The market was alive long before they arrived.
By the time the royal procession reached its edge, the district was already a storm of sound and scent, bartering voices, clattering wheels, the rhythmic strike of hammers from the nearby forges.
The faint festivities of Pyrosanct still hummed in the air.
Stalls spilled over with color: bolts of silk fluttering like captured fire, pyramids of fruit glowing like jewels, spice jars catching the light in hues of crimson, gold, and green.
Performers danced at the crossroads, bells chiming at their ankles. Music floated through the heat, a slow, lilting melody carried by flutes and drums. The air itself shimmered, sweet with roasted nuts and sharp with river wind.
And in the midst of it all walked fire and frost.
