The Marketplace of the Dead was…aptly named. The first thing that struck me was how alive it felt for a place that by all accounts shouldn’t have been. Lanterns of pale green flame floated like lazy fireflies above stalls cobbled together from bone, rusted metal, and old carriage parts. The air smelled faintly of incense, dust, and something like wet stone.

  I saw buskers playing strange instruments made from hollowed femurs and stretched spirit-silk strings. Merchants hawked soul-candles and carved gravewood trinkets. And—most jarring—children. Dozens of them. Laughing, running, playing with hoops or marbles or masks far too large for their little hands.

  The thought hit me hard: these had once been actual children. Living. Breathing. Loved by someone who had wanted more for them than…this. The ache lingered in my chest like a bruise.

  Before I could dwell too long, someone blocked my path.

  A tall figure loomed over me—some bizarre mixture between a wallaby and a turkey. He had long, powerful hind legs, feathery arms, and a beak curved like a hook. His eyes were huge and glossy, blinking independently like a chameleon’s.

  “Yo!” he barked. His voice was oddly cheerful, like a surfer greeting a friend at the beach. “Living Tree Boy!”

  I blinked. “Uh—”

  “Mask!” he insisted, thrusting something into my hands. “Wear a mask! C’mon, brah. One of the rules! Mandatory! Serious.”

  He tapped his own face—well, the mask covering his face. It was carved from smooth stone, painted in bright swirls that looked like graffiti.

  “You’re a fleshie! Er…” He squinted at me. “Barkie? Branchie? Eh, close enough. Point is—you’re alive, and livers gotta wear a mask, or the Faceless’ll steal your face, brah!”

  My bark creaked under my skin as I swallowed. “The…Faceless?”

  “Yeeep.” He nodded so hard his feathers rustled. “They creep around jusssst under the veil. Real shy types until they see a bare face. Then WHOOP—no more face for you! They snatch it right off like a peel, brah! Not permanent though. Usually. Maybe. I dunno.” He shrugged. “Look, I’m not a doctor.”

  Feeling the growing weight of eyes—or lack thereof—I nodded quickly and slipped the mask on.

  It was plain white porcelain, blank except for two narrow eye cutouts. No nose. No mouth. No decoration. It felt cold against my wooden skin, and somehow heavier than it should have been. Like it wasn’t sitting on my face but holding it.

  The turkey-wallaby gave me a thumbs-up with a feathery hand.

  “Sweet! Now you blend in. Mostly. Kinda.” He leaned closer. “Just don’t run, don’t scream, don’t bleed, and don’t die. Faceless are real jelly of that last one.”

  “I…see,” I managed.

  He slapped my shoulder with surprising force. “Cool! Have fun, Tree Boy! Don’t buy anything that screams at you! Or promises immortality! Or asks for your name twice! Marketplace rule of thumb!”

  With that cryptic burst of enthusiasm, he hopped away with an oddly buoyant spring to his step, tail feathers bobbing behind him.

  I exhaled, the sound echoing oddly inside the porcelain mask.

  Right.

  Mask on.

  Face safe—supposedly.

  Time to find a broker.

  The first place I checked was… well, bluntly put, it looked exactly like every major chain bank back home. The ones that rented out half a glass building downtown, all sterile shine and corporate personality theft. Even the outside had that same soulless modern architecture: polished stone, too many reflective windows, and that faint aura of “We own your debt and your spine.”

  Seeing it in the Marketplace of the Dead was somehow worse.

  Walking inside didn’t help.

  The floor was polished stone—marble-like but darker, almost smoky, and veined with flickers of pale blue light that pulsed like veins. The directory screens glowed faintly, showing labeled floors in neat serif fonts. And the people—er, ghosts? Clients? Souls?—were dressed like tellers, loan specialists, or corporate security. Business skirts and suits. Tactical vests. Dark ties. Combed-back hair.

  And they moved with that same disconcerting corporate synchronicity, the kind that said our individuality has been thoroughly crushed and replaced with pleasant customer service efficiency.

  “Okay…” I muttered. “This is… creepy.”

  “If it’s because this place looks like it would back home,” came a voice beside me, calm and professional, “it’s because it’s supposed to.”

  I turned.

  The receptionist—Beatrice—was a woman who looked solid at first glance, but when she shifted slightly beneath the lamp, her shadow stuttered, as though caught between frames. Her skin was faintly translucent, like glass with a thin layer of frost. But she smiled with the precise warmth of someone trained to make customers feel at ease.

  “Hi,” she continued pleasantly. “I’m Beatrice. Welcome to Stockton and Wells, where we find the right coin, contract, or collateral for you. What brings you in today?”

  “Uh… well…”

  My mind promptly threw all words out the nearest window.

  Beatrice didn’t miss a beat.

  “Let me guess, judging from the lack of Magia, Excellia, and… confidence?” she said, the last part with a polite customer-service smile. “You’re here to find a broker for a Pact?”

