The market did not look like a market.
There were no stalls.
No shouted prices.
No visible currency.
And yet, it was the most dangerous place Kayan had ever stepped into.
They entered through a narrow passage where the city's geometry grew… polite. Angles softened. Probability stabilized just enough to allow trade without catastrophic side effects.
"This is the Exchange of Contingencies," Lyra said quietly. "Where futures are negotiated."
Kayan frowned. "Negotiated?"
"Bought. Sold. Delayed. Occasionally stolen."
The space opened into a vast amphitheater carved from floating stone slabs. Each platform hosted clusters of people engaged in silent conversations, gestures precise, expressions carefully neutral.
Above them hovered translucent constructs—Probability Ledgers—scrolling streams of shifting symbols.
Kayan felt sick.
Not physically.
Conceptually.
Every step he took caused micro-distortions. Nearby ledgers flickered when he passed, recalculating outcomes that refused to converge.
Eyes turned.
Not openly.
But carefully.
"He's noticed already," Lyra muttered.
"Who?"
"Someone who shouldn't be able to notice you yet."
A figure detached itself from the far side of the Exchange.
He walked without urgency, each step perfectly timed, as if the ground had been informed in advance of his arrival. His clothing was elegant, neutral—neither poor nor ostentatious. His Probability Trace was… unsettling.
It wasn't strong.
It was optimized.
Like a blade sharpened by a thousand invisible hands.
"Lyra Vey," the man said pleasantly. "Former Cartographer. I was wondering when you'd resurface."
Lyra's shoulders tightened. "You always did enjoy watching from safe distances, Caelum Marr."
Kayan felt it then.
A pressure—not aimed at him directly, but around him. Caelum wasn't scanning Kayan.
He was scanning the absence Kayan created.
"How fascinating," Caelum murmured, eyes gleaming faintly. "A localized probability sink. Do you know how rare that is?"
Kayan met his gaze. "Do you know how dangerous it is to talk like you own people?"
Caelum smiled wider.
"Oh, I don't own people," he said gently. "I own outcomes."
He gestured lazily, and one of the Probability Ledgers drifted closer. Symbols rearranged themselves, forming a projection of branching futures—most of them dark.
"You see," Caelum continued, "this city survives by selling certainty to those who can't afford chaos. Assassinations prevented. Disasters postponed. Bloodlines optimized."
His eyes flicked back to Kayan.
"And then you walk in," he said softly, "and futures start… disappearing."
Lyra stepped between them. "He's under my protection."
Caelum laughed. "Protection? From whom?"
The market grew quieter.
Listeners leaned in—not physically, but probabilistically. The Exchange loved moments like this.
"I'm offering a deal," Caelum said. "A simple one."
He raised one finger.
"I don't sell you," he said to Kayan. "I don't report you. I don't even calculate you."
"And in return?" Kayan asked.
"You allow me to study the edges," Caelum replied. "Indirectly. From a distance. You walk your path, and I learn where reality tears."
Kayan felt the void stir.
Not hunger this time.
Suspicion.
"What happens if I refuse?"
Caelum's smile never wavered. "Then eventually… someone less polite will notice the missing futures."
Lyra swore under her breath.
Kayan was silent for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
"I don't belong to your market," he said evenly. "And I won't be a product."
Caelum inclined his head. "Good. Neither do I."
He stepped back.
"For now," he added. "Consider this… a mutual curiosity."
As he faded into the crowd, the Exchange exhaled.
Lyra grabbed Kayan's arm. "You just made an enemy."
Kayan shook his head.
"No," he said quietly. "I made a witness."
Above them, unseen, something adjusted its calculations again.
The market had just priced the impossible.
And found no number high enough.