A chill wind, thick with the scent of decaying marsh-grass and sodden earth, whipped Veleshka’s threadbare shawl around her shoulders. She shivered, but not from the cold. She stood in the mud haggling with the stallholder, whose wiry frame and suspicious squint were as much a fixture of the Kryvoda market as the perpetual mist that clung to the twisted willow branches. “Fifty zhmen for a handful of marsh-tuber seeds, master? Are these blessed by the Old Gods themselves, or did you pluck them from a golden hen’s nest?” Veleshka chirped, her voice light and airy, laced with a scatterbrained charm she’d meticulously cultivated. Inside, a tight knot of anxiety pulled at her gut. These weren’t just any seeds; they were a rare strain, resistant to the creeping blight, essential for her future, mundane farm. The vendor grumbled, scratching at a patch of peeling skin on his neck. “These are the last of the season, lass. Best you’ll find this side of the Sinking Fens. The Rot’s been particularly cruel to the tubers this year. A fair price for a fair harvest, I say.” Veleshka parted her lips, pushing a stray strand of flaxen hair from her face. “Oh, but grandfather, my poor purse is as barren as the winter fields! Perhaps… forty-five? For your most loyal customer?” She offered a bright, guileless smile, the kind that usually melted the icy resolve of even the most hardened Kryvoda traders. She was a simple seamstress, after all, a bit flighty, easily distracted by a pretty ribbon or a gossipy whisper. No one ever looked twice. Then, a shadow detached itself from the underside of the rickety trestle. It was a low, six-legged creature, sleek as a water-snake, with fur the colour of night and eyes that gleamed with faint, predatory intelligence. Grib, her shadow-mink, emerged, shaking the damp from his pelt. He looked up at Veleshka, a faint chittering sound escaping his snout, and then, with a disturbing lurch, he regurgitated something onto the muddy ground. It was a sphere of pulsing blackness, no larger than a child’s marble. Not merely dark, but absorbing, like a pinpoint of pure void. It twitched, veins of sickly grey webbing spreading across its surface, and then, slowly, a single, unblinking eye opened within the obsidian orb. It was an impossible, crystalline eye, the pupil a vertical slit, and it stared, directly, unsettlingly, at Veleshka. Air scraped dry in her throat. The pleasant mask of the ditzy seamstress shattered, if only for a fraction of a second, in her mind’s eye. Her mouth went dry as pond lime. This eye… this horrific, all-seeing orb… it was a perfect, miniature replica of the obsidian hairpin she had pawned to Grigori, the village’s notoriously unsavoury smuggler, a few moons ago. A memento, she’d told him, of a long-lost love. A lie. It had been a gift, forced upon her, from a being whose very existence now threatened to consume her. *He found the hairpin.* The realization struck her like a physical blow. The Gloam King. Olekshar. It wasn’t just a pretty bauble; it was a tracking device. A dark, insidious link to him. Veleshka forced her features back into a semblance of her usual cheer. “Oh, Grib, you naughty thing! What have you found now, a particularly shiny pebble?” Her voice was a little too high, a fraction too bright. She quickly nudged the eyeball with her worn boot, attempting to obscure it with mud. “Fifty zhmen, lass. Take it or leave it.” The old man's dry rasp cut through her spiralling thoughts. “Yes! Yes, of course, uncle! Fifty zhmen! And… and another twenty for a sprig of those lovely night-blossoms you have, and perhaps… do you know where I might find Grigori? I had a… a lovely little trinket I was hoping to buy back from him. A family heirloom, you see, a little obsidian pin.” She tried to keep her tone light, conversational, as if asking about the weather. The merchant squinted, his gaze lingering on the muddy patch where Grib’s offering had landed. “Grigori? Always down by the old wharf, peddling his illicit wares. But you’ll be needing more than twenty zhmen for anything he’s holding, lass. That man has a taste for fine coin.” “Oh, I’m sure it won’t be much!” Veleshka insisted, already fumbling in her worn purse for the exact amount for the seeds, her hands trembling imperceptibly. Her mind raced. She had to get that hairpin back. It was her only link to him, and if he had activated it, if he knew where she was… A sudden, suffocating downdraft of icy air descended upon the marketplace. It wasn’t the usual marsh mist; this was something far fouler, something that smelled of graves and ancient, dying magic. The Abyssal Rot. It swept through the square, a visible, shimmering miasma that choked the air and stole the colour from the world. A basket of plump, fresh marsh-tubers on a nearby stall instantly shrivelled, turning black and brittle, collapsing into dust. The vibrant greens of the willow leaves along the muddy paths withered, their branches twisting inwards as if in agony. People screamed, a terrified, guttural sound, scattering like startled birds. Vendors abandoned their stalls, their faces contorted in terror. The fog thickened, swirling with an unnatural malevolence. The shadows cast by the sagging stalls and the weeping willows stretched, elongating into razor-sharp claws that scraped against the mud. Grib let out a low, mournful whimper, pressing himself against Veleshka’s leg, his fur bristling. A towering, impossibly tall silhouette detached itself from the weeping willows at the edge of the square. It was a figure born of nightmare, composed of shifting shadows and an oppressive, crushing presence that sucked the warmth from Veleshka’s very bones. Two pinpricks of glowing, predatory crimson light flared in its obscured face, locking onto her. The world tilted. The air thrummed with a dark, possessive power. A voice, familiar and chillingly resonant, whispered through the thick, foul mist, a sound that caressed her name like a forgotten prayer, yet promised eternal damnation. “Found you, my runaway bride.”

The Obsidian Mistake