They left the coliseum with that weird, satisfied ache fighters get in their bones — the kind that says you survived and you learned something. They had a rough idea now of what everyone else could do, a working average of strength and skill. It made the rest of the day feel... measurable, in a way. Predictable.
The marketplace hit them like a second wave. Stalls pressed into each other, covered in cloth and shouting; carts bumped and squealed; hawkers hawked as if they had to sell life itself before sunset. People threaded the lanes in loud, sloppy patterns: some walked, some ran, some carried crates that smelled like spice and sweat. It was chaos with an order you never asked for but learned to move inside of.
Then, in the middle of that motion, Avin saw a hood.
