The obsidian gleam in Silas’s eyes hadn’t been entirely deceptive; the memory shard he offered – a fleeting image of a rain-slicked street, a laughing child with hair the color of burnt cinnamon, and a hand, strikingly similar to my own, reaching out – felt undeniably real. But the relief was short-lived. The instant the image solidified in my mind, a palpable shift occurred in the market’s atmosphere. The hushed whispers intensified, becoming a low, ominous hum that vibrated in my bones. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, a sense of impending danger that prickled my skin.

Silas, his usual nonchalance replaced by a grim alertness, grabbed my arm. “They know,” he hissed, his voice barely audible above the market’s drone. “They know you’ve touched it.”