Finding the Inkwell Prophet was not so much a matter of looking as it was a matter of being looked at by something older than ink.
"This way," Groat muttered, vibrating with uncanny glee in Rue's pocket. "Follow the stall that smells like punctuation and shame."
They moved through aisles that seemed to rearrange themselves when no one was looking. Rainclouds followed specific vendors like loyal pets. One woman argued with a teacup that insulted her in fluent Morse code. A child traded their own voice for a pet storm. Valeight, as always, never made sense—and the Bazaar of Forgetting even less.
Monsieur Loup trailed behind with a swaggering slouch, juggling three marbles that whispered secrets in reverse Latin. "I am starting to feel like we are inside a novel that has lost its author," he said cheerily.
Ashwen was quiet. Again. Rue noticed. Again.
Finally, they reached the umbrella stall. Above it, a cracked sign read: WEATHER TO GO. Each umbrella hung upside-down, catching distant climates: snowfall, desert breeze, a tempest from a shipwreck memory.
Behind the stall stood a curtain of black vellum. Loup, perhaps sensing the dramatic tension, bowed low and peeled it back.
The Inkwell Prophet was not a man. Not anymore. He was a swirl of ink encased in glass bones. A face floated in his fluid chest cavity, distorted and ever-shifting like a reflection that didn't belong to you.
"We come for a memory," Ashwen said before anyone else could speak. Her voice cracked the air like cold iron.
The Prophet stirred. His body rippled with inky script, ancient dialects, symbols Rue couldn't recognize. He poured his reply not with voice but action—reaching behind his pulpit and producing a lantern. Within it floated a swirl of misty gray, pulsing like a sleeping thought.
Groat spoke for him. "The Prophet says: This is the memory you seek. Pilgrim Jax's recollection of Ilyan's death, brief and fragmented, sealed for trade."
Rue eyed it suspiciously. "What's the cost?"
A ripple in the Prophet's glass skull. Groat translated. "One truth. Yours."
Ashwen stepped forward. "Take mine."
"Wait—" Rue began, but the transaction had already begun.
Ink tendrils wrapped around Ashwen's arm, crawling to her temple. The Prophet's chest filled with an image—Ashwen, younger, standing before a burned-down house, holding a blade that dripped only with regret. Then it faded.
The lantern floated to them. Rue took it reverently.
"We should leave before he wants interest," muttered Loup, his accent thickening as if defending him from the seriousness of the moment.
The Bazaar had begun to hum. Something in the ground. A vibration. A pulse.
They turned to go.
Behind them, the Prophet whispered in a language none of them spoke. Not even Groat.
Outside the Bazaar, as the sky stitched itself back into coherence, Ashwen staggered.
Rue caught her. "What did you give up?"
Ashwen didn't answer immediately. Then, softly: "The reason I started all this. I don't remember it anymore."
Loup clapped once. "Well, mes amis, now we are all even more dysfunctional. Shall we go pretend we know what to do next?"
Groat chimed in. "Find someone who can validate Ilyan's absence. A rogue witness. Someone illegal enough to remember what others want to forget."
Rue tucked the lantern inside her coat. "Where do we find someone like that?"
Loup's smile widened. "I know a tavern where the drinks forget you before you pay."
Ashwen nodded, faint but present. "Then let's drink. And remember why we're still here."
The city of Valeight turned its many eyes away. The Bazaar whispered. And far above, a seam in the sky blinked.