The Bone Market was not a city. It was an anomaly—a sprawl of tents, makeshift stalls, and towering skeletal structures that rose haphazardly from the shifting sands. The market was alive with noise and movement, a cacophony of bartering voices, clinking metal, and the distant hum of Essence-powered machines. It was a place where the powerful came to trade, the desperate came to beg, and the unworthy came to die.
Zhan Arkheis approached the outskirts of the market with his caravan in tow, a procession of wagons and mounted mercenaries trailing behind him like the tail of a serpent. The wind carried with it the pungent stench of sweat, oil, and decay—a reminder that everything in the Bone Market came with a price, and that price was often steep.
Two guards stood at the entrance to the market, their battered armor and mismatched weapons betraying their status as hired muscle. They straightened as Zhan drew near, their eyes narrowing at the sight of his crimson cloak and glowing armor. One of them, a squat man with a crooked nose, stepped forward, raising a hand to halt the caravan.
"State your business," he barked, though his voice cracked slightly under the weight of Zhan's presence.
Zhan reined in his horse, his gray eyes cold and unblinking as they settled on the man. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably.
"I do not need to state my business," Zhan said finally, his voice quiet but cutting like a blade. "The sands speak for me."
The guard hesitated, glancing nervously at his companion. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter another word, the sand beneath his feet shifted violently. He yelped as the ground buckled, throwing him off balance and sending him sprawling.
Zhan leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried unnaturally on the wind. "Do not waste my time."
The other guard stepped back, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. The squat man scrambled to his feet, bowing hastily and waving the caravan through.
"Go, go!" he stammered. "Welcome to the Bone Market, Lord Arkheis."
Zhan didn't spare him another glance as he urged his horse forward, his followers trailing behind.
The interior of the Bone Market was a labyrinth of chaos. Tents of vibrant colors jostled for space among crude wooden stalls, their wares displayed with little regard for order or presentation. Shouts filled the air as merchants called out their goods—dried meats, crude weapons, vials of glowing liquid that promised strength or death.
At the center of the market stood the Bone Spire, a towering structure made of fused skeletal remains that spiraled upward like the jagged spine of some ancient beast. The Spire was a monument to the Abyss's brutality, and within its hollow core resided the market's overseers, those who controlled the flow of goods and lives in this lawless haven.
Zhan dismounted as he reached the main square, handing the reins of his horse to a trembling servant. His armor caught the light of the Spire's flickering torches, casting shifting patterns across its surface. His presence drew stares and whispers, traders and mercenaries alike shrinking back as he passed.
"Who is that?" one man whispered to his companion, his voice barely audible over the din.
"You don't know?" the other replied, his face pale. "That's Zhan Arkheis. The Scourge."
Zhan ignored them, his focus fixed on the Bone Spire. He strode toward it with purpose, the crowd parting instinctively to make way. At the Spire's base, a pair of heavily armed guards stood watch, their faces obscured by dark iron masks.
"Move," Zhan said simply, and the guards exchanged a glance before stepping aside.
The interior of the Bone Spire was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The walls were smooth and polished, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and writhe when viewed too closely. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, mingled with something sharper—something metallic.
At the center of the chamber sat Vorlath, the overseer of the Bone Market. He was a thin, wiry man, his body draped in robes of deep black that shimmered faintly with embedded threads of Essence. His face was angular and sharp, his eyes cold and calculating as they fixed on Zhan.
"Lord Arkheis," Vorlath said, his voice smooth and unhurried. "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?"
Zhan didn't bother with pleasantries. "I need supplies," he said. "Essence amplifiers. Weapons. Fresh mounts."
Vorlath raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Of course. The Bone Market provides for all... at the right price."
Zhan's gaze darkened. "You'll find I'm not interested in haggling."
"Ah, but we must," Vorlath said, leaning forward slightly. "After all, even the great Scourge must understand the rules of this place. Everything has a price. And those who cannot pay..." He trailed off, his smile widening.
The air grew heavier as Zhan stepped closer, the faint hum of Essence in his armor growing louder. The light in the chamber dimmed, the shadows lengthening as if drawn toward him.
"I do not pay in coin," Zhan said, his voice low and dangerous. "The price you will take is the one I decide."
Vorlath's smile faltered, just for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. He gestured to one of the attendants standing nearby, a young woman with wide, fearful eyes.
"Fetch the inventory," he said briskly. "Lord Arkheis will have what he requires."
The attendant bowed hurriedly and scurried off, leaving Zhan and Vorlath alone.
"I must say," Vorlath continued, his tone carefully neutral, "the stories do not exaggerate. Your reputation is well-deserved."
Zhan didn't respond immediately. He turned his gaze to one of the walls, where a series of Essence-infused artifacts were displayed. They glowed faintly, their light casting distorted shadows that danced across the chamber.
"Reputation is irrelevant," Zhan said finally. "Only power matters."
"Wise words," Vorlath agreed, though there was a faint edge to his tone. "Still, power is a delicate thing. It must be balanced carefully, or it risks collapse."
Zhan turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "The only thing that collapses," he said coldly, "is the weak."
When Zhan emerged from the Bone Spire, the air was thick with the heat of the noonday sun. His followers had gathered in the square, their wagons now laden with crates of weapons, Essence amplifiers, and other supplies.
Arkos approached as Zhan descended the Spire's steps, his face etched with uncertainty. "The preparations are complete," he said. "But there's been... an issue."
Zhan's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"There's been a theft," Arkos said, his voice low. "One of the traders claims his Essence stockpile was taken. He's demanding restitution."
Zhan's expression didn't change, but the sand beneath his feet began to stir. "Where is this trader?"
Arkos gestured toward a nearby stall, where a man stood shouting angrily at a pair of guards. His face was red with rage, and he jabbed a finger toward the caravan as he argued.
Zhan approached without a word, his presence silencing the commotion immediately. The trader turned, his expression shifting from anger to fear as he met Zhan's gaze.
"Is this true?" Zhan asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "You accuse me of theft?"
The trader swallowed hard, his confidence crumbling. "I—I only meant that—"
"You think I need to steal from you?" Zhan interrupted, his tone cold and sharp.
The trader fell silent, his hands trembling. The sand beneath him began to shift, rising in faint ripples.
"I don't take what I need," Zhan said, stepping closer. "I take what I want."
The sand surged upward, enveloping the man in a suffocating grip. His screams echoed through the square as his soul was torn from his body, the Essence flowing into Zhan's armor. When the sand finally receded, only a lifeless husk remained.
Zhan turned back to Arkos, his expression unreadable. "Let that be a reminder," he said, "to anyone who questions my authority."
Arkos nodded stiffly, though his unease was clear.
As the caravan prepared to leave, the Bone Market fell silent, its inhabitants watching from the shadows as Zhan Arkheis departed. The name of the Scourge would be whispered long after he was gone, a specter of fear that lingered in the hearts of all who lived.