Linry and Riniock’s shopping spree led them to several stalls as they continued exploring the bazaar. At Linry’s insistence – following a demand he’d made days prior – Riniock purchased various items needed for her to teach him the basics of conjuration, particularly the summoning of objects.

In addition to their purchases, Riniock finally came across a vendor willing to buy his lidthrag claws.

‘Phew,’ he sighed in relief as he collected his payment. ‘Glad to finally be rid of those.’

‘Why so eager to sell them?’ Linry asked, watching him tuck the lunaris into his purse.

‘They’re spoils from one of my kills,’ Riniock replied nonchalantly.

Linry’s eyes lit up with curiosity. ‘Oh, another one? Do tell!’

Lowering his voice and glancing around to ensure no one overheard, Riniock began. ‘His name was Odrean. It happened during the college admission test. The whole thing was held in a place called the Crimson Glades.’

Linry tapped a finger against her lip, a playful glint in her eyes. ‘So you killed someone who could’ve been your classmate? You really don’t discriminate, do you?’

‘Why should I?’ Riniock scoffed. ‘If someone deserves it, they can die like the worms they are.’

‘And what exactly did this Odrean do to ‘deserve’ it?’ Linry asked, her tone almost poetic as she pressed for details.

‘He got greedy,’ Riniock said, a smirk curling his lips. ‘Tried to take my share of the spoils.’

Linry chuckled softly. ‘Men will die for coin, after all.’

‘No truer words have ever been spoken,’ Riniock agreed, the memory of the earlier incident with the dagger briefly flickering through his mind. The man Riniock had killed earlier met his end simply because Riniock had coveted his belongings. ‘Anyway,’ he said, brushing off the thought, ‘I think it’s time we wrapped up our visit here –’

A shrill cry tore through the air, echoing from the shadows between the market stalls. Out of the darkness stumbled a farferal – a short, wiry humanoid with greyish skin and hair that hung over her face like a mop. She appeared out of nowhere, her frantic movement clearly aimed towards Linry and Riniock.

In her panic, she tripped over a crate of neon-coloured fruits, tumbling forward and landing in an awkward roll.

‘Master Ikurns!’ she screamed, raising an arm as she approached them, desperation etched into her voice.

‘Who’s she?’ Linry asked, glancing at Riniock, whose expression mirrored her confusion. Neither recognised the woman.

They cautiously made their way towards her, helping her to her feet.

‘Who are you?’ Linry asked, her tone measured.

The farferal woman took a moment to catch her breath, gasping before finally managing to speak. ‘I’m the assistant at the jewellery stall. The owner sent me to his friend to retrieve your ring, but when I got there, a group of gorens was harassing the shopkeeper.’

‘Why come to us first? Why not alert the authorities?’ Linry asked, frowning.

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The farferal’s tone turned sharp and eloquent, a stark contrast to her dishevelled appearance. ‘Master surely jests. The authorities would sooner abandon their claim to this bazaar than take the word of a farferal. Even if they believed me, they’d rather retreat to the tavern than lift a finger in a matter involving my kind.’

Riniock scowled. He bore no particular affection for the farferal, but neither did he harbour enmity. Besides, his ring was at risk, and that was a matter he couldn’t ignore.

‘Show me the way,’ he demanded, his voice resolute and cold. ‘If anything happens to my ring, I will flay the skin of every last goren responsible.’

A short distance away, six gorens loitered around a small workshop, their presence looming over the shopkeeper like a storm cloud. Though they hadn’t resorted to outright violence, their harassment was relentless, pressuring the man to sell goods that weren’t even his to offer – items already purchased and reserved by other customers.

‘How much for this, then?’ one of the gorens asked with a coarse, dismissive tone. ‘I’ll give you ten lunaris for it.’

The farferal shopkeeper, trembling, tried to explain. ‘A-Apologies, sir. This armband already belongs to someone else. It’s not for sale.’

Four of the gorens leaned casually against nearby stalls, snickering at their comrade's antics, whilst the other two continued badgering the shopkeeper. Nearby, several witnesses, most of them farferal vendors, watched with growing resentment. Though accustomed to enduring mistreatment, the blatant disrespect towards one of their own had them bristling with quiet fury.

‘What’s this, then?’ another goren said, snatching up a ring from the counter – a ring adorned with a newly polished black gemstone.

‘Please, sir,’ the shopkeeper pleaded, his voice strained. ‘That ring is not for sale.’

‘Not for sale? Not for sale?’ the green-skinned goren mimicked in a mocking falsetto, earning laughs from his companions. ‘What’s the point of running a stall if you’re not selling anything? I’ll take this ring.’

‘But, sir –’

‘A hundred lunaris should cover it,’ the goren declared smugly, reaching into his pouch for coins.

The poor shopkeeper sunk as he imagined how to explain this circumstance to his customer. His eyes shrunk, his pride suppressed.

‘That’s quite enough,’ a calm but commanding voice cut through the commotion from the nearby crowd.

The gorens turned in unison, their eyes locking onto a lone farferal standing boldly in the middle of the road. He was diminutive and scrawny, his limbs shorter than average, and his mismatched eyes – a strikingly uncommon trait – added to his peculiar appearance.

Arms crossed in a defiant stance, the farferal radiated an aura of false confidence that drew raucous laughter from the group of harassers.

‘Well, well, what do we have here?’ one of the gorens sneered, his lips curling into an amused grin.

‘Leave him alone,’ the farferal demanded, his sharp, childlike voice trembling with a blend of fear and audacity.

The gorens erupted into laughter again. ‘And here I thought we were ugly! What’s a two-eyed freak like you gonna do, huh?’

The farferal's mismatched eyes narrowed, his words cutting through the mockery like a blade. ‘Bold of you, whose patron deity made you ugly by design, to mock my eyes.’

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The mention of their patron deity, the Spurned, struck a nerve. The gorens’ laughter died, replaced by seething scowls and gritted teeth.

‘You…’ one hissed, his tone venomous as weapons were drawn. ‘You dare insult Lady Aceria in our presence?’

The farferal’s bravado faltered. His body quivered, but he held his ground, his resolve wavering as the leader of the gorens stepped forward. The goren's flanged mace dangled ominously in his grip, its head stained with dried blood and specks of gore, a grim testament to its history.

The farferal swallowed hard, hoping against reason that the gorens would adhere to the bazaar’s strict rules forbidding violence.

But his hope was short-lived. The goren leader halted and glanced back at his comrades with a wicked grin. ‘You know what? To Murat with the laws!’

With a swift swing of his mace, the leader struck the farferal’s legs, sending him sprawling to the ground. His head hit the cold panzamite floor with a sickening crack, disorienting him. Before he could react, the mace came down again, this time smashing into his face with brutal force. The attacks continued for another strike or two, leaving his head a gruesome, bloodied mess – caved in and horrifically disfigured.

Blood splattered across the ground as the farferal's twitching body went limp. The leader spat on the lifeless form, muttering, ‘Blasted freak.’

Turning back to the stunned shopkeeper, the goren wiped his weapon clean on his tattered tunic. ‘Now,’ he growled, his foul mood spilling over, ‘about that ring…’