The sorceress, Vincent, and Darin emerged from the cavern into a bustling market square, vibrant despite the grime and gloom of the lower districts. The air crackled with a cacophony of sounds, vendors hawking their wares, children's laughter, and the rhythmic clanging of metal from a nearby forge.
"Whoa," Darin muttered, eyes wide as he took in the unfamiliar sights and smells. "This place is… a lot."
He'd grown used to the quiet rhythms of village life, waking up to the smell of burnt horseshoes, dodging prophetic lunatics, and occasionally throwing chickens at knights. This sprawling labyrinth of stalls and cobblestone streets felt both exhilarating and overwhelming.
Vincent chuckled, clapping a hand on Darin's shoulder. "Welcome to the capital, Lord Disaster. Try not to get lost in the chaos."
"Stop giving me titles!"
Just then, a brightly colored banner caught Darin's eye. It depicted a rough sketch of his birthmark—horribly distorted and suspiciously exaggerated, emblazoned with the words "I Survived the Chicken Duel!" in bold, looping script. Beneath it, a stall overflowed with wares bearing the same design: tote bags, mugs, even a novelty helmet shaped like a rampaging chicken.
Darin blinked. "What in the…?"
"Looks like your little incident has become quite the legend," the sorceress said dryly, lips twitching with amusement.
A particularly pungent scent wafted toward them, making Darin wrinkle his nose. A vendor, smelling strongly of old socks and burnt sugar—shouted, "Fresh 'Dark Lord' Cookies! Only a silver piece a bag!" He held up a handful of grimy, charcoal-black cookies shaped like vaguely demonic figures.
"Uh…" Darin stammered, an unfamiliar blush creeping up his neck. "Isn't this a bit… over the top?"
Vincent, completely unfazed, shoved a hand-stitched pouch into Darin's hands.
"Come on, Darin. A lord needs souvenirs."
Darin looked down at the pouch, cradling it gingerly.
"This feels…"
"…heavy," he muttered, lifting it up as if surprised by its weight.
The sorceress inclined her head. "Indeed. Seems your fame precedes you, even in the heart of the city."
Vincent grinned. "Don't worry, Darin. It could be worse. Imagine if everyone insisted you carry a sacred chicken wherever you go."
Darin shuddered. "Please, no. Not a chicken."
The sorceress, however, seemed to find the idea deeply amusing.
"Think of it as symbolic," she said with a teasing smirk. "A reminder that even a dark overlord can be… humbled by poultry."
Darin groaned. "Seriously? That's what sticks with you?"
A low growl rumbled behind them.
Darin sighed. "Grumble, stop it."
The shadowy familiar had materialized next to his boot, eyes glowing a menacing orange. He was chewing, rather aggressively—on Darin's bootlace.
"Do try to control him," Vincent said, raising an eyebrow at the feisty creature.
"He's just… excited about the city," Darin muttered, prying Grumble away.
"More like overexcited," the sorceress noted, eyeing the partially consumed bootlace.
Grumble let out a displeased growl before skulking off into the nearest shadow.
"I believe we need disguises," the sorceress declared suddenly, her voice sharp with certainty.
"Disguises?" Darin asked, confused.
"Indeed," she said, scanning the bustling marketplace. "We cannot walk the streets as we are. Especially not you, Darin. People would recognize you instantly."
Darin followed her gaze, taking in the crowded stalls, packed alleyways, and the fact that their group included a shadow creature, a fire-breathing lizard, and Vincent, who could make standing still look like a dramatic stage performance.
"…Yeah, okay, I see your point."
Vincent threw an arm around Darin's shoulder, steering him toward a nearby stall overflowing with colorful fabrics and masks. "Don't worry, Lord Disaster. We have options."
Darin groaned. "I hate your options."
The sorceress surveyed the vendors, her gaze settling on a wizened stall owner clutching a worn leather book. She strode toward him with confidence. "Alaric! My old friend! Still peddling your wares?"
The elderly man looked up, squinting at her with suspicion. "Sorceress. What a surprise. What brings you and your… companions to my humble corner of the market?"
She smiled sharply. "We need disguises."
Alaric's gaze swept over Darin, lingering on his towering frame and, wait, why was his stomach moving?
Darin winced. "…I should probably mention something."
He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a small, snoring dragon curled up against his ribs.
Alaric nearly dropped his book. "Well, I'll be…"
Steve, blinking sleepily, let out a tiny yawn, a plume of smoke billowing up and singing a nearby fabric stall.
Alaric cautiously reached out a fingertip. Steve nuzzled it, then promptly licked him.
His entire hand caught fire.
"My, my," Alaric muttered, calmly patting the flame out on his sleeve. "A very special case, indeed."
Darin sighed. "Yeah. He does that."
"Well then," Alaric said, brushing soot from his fingers. "We'll need a wardrobe adjustment to accommodate your fiery friend."
Grumble, meanwhile, had found something much more interesting—a tray of shimmering gemstones behind Alaric's stall. Without hesitation, he snatched one and scuttled away.
Darin's jaw dropped. "Grumble, no! Give that back!"
Grumble hissed, clutching the gemstone in his claws like a stolen treasure.
Alaric chuckled. "Perhaps a touch of mystique would be helpful."
He sauntered toward a rack of thick, black fabric, emerging with a cloak that shimmered with an eerie inner glow. "Something to conceal your… features. And your dragon. And your kleptomaniac shadow monster."
