmured, "The fangs of the fallen, the blood of the storm."

Tobias leaned back on his stool, his irritation softening just slightly. "There’s only one person who knows that phrase, and you are not him."

The man tilted his head. "You really are, as they say, very perceptive."

"I have to be," Tobias replied. "Who are you?" he asked, his tone dropping to a growl.

The man chuckled. "Are you going to break the rules of the Black Market? There is no shifting here."

"I don’t need to shift. Answer the question," Tobias said with a glare.

"I was sent by the one who ordered the goods. They gave me the code."

"And how do I know you’re not lying?" Tobias asked.

"You don’t," the man said simply. "The Black Market doesn’t care if a person is lying or not, as long as business is achieved."

Tobias gave the man a long look. That was a rule of the market—and one every vendor lived by.

"Why are you late?" Tobias asked.

"My business was... delayed," the man replied.

"And it almost cost me," Tobias said calmly. "You have to pay me first before you get the goods."

Without a word, the stranger brought out a small chest that had been concealed by the shadows. It was daytime, but in the Black Market there was no distinction. Everything was wrapped in shadow and darkness.

The box was blackened wood with silver clasps—heavy enough that when it landed on Tobias’ counter, it made the lantern beside it tremble.

Tobias opened it, and a soft gleam of gold spilled out. Coins stacked in neat rolls, stamped with the Enclave’s insignia. He picked one, testing the weight, then pressed his thumb against the edge. It didn’t bend. The ridges were clean, unflawed. He bit down lightly on one—hard, cold, real.

He turned to a small lamp on his worktable, adjusted the wick, and held a coin near the flame. Real gold didn’t blacken under heat. He watched it closely until the air shimmered. The coin remained bright.

Satisfied, Tobias closed the lid, turning his masked gaze back to the stranger. "It’s real."

The man tilted his head slightly. "You doubted it?"

"I doubt everything," Tobias replied, his voice calm but clipped. "But you still owe more."

"More?"

"For wasting my time," Tobias said flatly. "You left me waiting for days. I don’t do waiting for free."

The stranger was silent for a heartbeat too long. Then, slowly, he smiled beneath the mask. "You drive a hard bargain, Owl."

He tossed a small pouch across the table. Tobias caught it midair. It jingled—light, but not empty. He loosened the drawstring and saw the faint glimmer of gemstones. Polished. Expensive. That would do.

He smiled faintly behind the mask. "Now we’re even."

He turned to his workers, telling them to pack it up fast, then turned back to the customer. "Follow me."

They slipped through the curtain at the back of the stall into a narrower passageway, where the lanterns were fewer and the air colder. Tobias’ boots made soft sounds against the packed dirt floor. He led the man past crates marked with false labels—grain, spices, tools—all decoys. The real goods were buried deeper, in hidden compartments and false floors.

He stopped at a reinforced door, fitted with iron locks. He pulled a key from a small pouch at his belt, twisted it, and the door opened with a low creak.

Inside, wrapped in thick cloth and stored within glass-lined crates, were the remains of the Skylur—fangs, bones, their nails and skin that shimmered faintly under the light. The creature’s essence still clung to the pieces, a faint hum of dormant corruption that made the air tingle.

The masked man stepped forward, his breath shallow. "Impressive. How did you get so much?"