In the evening, Rena and her team followed Quickfoot down to the market of Bozkar. Nesta came along with them too. Nesta was the young girl they had rescued from the creep, and Maeve had given her that name just a short while back. None of them felt comfortable leaving the child alone in that shady inn. Besides, they thought it would do her good to spend time outdoors, take in the sights, and get used to being around people again. Quickfoot and Nesta had hit it off right away, chatting like old acquaintances as they walked a few paces ahead of the adults.
A few times along the road, Rena asked Quickfoot what they should expect in Bozkar, and why they were heading down in the evening if the market wasn't supposed to open until midnight. The elf boy refused to spill the beans, stubbornly keeping it as a surprise. To be honest, the team of seven didn't mind the suspense all that much.
As they walked further, a sprawling, hollowed-out ruin of an ancient fortress came into view against the skyline. Quickfoot pointed out that the settlement of Bozkar was built right inside these historic ruins of an old Imperial frontier outpost. Its massive stone walls loomed high into the darkening evening sky. Looking closer, they could see that the ancient, weathered masonry was cracked in several spots and patched up with crude timber, thick iron plates, and heavy wooden palisades.
As they walked alongside Quickfoot, the true scale of the trade hub finally came into focus. Sprawling around the outer base of the fortress walls was a chaotic ring of makeshift tents, wooden shacks, and temporary gathering spots. Fires were burning inside rusted iron braziers, sending thick trails of black smoke floating into the air. Quickfoot explained that this was the Outer Ring and Slums of Bozkar. Here, desperate refugees, low-tier mercenaries, and penniless vagrants huddled together- people who were either too poor to pay entry or too dangerous to be allowed inside the main gates.
Passing through the slums, the team reached a massive archway reinforced with thick bands of rusted iron. The elf boy told them this was the Iron-Clad Gates, the main entrance into Bozkar. A group of tough-looking guards composed of scarred veterans, silent half-orcs, and armored mercenaries stood watch over the entry. Every single one of these heavily armed men wore a matching red cloth armband. They were Syndicate enforcers. The guards watched the team approach, but they didn't move to stop, search, or question them as they passed through.
Once inside, the squad immediately noticed something strange. The usual roaring noise of a bustling trade hub was completely missing. The place wasn't empty, though. Hundreds of armed cutthroats, merchant guards, dark-robed alchemists, and local thugs were standing around or sitting in tight groups across the interior grounds. A tense, heavy silence hung in the air. People spoke only in quiet mutters to one another, and nobody paid any attention to the team as they walked through the gates. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something with bated breath.
Hanging high from the stone ramparts were heavy, weathered banners bearing the crest of the local market administrator, flanked right beside the bold black-ink seal of the Black Syndicate Alliance. Those banners were serving as a loud warning to every thief, killer, and rogue trader in the area- inside these fortress walls, the Syndicate's peace was currently in effect, and breaking it meant instant death. The team had never imagined that the usually secretive and elusive thieves' guilds could wield such absolute dominance anywhere in the world.
As their direwolves walked quietly over the hardened dirt, the crowd parted slightly to give those beasts and their riders way. Some onlookers stared at the squad's high-grade military gear, others flinched at the snarling muzzles of the wolves, and a few noted the calm, lethal postures of Rena and Jax. The seven of them could feel it in their bones- Bozkar wasn't welcoming, and it certainly wasn't safe. It was like an iron kettle that was sitting on a hot fire, just waiting to boil over.
Quickfoot led the group up a set of rickety wooden stairs to the second-tier balconies overlooking the inner fortress. Down below them lay a broad, stone-paved lower plaza where market stalls had clearly been cleared away very recently. Before long, more people began streaming into the area, and the quiet muttering quickly built into a loud, buzzing roar.
Hundreds of spectators soon crammed onto the surrounding stone ledges, rooftops, and balconies. Smugglers, dark alchemists, mercenary captains, and guild scouts shouted, drank cheap ale, and tossed heavy coin pouches down to Syndicate bookies walking the perimeter below.
Suddenly, three heavy iron gongs struck from the upper wall. The massive ringing echoed across the stone, and the entire crowd fell dead silent, plunging the plaza into a graveyard quiet.
A sharp, scarred veteran wearing high-quality leather armor walked out onto a central platform overlooking the pit, holding a thick ledger in his hand. Quickfoot leaned in and whispered that this man was a high-ranking Syndicate Overseer. Standing right behind him were four heavily armored, silent enforcers holding loaded repeating crossbows.
The Overseer didn't bother using magic to boost his voice, nor did he give some fancy, theatrical speech. The crowd quieted down all on its own, knowing full well that interrupting a Syndicate Overseer would get a crossbow bolt planted straight through their throat without a word asked.
"Bozkar's gates have been shut for two days," the Overseer barked in his raspy voice, "Two days of lost coin because two of our chartered factions couldn't keep their blood off the market cobblestones. The Alliance doesn't care who collects the stall tax, but we care about trade stopping. The Iron Fangs demand blood restitution. The Veiled Dagger refuses to yield. Under Section Four of the Syndicate Charter, their dispute is now settled in the Trial of Iron."
A man sitting on the ledge next to Maeve noticed her clueless expression. Looking to impress her, he leaned close and whispered information he thought she might find interesting. He quietly told her that the Iron Fangs were a ruthless local gang of raiders and muscle who claimed historical rights to the central auction house taxes. The Veiled Dagger, on the other hand, was a mid-tier assassin syndicate expansion group that had secretly murdered three Iron Fang lieutenants yesterday to grab control of the lucrative slave-trade stalls.
He was clearly getting ready to share more gossip, but a bolt fired from an enforcer's crossbow punched straight through his throat, shutting him up forever. The man slumped over dead, but the Overseer didn't even glance down. He simply carried on listing the terms of the fight.
Five champions from each side would step into the pit. There would be no outside help, no dark-alchemy poisons or combat potions, and no stepping outside the white chalk perimeter. The battle would end only when one side surrendered or all five fighters were dead.
The winning faction would claim a thirty percent share of the Central Auction House revenues for the next year. The losing faction would lose all claims and pay a massive fine straight to the Syndicate for causing a halt in trade.
The Overseer signed his ledger, slammed it shut with a loud clap, and looked up at the packed crowd.
Quickfoot leaned toward Rena with a wide grin, pulling a small pouch of coppers out of his pocket. "Here comes the real exciting part!"
The Overseer's voice boomed across the plaza one last time, "Bets close in three minutes. Win or lose, when the last man bleeds out, the market gates throw open. Let's get back to business!"
The entire crowd erupted into roaring cheers. Men waved coin purses in the air, screamed out odds, and slammed down heavy bets on which side would butcher the other.
Quickfoot grinned, leaning over the wooden railing toward Maeve and Jax, "Told ya! The main gates don't open till the cobbles get a fresh coat of paint."