The market was a riot of color and sound, a maelstrom of humanity where the stench of sweat and livestock mingled with the heady aroma of spices and roasted meats. It was a place where fortunes were made and lost in a heartbeat, where the cunning and the strong preyed upon the weak. Aethera, her senses dulled by the relentless clamor, moved through the throng with a practiced indifference.
Behind her, Lyra, a girl with the same wild, untamed spirit as the wind, tugged at Aethera's sleeve, her eyes alight with a childlike wonder. Lyra was one of Aethera's half siblings which Aethera tolerated. A stark contrast to the elder girl's weary detachment, Lyra was a whirlwind of energy, her laughter as clear and sharp as a hawk's cry. Aethera endured Lyra's exuberance with a patient resignation, her mind far removed from the bustling marketplace.
Ma Elara marched ahead, her basket overflowing with the bounty of the Verdant South.
Aethera's gaze swept across the sprawling marketplace, taking in the chaotic tapestry of humanity. Merchants hawked their wares with a fervor that bordered on desperation.
"Come, taste the sweetness of summer!" a woman cried, her voice a shrill melody that pierced the din. Her stall was laden with plump, juicy fruits, their colors as vibrant as the summer sky.
"The finest blades in the kingdom!" a burly man shouted, his voice deep and resonant. His stall was a blacksmith's forge, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning metal.
"Come, buy my herbs! They will heal your body and soul!" an old woman croaked, her voice filled with a mystical aura. Her stall was a treasure trove of dried plants and roots, their earthy fragrance a stark contrast to the heady scents of the market.
Lyra's gaze was drawn to a stall filled with gleaming swords and daggers. The blades caught the sunlight, casting shimmering reflections on the dusty ground. Her fingers twitched, her heart pounding with a mixture of desire and fear. Aethera could see the longing in her half sister's eyes, a longing that mirrored her own in a different way.
"Lyra," she said, her voice low, "we are here to buy provisions, not weapons." The girl's enthusiasm deflated like a punctured balloon. With a sullen pout, she turned away from the alluring display of blades.
Aethera took pity on her half sister. "Perhaps when you are older, you can learn to wield a sword," she offered, a rare moment of kindness. Lyra's face lit up, her eyes sparkling with hope.
Ma Elara halted her progress, her voice a sharp rebuke in the cacophony of the market. "If you two are naught but idle gawkers, I would have left you to your folly within the manor walls," she said, her gaze as sharp as winter's ice. Her words carried a weight of authority, a reminder of her role as the stern guardian of the Keldran brood.
Lyra, her spirit as untamed as the wild ponies of the steppes, pouted in defiance. Aethera watched the interplay between the two with a detached amusement.
"You must learn the ways of the market," Ma Elara continued, her voice softening slightly, "for one day, you will be wives and mothers, and it will fall upon you to provide for your households." Her words were a stark reminder of the fate that awaited them, a destiny as inescapable as the rising sun.
Aethera grimaced. The thought of marriage filled her with a sense of dread. To be bound to a man, to relinquish her freedom, to become a mere vessel as a wife - it was a fate worse than death. She had seen the lives of her dead mother's companions, women reduced to shadows of their former selves, their spirits broken by the weight of expectation.
Lyra, oblivious to the dark undercurrents of her half sister's thoughts, tugged at Aethera's sleeve. "I will never marry," she declared, her voice filled with a childlike defiance. "I will be a warrior, like the knights in the lists."
Aethera chuckled. Her sister's spirit was as wild and untamed as the untamed lands beyond the city walls. Perhaps there was hope for her after all.
"And what of your mother, Lyra?" Ma Elara inquired. "She will not be pleased to hear of your aspirations."
Lyra's bravado faltered. For a moment, she was silent, her mind grappling with the impossible dream of a life beyond the confines of the manor.
"Piss on her!" Lyra blurted out, her voice filled with a reckless defiance.
Aethera couldn't suppress a grin. It seemed her influence was rubbing off on her half sister. It was about time that Lyra's mother comes to put Aethera off.
Ma Elara's face turned crimson. "Such language is unbecoming of a young lady," she scolded, her voice trembling with anger. "Your mother would be ashamed."
A sudden hush fell over the market, a stillness as profound as the quiet before a storm. A shrill voice, carried on the wind, pierced the cacophony. An old woman, cloaked in rags as worn as the stones beneath their feet, emerged from the throng. One eye, clouded and milky, stared into the void, while the other, sharp as a hawk's, scanned the crowd. Her form was bent with age, yet her voice held a power that commanded attention.
"Hear ye, hear ye, the blessings of Aethon, the Father of Harvest, have descended upon our blessed lands!" she cried, her voice a haunting melody. The crowd parted like a sea before a mighty vessel, their faces turned towards the prophetess. Women, their hands clasped in prayer, rubbed their palms together, a silent plea for the god's favor.