  “That’s right,” I said, nodding quickly. The mask made the motion feel heavier somehow.

  “Excellent.” Beatrice’s smile widened just enough to be comforting without reaching uncanny valley levels—though given she was possibly undead, maybe it already was uncanny valley. “You’ll want the second floor. Take the…” She paused, eyes flicking to the left as if searching for a word that didn’t exist. “Take the elevator up.”

  “The elevator,” I echoed. I hadn’t seen one, but I wasn’t about to question whatever eldritch OSHA regulations they had down here.

  “You want room 291,” she continued. “Ask for Allixztra. She’s one of our best. Specializes in Haunting Pacts and Shikigami arrangements. Very… accommodating.”

  “Accommodating” sounded like one of those corporate euphemisms that meant either pleasant or terrifying, no in-between.

  “Thank you, Beatrice,” I said with a small wave.

  She returned it with a practiced gesture, her fingers briefly glitching into a faint blur before snapping back into place.

  “Have a wonderful afterlife—ah, visit,” she corrected smoothly. “And please enjoy your experience with Stockton and Wells.”

  I stepped away from the desk, still unsure whether I had just talked to a ghost banker, a demon consultant, or a very well-trained corpse.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Honestly…

  This was starting to make the Faceless seem like the least weird thing down here.

  ***

  Allixztra was… terrifying.

  Not “boo, spooky.”

  Not “creepy doll in the corner.”

  More like if someone took C’thulhu, sprinkled in a truckload of eyes, added Jessica Rabbit’s silhouette, and then hit blend with the enthusiasm of a bored smoothie bar employee.

  She kind of had the outline of a woman, sure. But that was where the normal ended.

  Her dress rippled like living ink. Her hair was a mess of tentacles that moved like they were browsing for snacks. And her arms—and shoulders—and, honestly, random patches of her body—were dotted with eyes blinking at me like a judgmental audience.

  Some of the eyes seemed disappointed. Some were amused. One of them winked at me. She smiled, a slow, sultry curve that would’ve been attractive if she wasn’t also… an existential crisis trying on evening wear.

  In short: She looked like a cosmic-horror pinup poster someone made for a magazine that definitely should not exist.

  “Yes, yes, get the staring done,” Allixztra said, flicking a hand tipped with too many fingers. Her voice slid across the room like silk pulled over glass shards. “I know I won’t win any beauty pageants among ANY mortal race of the living. Spare me the shock, awe, revulsion—whatever cocktail of emotions your brain is having right now. Ultimately, I’m known for results.”

  One of her larger eyes blinked horizontally while a smaller one blinked vertically.

  “I don’t sugarcoat things. I won’t pet your ego, coddle your fears, or tell you comforting lies. I will tell you—honestly and brutally—your options. But first, you’ll need to consent to a spell.”

  She raised a hand. Three eyes on her palm blinked at me.

  “I swear,” she continued, “on my authority, my domain, and on the binding laws of this Marketplace, that all knowledge gained is strictly confidential. Even if some fool tries to rummage through my memories—and doing so is extremely unwise for reasons we both can contemplate—they would see only that you were a client. Nothing more.”

  “What’s the spell in question?” I asked, straightening slightly.

  “Was getting to that.” Her lips—plural—curled faintly. “For starters: it will allow me to see your memories. Your choices. The real shape of you. While you could lie to me verbally, this spell will not permit such obfuscation. It will also let me skim past your false memories, misremembered events, and all the little ways mortals rewrite their past without realizing it.”

  I swallowed. “And the reason for all that is…?”

  “To find a spirit that will haunt you optimally,” she said. “To bind with you in the way Shikigami bonds demand, I need to know who you truly are. I have legions of the dead and the damned at my disposal. Some were sinners. Some were saints. Most were simply people—flawed, frightened, hopeful, hateful, everything in between.”

  Dozens of her eyes blinked in slow sync, like an organism breathing.

  “In death, I serve as the matchmaker,” she said. “I must pair you with the spirit whose unfinished threads align with your living ones. If the pairing is wrong, your power will stutter and fail… or worse, you’ll be devoured.”

  I froze.

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Statistically rare. Mostly.”

  A beat passed.

  “What benefit do you—and by extension, they—get out of this pact?” I asked.

  “Well, to be blunt, I get very little.” She shrugged with four shoulders. “A trickle of authority. Tiny. Insignificant individually—similar to your Sphere generating Sphere Points. Each pact barely registers. But if I do this on a mass scale…”

  “All those decimals add up,” I said.

  She grinned—wide, too wide. “Precisely.”

  “And the spirits?” I pressed.

  “They receive purpose. A direction to funnel their lingering will. A tether back to existence. Some want redemption. Some want revenge. Some simply want to be remembered. A pact gives them that—through you.”

  She straightened, every eye focusing.

  “After I view your memories, I will give you three options. Each will be a spirit who aligns with your history, your temperament, your potential, and your… proclivities, as mortals like to call them. You will choose one. And the pact will only finalize when you name them.”

