As Cyrus approached, he noticed a young man with tufts of golden hair, haggling with the lean merchant. As their conversation progressed, the merchant's face hardened into a scowl, and he unconsciously tapped the wooden stall.
Cyrus waited a few steps back, until at last the merchant threw up his hands, and the young man left with a stack of paper, and three jars of ink, along with a sly grin. Cyrus met his eye for a moment, and the young man threw him a wink, before continuing on his way.
'How strange,' Cyrus thought. He continued forward, and approached the merchant. "Excuse me, do you happen to know where I could find a scholar on ancient history?"
The merchant stared at him momentarily, then turned away as if he hadn't seen him. Dumbfounded, Cyrus knocked on the stall, but stopped when the merchant narrowed his eyes. Shrugging, he made his way to the next merchant, only to be met with a similar response.
When the following three merchants also refused to speak to him, he moved onto the passerbyers, only for them to quicken their pace whenever he approached. Furrowing his brow, Cyrus paused to think, when a heavy, burly man rammed their shoulder into his as he passed by.
Cyrus clenched his fists, glaring at the back of the balding man as he muttered something about beggars. His luck worsened as another stomped on his toes, followed by someone shoving him as they rushed past. All the while, their shouts and cries to each other grew louder, grating on his ears.
Cyrus's pulse quickened as the noises melded together, and his hands grew clammy. He spun around, scanning the stalls and people, looking for a way out. A space opened momentarily, but was blocked by a horse drawn carriage, which whipped past without a word of warning. Cyrus stumbled back as the wheels nearly ran over his feet.
'I need to get out of here,' he thought, gritting his teeth. Eager to be free, he lowered his head, and shouldered his way through the crowd. A gap in the people quickened his step, when a sharp pain poked his side.
"Ouch!" Cyrus straightened his back, and whirled around. His movement caused him to trip over a raised slab, and he tripped, tumbling backward until he crashed into a stall. All around him, baskets of spices flipped into the air, scattering their wares to the wind.
A cloud of pepper air hung around the stall, and Cyrus fought back the urge to sneeze as he spotted a small boy darting away. Narrowing his eyes, he climbed to his feet, when a thick hand grabbed his arm.
"Oi! I hope you don't plan on running off, now do you? You've gone and spilled my supplies!"
A middle aged man loomed over him, his reddening face and thick jowls inches away. His breath stunk of radishes and sausage, and crumbs speckled his thick beard. A carpet of red and orange spices laid around his feet, now speckled with dirt and dust.
"Of-of course not. Here, I'll pay for it. How much did this cost?" Cyrus asked, wrinkling his nose. He started patting his hips as the merchant studied him.
"Well. I buy most of my spices from Tulmuth, so they cost a decent coin," The merchant said. He released Cyrus, and rubbed the back of his swollen neck. "Almost… hmm, a silver, no, two, per basket. So that'd be about… eight silver. For all of it." The man grinned, though his eyes flickered with a sly glint.
Cyrus pursed his lips. "Very well. Let me just find the coin…"
He ran his hands along his empty belt around until they met at the back. With a frown, he lifted his cloak, and stared at the torn rope where his coin purse once hung. His clothes were also slit, and a line of blood glistened from a scratch on his skin.
Cyrus cursed inwardly, and glanced in the direction the boy had run off.
"Well? Where's my coin?" The merchant asked, crossing his arms.
"I- I don't have it," Cyrus said, lowering his cloak. "I believe that boy just ran off with it. If you let me go, I'll be certain to bring it back."
"I have a better idea. Why don't I call the guards, and let them settle this."
The merchant grabbed Cyrus's arm again, and tightened his hold. Cyrus winced, and tried to break free, but the merchant's grip was stronger than steel. By now, people around them stopped to watch, whispering amongst themselves.
"Hold on, now! There's no need for that," Cyrus said, trying to pry back the man's fingers. "I'm telling you, that boy stole it. He's getting away, right now."
"Quiet, you. You think this is the first time someone's done this?" The merchant shook Cyrus, then waved his hand over the crowd. "Guards! I need the guards over here!"
The crowd shuffled apart as the guards' silver armor appeared, pushing towards them. Cyrus's thoughts whirled as he yanked against the merchant's unyielding grip again, panic swelling inside him. His chest grew hot, and heavy as his surroundings blurred, and his fingers tingled as he flexed.
'I need to go. I need to go now!' Cyrus thought. A faint whisper played in his ears, followed by a low rumble.
He froze, his eyes widening as the cobblestone street cracked, and swelled. Around him, the citizens of Galeden cried out, and stumbled back, their faces paling as the cracks widened, revealing roots writhing beneath the stone.
"Ma-Magic! It's magic!"
The cry came from an old man, who whirled around, and pointed a gnarled finger at Cyrus.
"He's a warlock! A warlock has come to-"
The old man's cry was cut off as a flood of roots burst through the stone, and slammed into his chest. The force was enough to send him flying into a stall of jewelry and gems with a sickening crunch. As he collapsed to the ground, chaos enveloped the market. A wave of cries and screams filled the air as people pushed and shoved each other to get away.
"You- you're a warlock?" The merchant asked, his face paling. He dropped Cyrus's arm, and scrambled back, slipping and sliding over the spices until he gathered his footing enough to run away.
Without his support, Cyrus staggered forward, losing his strength with each passing second. As the world spun, he grabbed for the merchant's stall, but the moment his fingers touched the wood, it sprouted branches and leaves, while roots shot from its base, digging into the street.
'Gods above… What's happening to me?' Cyrus thought. He shook his head, trying to regain his composure, but his knees buckled instead, dropping him to the ground. Something warm and wet seeped into his tunic, sticking to his skin. No more than a meter away, the body of the old man stared blankly back at him, surrounded by a pool of blood.
'No… no, I didn't mean too…' Cyrus thought. His eyes widened in horror as a wave of roots rose from the stone, and spilled across the street, twisting their way around the lantern posts, and climbing the store fronts. Long grass and patches of moss carpeted the street, while budding pines and sapling oaks sprouted from the crevices.
Nearby, a father grabbed his son, and yanked him into a building, while a mother dragged her two daughters down an alley, away from the rampaging plants. A small boy ran past, frantically shifting his eyes in a search for an escape. He tripped over a root, and fell face first to the ground, unable to even utter a cry before a wave of foliage encased him.
Cyrus fought to get back to his feet, but the magic spilled uncontrollably from his body, draining him of his strength. Groaning, he collapsed into the writhing roots as his hearing faded, and the world darkened. The last thing he saw through the spreading grass and moss was the gleaming eyes of a stranger, concealed by a dark cloak, and the shadows of a distant alley.
Then, as the last bits of light faded, a soft voice whispered in his ear, like a summer breeze.
'Find the… Ashfolk…'