Chapter 70 – Cores and Whispers
The morning air was sharp with the scent of sand and spice.
John leaned against the balcony rail outside his room, the stone still cool from the night. Below, the City of Sands was waking—vendors dragging carts across cobblestones, bells ringing faintly in the temple quarter, sunlight spilling like melted gold between towers.
Tamara stepped out from the next room, fastening her bracers. Her hair was damp from the basin, a few loose strands catching the light.
"You're up early," she said.
"So are you," John replied, glancing at her. "You ready for today?"
"Always," she said, "What are we doing?."
He smiled faintly and straightened. "We're going to the Merchant Association. I need to trade the tier 3 core potions."
Tamara raised an eyebrow. "You mean the hundred-plus potions you've been hoarding like treasure?"
"They're not treasure," he said. "They're leverage. We'll trade them for Tier Four cores—I need fuel for the next round."
She folded her arms. "So this is a shopping trip."
"With very expensive currency."
A small silence settled between them. The morning breeze caught the edge of Tamara's cloak, brushing it against his arm. Neither stepped back.
Finally she said, "Let's get it over with before the heat starts trying to kill us."
They descended into the streets together, Ember padding silently beside them. The city was already alive—sand merchants shouting from under colored awnings, guards in bronze armor pacing the crossroads, children running barefoot through the dust. The smell of roasted grains and perfumed oil mixed with the dry heat.
John rubbed the storage ring on his finger. Inside were the hundred Tier Three core potions—each bottle stable, marked with his personal rune.
The Merchant Association's building rose ahead of them—four stories of white stone and glass, banners fluttering in pale green and gold. The air near it smelled faintly of polished metal and parchment. Guards at the door recognized John instantly and let them through without question.
Inside, the hall was a quiet storm of trade. Traders in silk, mercenaries with ledger slips, robed alchemists discussing weight and purity of essences. The sound of coins being counted was its own rhythm, sharp and constant.
A receptionist bowed slightly. "Good morning. How may the Association serve you?"
"I need to speak with your branch leader," John said. "Corey Spindlewheel."
The clerk blinked once, impressed. "Of course, Master Caster. He's in conference—may I tell him you've arrived?"
"Yes."
That did it. Within minutes, an attendant guided them through polished halls lined with trade banners and rune lamps.
The Merchant Association's hall smelled faintly of parchment and refined oils. Gold filigree traced the archways, and the air carried the quiet hum of negotiations too rich for common ears.
A clerk led them to the upper floor—to a long chamber lined with sand-colored curtains and a single, sunlit table.
Sunlight spilled through a lattice window, cutting gold lines across the polished surface where Corey Spindlewheel, Branch Leader of the Merchant Association, sat waiting.
He looked much the same as John remembered—thin, precise, gray hair combed back, and eyes that never seemed surprised. His composure made the noise of the city feel irrelevant.
"Master Caster," he said, his voice as smooth as polished stone. "I heard you were requesting me personally. Please come in and take a seat."
They sat. Tamara's eyes drifted around the room, noting the subtle defenses—hidden runes in the walls, a faint shimmer of warding around the windows.
Corey leaned forward, fingers steepled. "So. What brings you here personally? I assume it's not a social visit."
John took one of the bottles from his ring. The liquid inside glowed faintly amber, runes shifting along the glass like drifting sparks.
"Tier Three Core Potion a personal recipe of mine," John said. "I have roughly a hundred of them ready for trade."
Corey's brows rose. "A hundred? My word. You've been busy."
"They're all stabilized, one-month shelf life, The purity level on these are pretty good. I want to trade them for Tier Four cores."
Corey's merchant mask didn't falter, but his pulse of aura betrayed a flicker of surprise. "That's quite an exchange. How many cores are you looking for?"
"Two Tier Fours per potion," John said evenly. "And twenty million credits on top."
Tamara didn't even blink. She'd already expected him to aim high.
Corey's lips curved. "Ambitious. But fair—if they're as pure as you say."
John uncorked the bottle. The faint scent of molten aether filled the room. The potion glowed brighter, its surface rippling like liquid light. Corey leaned forward, eyes wide.
"Flawless condensation… essence stability at ninety-plus percent…" He chuckled. "You undersell yourself, Master Caster."
"I'm aware."
Corey swirled the bottle once, studying the flow, then set it down carefully. "Two cores and twenty million… and you said you have a hundred of these?"
John nodded.
Corey drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. Then he smiled—a merchant's grin, sly and genuine all at once. "Done. But let's make it better. I'll throw in an extra fifty cores on the house."
Tamara's brow rose. "Why?"
Corey shrugged lightly. "Consider it an investment. When your name starts moving beyond this city—and it will—I'd rather be remembered as the man who supported you, not the one who haggled."
John studied him for a moment, then extended his hand. "Deal."
Their palms met. The handshake was firm, sealing both trade and mutual understanding.
The attendants moved quickly, bringing in cases of Tier Four cores—each one sealed in runed glass, the faint glow of compressed spirit visible within.
