Chapter 1
They came to the city only at dusk.
By daylight, the streets belonged to bakers, fishmongers, and loud arguments about coin. But when the sun slipped behind the salt cliffs and the lamps began to glow, the Obsidian Sellers arrived—silent as spilled ink.
No one ever saw where they came from.
They set up their stalls without hammers or nails. One moment the corner was empty; the next, a black table stood there, smooth as glass, stacked with obsidian shards that reflected the lamplight like trapped stars. The Sellers themselves wore long coats the color of cooled lava, faces half-hidden, eyes sharp and measuring.
Everyone knew the rule: you didn’t touch the obsidian unless you meant to buy.
The stone wasn’t cursed, exactly. It was worse—it was honest.
Each piece showed you something true.
A knife blade might reveal the moment you’d betray someone you loved. A polished mirror could show the life you would have lived if fear hadn’t stopped you. A simple pebble, warm in the palm, might whisper the name of the person you’d never forgive.
The city pretended to hate the Sellers. Guards “searched” for them. Priests warned against them. Parents told children stories meant to scare curiosity out of their bones.
But every night, the stalls were surrounded.
One evening, a girl named Ilya approached with empty pockets and shaking hands. She wasn’t there to buy—she was there to sell.
The Sellers didn’t look surprised. One of them gestured to the table.
“What do you offer?” he asked, voice like stone grinding stone.
“My future,” Ilya said. “The one everyone keeps telling me I’m supposed to want.”
The Seller selected a small obsidian disc, dull and unpolished. “Then take this.”
She held it—and saw nothing. No visions. No whispers. Just her own reflection, breathing, alive, unafraid.
When she looked up, the Sellers were already packing away their stall.
“What did you take from me?” she demanded.
The Seller smiled, thin and sharp. “Only the lie.”
By morning, the city corner was empty again. But Ilya walked its streets lighter, freer—and somewhere deep beneath the stones, the obsidian hummed, pleased with the trade.
