The alleys of the lower district stank of damp stone, piss, and stale smoke. Seth’s boots echoed in the narrow corridor, his crimson eyes glowing faintly under the hood of his cloak. His presence made street urchins scurry away and beggars lower their heads, sensing an aura they wanted nothing to do with.
He was heading for one place.
The Black Market’s old trading den.
The same den where he’d once sold Demon items for coin. The same den where the merchant—greasy hair, snake smile—had looked him in the eye and promised discretion.
Seth’s jaw clenched. “So much for promises.”
He reached the door, the same rotting wood reinforced with metal strips. Two guards stood at either side, their eyes lazy until they noticed him.
“You here to trade?” one asked, squinting.
Seth’s smile was cold.
