The Floating Black Market existed between heartbeats, in the spaces where reality forgot to pay attention. Serena led him through a gap in the air itself: a vertical slash that bled purple light and whispered in languages that predated human speech. One moment they stood in the Blighted Forest, the next in a maze of silk tents and shadow-draped stalls that couldn't possibly fit in any physical space.
"Don't stare too long at anything," Serena warned as they navigated the crowd. "Some merchants deal in more than goods. Your attention itself can be currency here."
The Shadow Knight kept his gaze moving, taking in the impossible geometry of the place. Paths that should intersect never met. Distances compressed and expanded based on intent rather than steps. The "sky" above was a roiling mass of colour that hurt to perceive directly, as if someone had painted nightmares on the inside of a skull.
Beings of every description moved through the market. Some were recognizably human beneath their cloaks and veils. Others defied easy categorization: too many limbs, wrong angles, faces that shifted when viewed peripherally. The air itself tasted of copper and possibility, thick with the residue of a thousand forbidden transactions.
They passed stalls selling bottled screams, crystallized memories, and futures that might-have-been. One merchant, her face a porcelain mask with too many eye-holes, offered "guilt, freshly harvested, still warm with regret." Another, a thing of smoke and whispers, displayed deeds to places that didn't exist yet.
"Where exactly is this?" Kaelen asked, his voice carrying those unsettling harmonics the transformation had gifted him.
"Nowhere. Everywhere. The spaces between." Serena guided him around a puddle that reflected stars from alien skies. "The Floating Black Market exists because people need it to exist. Desire given form, commerce freed from the constraints of physical law."
A small figure darted across their path: a child, or something wearing a child's shape. It clutched a struggling shadow in its arms like a stolen cat. Guards in armour that seemed carved from fossilized sin gave lazy chase, more for show than actual pursuit.
"We're looking for Vaurien the Chronicler," Serena explained as they wove deeper into the market's heart. "He deals in information: past, present, and occasionally future. If anyone knows the truth about the Soulstone's trials, it's him."
They found Vaurien's establishment at the convergence of seven paths that shouldn't have been able to meet. Unlike the temporary stalls around it, his shop appeared permanent: a small tower of black glass that reflected nothing, not even the chaos swirling around it.
"Enter, but touch nothing," read a sign that rewrote itself in whatever language the reader understood best. Below it, in smaller script: "Vaurien is not responsible for paradoxes, grandfather-murdering, or existential unravelling resulting from unauthorized browsing."
Inside, the shop defied its modest exterior. Shelves stretched upward beyond sight, loaded with books, scrolls, crystal spheres, and stranger containers of knowledge. Ladders on rails provided access to higher levels, though some seemed to climb down despite going up.
Vaurien himself proved less impressive than his collection. An elderly man, unremarkably human, sat behind a desk carved from what might have been petrified time. His clothes were expensive but worn, his hair grey but carefully styled. Only his eyes betrayed his true nature: they held depths that had seen civilizations rise and fall, that had catalogued secrets since before the first lie was told.
"Serena Nightwhisper," he said without looking up from the ledger he was annotating. "And a new friend who radiates darkness like a punctured star. How refreshing. Usually, it's just merchants seeking dirt on competitors or lovelorn fools wanting to know if she really loves them."
"We need information about the Soulstone," Serena said without preamble. "Its location. Its guardians. The trials required to claim it."
"Straight to business. I appreciate directness." Vaurien finally looked up, studying the Shadow Knight with those ancient eyes. "Though I suspect your companion might offer something more interesting than mere coin in trade."
Kaelen stepped forward, letting shadows writhe visibly around his form. "Name your price."
"Aggressive. Recently transformed, I'd guess. Still drunk on new power, not yet learned its limits." The chronicler smiled, an expression both knowing and sad. "I don't want your shadow magic, Knight. I trade in information. Knowledge for knowledge. Secret for secret."
He reached beneath his desk, producing a leather journal that Kaelen recognized with a shock: his father's private records, somehow transported from where he'd hidden them in his armour.
"How—"
"The market has ways of acquiring interesting items. Lord Marcus Dawnblade kept meticulous records. His observations about the Council's corruption, their systematic targeting of eastern lords, the manufactured evidence of heresy—all fascinating reading." Vaurien leafed through pages with careful fingers. "This alone would buy you considerable information. But I sense you have something even more valuable."
"The journal contains proof of the Council's crimes," Kaelen protested. "Evidence that could—"
"Could what? Restore your family's name? Resurrect the dead? Convince zealots that their leaders are corrupt?" The chronicler's smile turned pitying. "Information only has power when people are willing to accept it. Your Council has spent centuries building unassailable authority. Documentation won't topple that; only force will."
The truth of it burned. Kaelen had clung to the journal as if it could somehow undo what had been done, as if proving the Council's lies would bring back Marcus or free Lyanna. But Vaurien was right: those in power rarely surrendered to mere evidence.
"Then what do you want?"
"Your memories of the transformation. The moment when the Hunger Shades fed on your humanity. The sensation of the Soulstone's first touch." Vaurien leaned forward, eyes bright with scholarly hunger. "Such experiences are vanishingly rare. Most who undergo them don't survive to share the tale."
Memories as currency. The Shadow Knight considered. What harm could it do? The experiences were his; sharing them wouldn't diminish their impact.
"Agreed."
Vaurien produced a crystal sphere from his desk's apparently infinite drawers. "Place your hand on this and recall the moments. Don't resist as it extracts the memories; you'll retain them, but copies will be preserved for my collection."