The sorceress, meanwhile, had snagged a pair of unassuming spectacles from a nearby vendor, holding them up with a smirk. "These should add a touch of scholarly charm."
She handed them to Vincent, who slipped them on, instantly transforming from dramatic nobleman to aloof scholar with questionable morals.
Vincent inspected his reflection in a polished metal tray and smirked. "Excellent. This disguise works."
Alaric held up a squirrel-skin cap with dangling tassels. "And for you," he said to Darin, "a touch of woodland wisdom."
Darin eyed the hat suspiciously. "I'm not wearing that."
Before he could protest further, the sorceress snatched it and plopped it onto his head. "Nonsense, Darin," she said, already pulling him toward the exit. "Embrace your inner woodland creature."
Darin sighed in defeat.
And then, before he could complain about itchy hats or city-wide slander, the sorceress suddenly stiffened, her eyes locking onto a dark figure across the square.
she murmured. "It appears we aren't entirely alone."
Darin followed her gaze.
A slender figure, shrouded in black, their silver mask adorned with intricate swirling patterns, glided toward them.
Vincent's smirk widened. "Ah. My shadow has finally found me."
The figure dipped their head in a respectful bow.
The woman tilted her head slightly, as if listening to some unspoken command. "Lord Vincent," she said, her voice a soft, barely-there whisper. "The Lion awaits."
Vincent's smile widened, though there was something calculating behind it. "Tell the King," he commanded smoothly, "that we have arrived. The Overlord is ready to address him."
Darin choked. "I'm sorry, what?"
The sorceress turned to him with an amused look, tilting her head in mock contemplation. "Such theatrical flair. My, aren't royal court gatherings the absolute worst?" She sighed dramatically. "Always more smoke and mirrors than substance."
Darin scowled. "Yeah, well, I would very much like to avoid smoke, mirrors, and any other illusions that make people think I'm some terrifying dark lord."
Vincent ignored him, straightening the lapels of his disguise. "Let's hope it's not all smoke. Especially with rumors of 'dark magic' running rampant around here." He shot Darin a pointed look. "And considering you insisted on publicly revealing your… fiery companions, perhaps 'hope' shouldn't be our primary strategy."
Darin followed Vincent's gaze to Steve, who was still snoozing in a pile of discarded fabric, a faint halo of heat flickering around his golden snout.
Vincent smirked. "Although, I suppose dragons do tend to attract public interest."
"I highly doubt the king enjoys impromptu fire hazards in his court," the masked woman, Lilith, as Darin had quickly learned—remarked dryly. She lifted a strange pipe to her lips, inhaling a shimmering, iridescent dust that coiled into glowing green smoke.
Darin narrowed his eyes. "And I highly doubt that commenting on the King's tastes is a wise idea in public."
Lilith exhaled the glowing smoke in slow, deliberate spirals, turning her gaze onto Darin as if she were dissecting him with her eyes. "Oh? Overlord?"
Darin pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please don't call me that."
Lilith chuckled darkly, the sound laced with unsettling amusement.
"So this is the infamous 'Overlord' who has caused such a stir in recent weeks?" she mused, voice teasing yet carrying a quiet edge.
Vincent sighed, tapping the silver mask on his chest as if suddenly weary. "Lilith, my dear, must you turn every interaction into a melodramatic confrontation?"
Lilith's voice dropped, laced with something sharper. "I'd hardly classify myself as your dear, Lord Vincent. And I distinctly recall being sent to shadow you, not play audience to whatever ridiculous spectacle you're orchestrating."
Vincent gave her an exasperated look. "Regardless, your presence here is… untenable," he stated flatly. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be." He waved a hand dismissively. "Go. Enjoy the lively ambiance of the market. Buy some Dark Lord tote bags or something."
Lilith's golden eyes flickered with something unreadable as they lingered on Darin for just a moment too long. Then, without a word, she dipped into a sharp, curt curtsy before turning on her heel and vanishing into the crowd with unsettling ease.
Darin blinked. "Did she just—"
"Yes," Vincent sighed, rubbing his temples. "She does that."
Darin exhaled, shaking his head. "Well, that wasn't ominous at all."
Vincent dusted off his disguise, casting a critical look over their group. "We should move. This cloak-and-spectacles charade won't fool people forever."
Darin nodded absently, only to pause as he spotted Steve, who had fully awakened and was currently terrorizing a pigeon across the marketplace. The tiny dragon let out a victorious chirp as the terrified bird flapped away.
"…Steve," Darin groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "We talked about this."
The sorceress let out a low chuckle, watching the pigeon make a hasty escape. "I don't think he listens, Darin."
Steve, completely unrepentant, slinked back to Darin's side with a smug puff of smoke.
Vincent rolled his eyes. "While we're at it, let's skip any flamboyant displays of magic, theatrics, or general stupidity. We want to pass as ordinary citizens, not wandering carnival acts."
Darin muttered something about always being forced to suppress his natural brilliance.
As they moved deeper into the city, following narrow alleys and weaving through throngs of people, Darin couldn't help but feel the weight of unseen eyes on them.
There was something unnerving about the way people whispered as they passed, how conversations seemed to dip into hushed tones just long enough for a name, Overlord, to slip through the murmurs before vanishing again.
Darin shivered.
This place was dangerous.