  “Name them?”

  “Yes. Name. Identity. Recognition. That is the last binding thread.” Allixztra steepled her fingers. “Name them incorrectly and they may reject you. Name them reflexively, impulsively, authentically—then the pact will hold.”

  I exhaled slowly. “I… think I understand. How should I prepare for you to read my mind?”

  All sixty-eight of her eyes swiveled toward me at once.

  In unison, their irises dissolved into velvety black voids. Black so deep it had depth. Black that felt like falling.

  Her voice, when it came, was no longer silky—just inexorable.

  “Just. Don’t. Move.”

  ***

  I didn’t know how much time had passed before Allixztra finally leaned forward and tapped me lightly on the forehead. Even her gentle touch felt like the brush of a storm—feather-soft, but brimming with things too vast to name.

  “Okay. So. This is going to be… unique.” She exhaled, placing a hand over her chest as if centering herself. “I solemnly swear, upon the Words of Power that be, to not reveal that Morgan Barlow is one of the few Bearers of this world. I also swear—in addendum—that if Morgan Barlow requires any assistance with pacts, negotiations, or contracts, he may summon me with no fees or expectations attached… by pressing a hand to his chest and willing me there.”

  The air tightened. Her voice became layered—like several speakers, several worlds, uttering the exact same vow in perfect unison. Something ancient accepted the oath, locking it in place with a force that felt like a tectonic plate shifting.

  A pulse of pressure rolled off her, washing through me. My teeth ached. My bones buzzed.

  “You uhh… had a lot of memories to sift through,” Allixztra said, panting lightly. “On account of the gemstone hidden beneath that glove of yours. My apologies. It took a while.”

  She looked genuinely winded—impressive, given who she was.

  “I only found one suitable memory. One spirit that fits you and what you’re reaching for.”

  From the folds of reality—because she certainly wasn’t limited to pockets—she withdrew a small stone statue. A female warrior, clad in steel plate. Rapier in one hand. A modern pistol in the other. Red liquid—like crystallized blood forced back into motion—trickled from her eyes and wept from thin cracks running along the stone.

  “That,” Allixztra said softly, almost reverently, “is a bound specter. A Petrified Valkyrie. It was the only one willing to answer my call for you.”

  “Are you being honest with me?” I asked, searching her alien features.

  “Completely.” She straightened, expression sharpening. “Morgan, the vows I just made basically make me your contracted familiar. I couldn’t lie to you if I tried. I don’t owe you combat or servitude, but I am now your… public-accountant-of-the-arcane, to put it in your terms. You need to understand: Bearers are a big deal. Huge. I had to find a spirit loyal enough to withstand your gem’s pull, one uninterested in tearing you apart for it, and one that wouldn’t instantly reject you.”

  “And how do I know this one won’t?” I asked, gesturing to the statue.

  Allixztra pointed behind me.

  “She isn’t in the statue. That’s just a representation. She’s right there.”

  I turned—and my throat clicked in a dry, involuntary swallow.

  The Petrified Valkyrie stood silently behind me. Beautiful. Tragic. Her stone-gray skin shimmered with fine dust motes, but there were no cracks spilling blood here—only streaks of crimson tears drying beneath her eyes. The rapier remained, now gleaming faintly despite the room’s dimness. In her other hand, not a pistol but a lantern—old, wrought iron, and full of shifting red light that breathed like a living heart.

  May I have my name? a woman’s voice whispered inside my mind—calm, disciplined, utterly unwavering.

  “So… how do I know she won’t betray me?” I asked, feeling the weight of her presence like a statue poised to move.

  I swear eternal loyalty to the legions of my lord, the voice echoed, kneeling somewhere inside my skull. May my lord bless me with this one’s name?

  Allixztra smiled thinly. “Because Petrified Valkyries don’t choose twice. Once one responds, they bind themselves beyond temptation or treachery. If a Shikigami candidate has one available, it’s almost always the only viable option. Their loyalty is… absolute.”

  I inhaled, the decision already made. The name rose up from some instinct, something older than thought.

  “Sophitia,” I said. “Your name is Sophitia.”

  The moment the syllables left my tongue, the world ruptured.

  Power—raw, staggering, ancient—slammed through me like a lightning strike through water. My knees nearly buckled. Heat and stone and memory poured into my spine. A ringing metallic cry—like a sword drawn across the bones of the universe—echoed inside my skull. The lantern in Sophitia’s hand flared and then collapsed into a single, blazing red star.

  Her oath surged into me. My oath to her formed instinctively, pulled from depths I didn’t know existed.

  For a heartbeat, I wasn’t Morgan Barlow.

  I was a Bearer.

  I was a Shikigami.

  I was a Sovereign.

  And something in the world recognized me.

  Sophitia kneeled, head bowed. The lantern dimmed into a steady pulse.

  And the power settled—quiet, warm, waiting.

  Ready to answer.