The extraction felt like cold fingers riffling through his mind, delicately pulling threads of experience without unravelling the whole. He relived the Hunger Shades' feeding, the sensation of humanity being carved away like diseased flesh. The first moment of contact with the Soulstone, when reality had collapsed into a singular point of absolute darkness.
When it finished, Vaurien cradled the now-glowing sphere with reverent care. "Exquisite. The purity of purpose, the willingness to sacrifice everything for power—it's beautiful in its terrible simplicity."
"The information," Kaelen reminded him.
"Yes, of course. Business before pleasure." The chronicler moved to a specific shelf, fingers dancing across spine after spine before selecting a slim volume bound in what might have been dragon hide. "The Soulstone. Also called the Heart of Shadows, the Null Phoenix, or in certain dead languages, 'That Which Devours Light.'"
He opened the book, revealing pages that seemed to write themselves as he spoke.
"It currently rests in the Sanctum of Sorrows, a fortress-temple built at the convergence of thirteen ley lines of negative energy. Located in the Screaming Peaks, roughly two hundred miles northeast of your current position. Though distance becomes... negotiable in that region."
Maps appeared on the pages, not drawn but emerging like memories becoming solid. The Shadow Knight memorized every detail, noting paths, landmarks, danger zones marked in what appeared to be dried blood.
"The fortress has five levels, each corresponding to a trial. You'll need to pass all five to reach the stone." Vaurien turned pages, revealing architectural diagrams that hurt to look at directly. "The Ghost of Conscience guards the first level. The Mirrors of Truth hold the second. The River of Sorrows flows through the third. The Bone Garden grows in the fourth. And the Null Throne waits at the fifth."
"What are these trials exactly?"
"Tests of commitment. Each one strips away another aspect of humanity, preparing the aspirant for the stone's touch. Most fail at the first or second level; their humanity too strong, their darkness insufficient." The chronicler glanced at Kaelen with those knowing eyes. "Though I suspect you've already passed the hardest part. The Hunger Shades wouldn't have left you functional if you weren't suitable."
Serena leaned in, studying the diagrams. "What about defences? Guardians?"
"The fortress maintains itself. Reality becomes... unreliable within its walls. Guardians are rarely necessary when the architecture itself judges worthiness." Vaurien turned to a page showing twisted corridors that seemed to fold in on themselves. "Though there are stories of previous failures lingering as warnings. The unworthy don't simply die; they become part of the trials."
"How many have claimed the stone?" Kaelen asked.
"In recorded history? Perhaps a dozen. Most who succeed don't remain human long enough to leave records." The chronicler closed the book, sliding it across the desk. "This is yours now: all the accumulated knowledge about the Sanctum and its trials. Use it wisely."
Kaelen took the book, feeling it pulse with subtle warmth. As he touched it, new pages appeared: blank ones waiting to record his own experiences.
"A word of warning," Vaurien added as they prepared to leave. "The trials aren't just tests; they're transformations. Each one changes you irrevocably. Even if you claim the stone successfully, what emerges won't be what entered. Make certain you're willing to pay that price."
"I've already paid everything that matters," the Shadow Knight replied. "What's left is just degrees of damnation."
The chronicler's expression shifted: something between pity and admiration. "Perhaps. But sometimes we discover we have more to lose than we imagined. The trials have a way of finding whatever humanity remains and putting a price on it."
They left through a different door than they'd entered; in the Floating Black Market, geography was negotiable. The exit spilled them onto a hill overlooking a valley where ordinary campfires sparkled like fallen stars. The contrast between the market's chaotic impossibility and the mundane world felt jarring.
"So," Serena said as they oriented themselves. "The Screaming Peaks. I know the region; avoided by everyone with sense. The trials sound... comprehensive."
"You don't have to come." The words surprised him. When had he started caring about her safety?
"And miss watching the infamous Kaelen Dawnblade become something even darker? I think not." Her smile held edges. "Besides, someone needs to chronicle your transformation. Vaurien would pay handsomely for firsthand accounts."
They travelled through the night, the journal's maps proving surprisingly accurate despite the region's reputation for geographical instability. As dawn approached, the landscape began to change. Grass gave way to stone, gentle hills became sharp ridges, and the air itself grew heavy with the weight of ancient sorrow.
"Tell me about your own transformation," Kaelen said as they paused to rest. "You weren't always what you are now."
Serena's expression closed. "That's not a story for daylight. Perhaps when we reach the Sanctum, when darkness seems more natural than light, I'll share it."
"Fair enough."
She studied him with those violet eyes. "You're changing already. The anticipation is affecting you."
"What do you mean?"
"You're asking questions. Showing curiosity about something beyond revenge. When we first met, you were single-minded purpose incarnate. Now..." She gestured vaguely. "Now you're complex again. It doesn't suit you."
Was she right? The Shadow Knight considered his recent thoughts and actions. The healing at Ironhold. The moment of connection with the child Sara. These flickers of humanity he'd thought burned away.
"The trials will fix that," he said finally.
"Will they? Or will they reveal that some things can't be carved away, only buried?" Serena's smile was knowing. "I suppose we'll find out."
The Screaming Peaks rose before them like broken teeth against the sky. Somewhere in their frozen heights waited the Sanctum of Sorrows and the trials that would complete his transformation (or destroy him entirely).
The Shadow Knight touched the toy horse in his pouch, Marcus's memory still warm against the surrounding cold. Whatever humanity remained would soon face its final test. Part of him welcomed it. Part of him (a part he hadn't expected to still exist) wondered what would be left when even these last fragments were stripped away.
The chronicle Vaurien had given him seemed to sense his thoughts. New words appeared on previously blank pages:
"The aspirant approaches. The trials await. Let the final transformation begin."
As if in response, the mountains screamed.