John counted them quietly: two hundred and fifty exactly. He signed the ledger with a single rune stroke, and Corey's assistants began securing the potion crates for transport.
"I have to admit," Corey said, "these will fetch triple once I put them in the auction."
"Glad to help," John said.
Corey smiled again, but this time there was respect in it. "If you ever consider establishing your own alchemy line, I'd be honored to back it."
"I'll remember that."
As they turned to leave, Corey called after him. "Oh—and Master Caster? Be careful walking the streets after dark these days. There's been… trouble."
John's expression didn't change. "I've noticed."
They met Dokabas near the entrance hall—an imposing figure even by the standards of the Merchant Association. His armor was black and bronze, polished to a mirror sheen; his eyes, steady as still water. He stood with the posture of someone who'd survived wars and expected more.
"John," he said, voice low. "Walk with me."
Tamara gave John a glance. He nodded once for her to wait, then followed the silent guardian through a side corridor that opened onto a balcony overlooking the trade square.
Below them, the city pulsed with life—caravans rolling out toward the desert, merchants calling prices, banners shifting in the wind.
Dokabas spoke without looking down. "You've been doing good work. The Association values you. But that's not why I stopped you."
John waited.
"There's things happening in the city that are about to take a turn for the worst" Dokabas said quietly. "Something older than politics. People are vanishing but there's more to it then that."
John's eyes narrowed. "Do you have an idea of what's happening?"
"If we knew, they'd already be dead." Dokabas's gaze stayed fixed on the horizon. "I've seen marks in the lower districts—sigils etched into the foundations, deep enough to bleed essence. Ritual work. Large-scale."
"How large?"
"City-scale," the guardian said flatly. "Whatever they're building, it's using people as fuel. And it's accelerating."
John felt a cold pulse crawl up his spine.
Dokabas turned to face him fully. "You're strong. Maybe strong enough to survive what's coming. But strength draws attention. If you see anything strange, you come to me. And John—don't trust the Mercenary Guild."
John frowned. "You think they're involved?"
"I think it would end bad to trust them."
The silence that followed was heavy. The wind carried the sound of trade from below like distant thunder.
Finally John said, "Thanks for the warning."
Dokabas nodded once. "Keep your light guarded."
Then he was gone, melting back into the hallways like a shadow too solid to follow.
When John rejoined Tamara outside, her eyes searched his face. "Everything all right?"
"Nothing new," he said. "Just… reminders."
They stepped back into the street together, the case of cores sealed and heavy in his hand. The afternoon sun had turned the city to glass—heat rising from the stone, every shadow sharp as a blade. The hum of voices seemed louder than usual, like the whole city was trying to cover a secret with noise.
Tamara glanced sideways at him. "What did Dokabas say?"
"That things are worse than they look."
"They always are."
They walked in silence for a while. A pair of hawkers called out the price of cooling charms. A child ran past chasing a painted ball. Somewhere, a bell tolled the hour.
Finally Tamara said, "You think it's connected to the disappearances?"
John's voice was quiet. "I think it's connected to everything."
By the time they reached the mansion, the sun was sinking behind the dunes. The air smelled faintly of roasted grain and smoke from the kitchen. Laughter spilled from the dining hall before they even reached the door.
Inside, the crew was already gathered—plates of food spread across the long table, Vulgrat arguing with Blake about seasoning ratios, Ember perched possessively near the dumpling bowl.
John set the case of cores on the counter. "Dinner first, work later."
Blake grinned. "You heard the man—Master Alchemy himself commands it."
Tamara rolled her eyes and sat beside Sera, who immediately started whispering something that made her smile despite herself.
The warmth of it all filled the room—the noise, the teasing, the smell of spice and dust. For a moment, the world outside didn't exist.
After dinner, when the laughter had faded and the others drifted to their rooms, John and Vulgrat carried the crates of cores down to the lab. The air there was cooler, humming with quiet energy. Rune-light flickered across the walls, throwing long shadows.
Vulgrat stacked the cores carefully on the shelves, muttering numbers under his breath. "Two hundred and fifty. You really traded them all?"
John nodded, wiping his hands. "We'll need them. Step Five isn't going to brew itself."
Vulgrat grinned. "You say that like I'm not about to do half the work."
"You are," John said. "Which is why you need to complete the teir 3 core potion."
"Yes master."
John chuckled and leaned against the workbench, watching the younger alchemist check the seals. His mind wasn't on the work, though. It was on Dokabas's words, echoing like a drumbeat.
Something old. City-scale.
He looked toward the narrow window slit. Outside, the desert was swallowing the last line of light. For a moment, he thought he saw something move beyond the walls—a faint flicker, like black flame sinking into the sand.
Then it was gone.
"Master?" Vulgrat asked. "You good?"
"Yeah," he said softly. "Just thinking."
He turned back to the cauldron. The flame beneath it flared gold, steady and patient.
"Let's get started."
And as the first sparks rose, the City of Sands exhaled again—quiet, watchful, waiting for something neither of them could yet see.