"Aethon, in his infinite wisdom, has caused the rivers to swell, enriching our fields with life-giving waters. The earth, barren and weary, has awakened from its slumber, yielding forth abundance beyond measure. The trees, once bare and skeletal, now stand tall and proud, their branches laden with fruit. Truly, we are blessed beyond measure!"
Her words were a balm to the weary souls of the market, a promise of prosperity in a world fraught with uncertainty. The crowd murmured their approval, their hearts filled with hope.
The old woman's gaze fell upon Ma Elara, and a knowing smile graced her withered lips. "Blessed are you," she intoned, her voice carrying a prophetic tone. "Aethon's quill has marked you, woman, as a pillar of this community."
Ma Elara, her face flushed with a mixture of humility and pride, bowed her head in reverence. A silent prayer passed her lips, a plea for continued blessings for her household.
The prophetess turned her attention to Lyra, her gaze piercing the girl's defiant spirit. "In this young one," she said, her voice filled with a sense of wonder, "resides a strength that belies her tender years. A warrior's heart beats within her chest. Mark my words, she shall be a woman of valor, a shield against the darkness."
Lyra, her eyes wide with astonishment, stood motionless, her mind racing. A warrior?
Ma Elara nudged Aethera, her eyes filled with a mixture of awe and expectation. "Bow your head, child," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the murmur of the crowd.
Aethera, her mind a fortress of skepticism, refused to bow. Her gaze met the old woman's with a cold indifference, a challenge in her eyes. The prophetess, undeterred, returned her stare, her withered face contorting into a mask of malevolence.
"Doom," she hissed, the word drawn out into a menacing growl. "You are the harbinger of doom, a blight upon this land. Your presence is a curse, a shadow cast upon the light."
Aethera raised an eyebrow, her amusement barely concealed. This was a performance, a cheap trick to garner attention.
Ma Elara, her faith in the old woman unwavering, looked to Aethera with a mixture of fear and accusation. "You must be purged of this evil," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "The prophetess has spoken."
The old woman tilted her head, her gaze fixed on Aethera. "She cannot be purged," she declared, her voice carrying a note of finality. "Her fate is sealed."
With that, the prophetess turned and vanished into the crowd, as mysteriously as she had appeared. The market, which had fallen silent under the weight of her prophecy, erupted in a cacophony of whispers and murmurs.
Ma Elara, her face pale with fear, swatted at Aethera. "I knew there was something wicked about you," she hissed, her voice filled with accusation.
Lyra, oblivious to the growing tension, clapped her hands in excitement. "Did you hear that? I am to be a warrior!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Ma Elara stormed off, her footsteps heavy with anger. Lyra and Aethera exchanged a silent glance before following in her wake.
They reached a butcher's stall, a mountain of raw flesh bathed in crimson. The butcher, a burly man with arms like tree trunks, grinned at them, his teeth stained with blood. "The finest meat in the land, ladies," he bellowed. "Freshly slaughtered, tender and juicy. A feast fit for a king!"
He gestured dramatically to the carcasses hanging from hooks, their weight causing the wooden beams to groan. The air was thick with the scent of iron and blood.
Just when Aethera thought the day could not become any more bizarre, the sound of hooves clattering on the cobblestones shattered the relative calm of the market. A cart, drawn by a pair of weary oxen, rumbled into view. Two men, cloaked in garish purple, stood tall within its confines, their faces hidden in shadow. In their hands, they clutched a sack filled with crimson beans.
Aethera groaned inwardly. These were the so-called mages of the South, a troupe of charlatans who preyed on the gullible. Her father, with his penchant for the absurd, was a patron of their fraudulent enterprise, throwing bags of gold at their feet in the vain hope of securing peace and prosperity for the region whilst he rutted his whores.
One of the men, his voice as smooth as oil, reached into the sack and tossed a handful of beans into the crowd. A chorus of curses erupted as the crimson orbs struck their targets. The villagers, their faces contorted in anger, glared at the intruders with a mixture of fear and resentment.
"These beans," the other man declared, his voice echoing through the market, "are infused with the fiery breath of a dragon. Cast them into the heart of darkness, and the evil will be consumed."
The crowd listened, their faces a mixture of skepticism and hope. In a world filled with uncertainty, people clung to any semblance of hope, no matter how improbable.
Dragons, indeed. Tales of these mythical creatures once roaming the lands of Khra'gixx were as common as the wind. Legends spoke of dragons as large as mountains, their fiery breath capable of incinerating entire villages. But these were stories told to frighten children into obedience, relics of a bygone age when superstition held sway. Aethera, with her feet firmly planted in the realm of reality, scoffed at such notions. Magic, in her mind, was a trick of light and shadow, a sleight of hand designed to deceive the unwary.
The cart, with its cargo of charlatans, rolled past them, leaving behind a trail of disgruntled villagers. Aethera watched as the last remnants of the spectacle vanished from sight, a sense of relief washing over her. Perhaps, just perhaps, the day was not entirely devoid of normalcy.