The open-air market buzzed with late-afternoon energy, but Nyota walked through it like a shadow out of place—silent, measured, and unnoticed.
The scent of grilled vegetables and spiced bread drifted through the aisles, mixing with the occasional clang of metal from a blacksmith's tent and the laughter of children chasing each other between merchant carts. Sunlight pooled between striped canopies, catching on bright fabrics and glinting baubles. But Nyota's gaze drifted past the noise, toward a smaller vendor stand tucked between two overflowing produce carts.
It wasn't the most eye-catching display—just a wooden table lined with trinkets, all modest in craftsmanship. Yet something about it slowed his steps. He stopped in front of the vendor, who was too busy bartering with an older woman to notice him. On the table, amidst an array of charms, pins, and thin chains, one particular piece caught Nyota's eye.
A pendant.
Oval-shaped. Inlaid with a faded silver sheen, reflecting a full moon framed by a scatter of stars.
He reached out, brushing his fingers across its surface. The metal was cool, rough at the edges, imperfect. But it shimmered gently when tilted into the light. He imagined it attached to the end of his katana's hilt—dangling slightly, catching moonlight as he moved. Not for function. For memory.
His hand hovered, uncertain.
"It's like the moon decided to rest in your palm," a voice said, breaking his quiet reverie.
Nyota turned to find a young man standing next to him, studying the pendant with a thoughtful expression. The man was dressed similarly—both wore long coats over dress shirts, boots, and had their katanas sheathed on their backs. But where Nyota's coat bore blue lines running down the sides, marking him as a spy, the stranger's coat was edged in crimson, signifying his affiliation as a Red Stone assassin.
The stranger shifted his gaze to Nyota, eyes sharp, yet warm, as if he were already measuring the weight of something unsaid. "It's more than just a simple trinket, you know. It has meaning."
Nyota blinked, unsure of how to respond. It wasn't often someone saw so deeply in such a casual setting. But before he could think further, the stranger continued, reaching for another pendant on the table. A sleek black charm shaped like an eclipse, its edge rimmed with faint bronze.
He held it up to the light. "I tend to favor the eclipse. The moment when light and shadow meet," he mused, turning the pendant between his fingers. "A balance between opposing forces. It's fitting for a blade."
He paused, glancing over his shoulder toward the katana slung across his back, its hilt just visible beneath the sweep of his coat. "This one'll do nicely," he murmured with a satisfied nod. "A solid addition. A reminder that nothing is ever just one thing."
With a sly grin, he bumped Nyota with his elbow and added, "Not even the moon."
What is he going on about? Nyota blinked, trying to keep up.
He shifted his gaze, following the man's line of sight to the weathered katana resting on his back.
A fellow swordsman.
There was a certain calmness about him, an ease that suggested years of experience, but Nyota didn't ask about it. There was something about the way the stranger held himself that made him more than just another swordfighter.
Nyota remained unresponsive, simply nodding his head before turning his eyes back to the moon and star pendant on the vending display.
The vendor finally glanced over, offering them both a curt nod.
"That'll be five Liraen each," he muttered, eyes back on his haggling customer.
Without a word, Nyota set a few Liraen down and claimed his pendant. The man in crimson mirrored the gesture, his eclipse charm disappearing into a coat pocket.
They hadn't planned to walk together—yet their steps fell into rhythm as if they had.
Side by side, they drifted through the narrow veins of the market. Their pace was unhurried, their silence a quiet counterpoint to the chorus of shouting vendors, haggling voices, and the hum of a thousand tangled intentions.
"Moon and eclipse," the fellow swordsman said after a while. "Seems fitting."
Nyota brought his gaze everywhere but him. "You think so?"
"I mean," the young man continued, "you picked clarity. Reflection. I picked tension. Overlap. Maybe that says something about how we see the world."
Nyota tilted his head slightly, the pendant still in his palm. "Or maybe it just says we like shiny things."
A soft laugh escaped the stranger. "That too. But isn't that the same thing? Clarity, tension—shiny things that distract us from what's underneath."
Nyota glanced over at him, studying his expression. "So what's underneath you, then?"
The young man smirked, not looking his way. "Ask me on a quieter day."
They walked a few more paces in silence before Nyota spoke again, eyes narrowing slightly. "You talk like someone with a point to make."
"I do," the other said simply. "I just don't always know what it is until I hear myself say it."
Nyota stopped short, brow raised. "I'm sorry—who are you again?"
The man finally turned to face him fully, one brow lifted in return. "Depends on who's asking. But if it helps—someone who's always been more interested in the edges of things than the center."
The cryptic answer landed with a curious weight in Nyota's chest—enough to keep him from walking away.
They came upon a stone fountain tucked between two clusters of vendors, its basin wide and shallow, fed by a gentle trickle of water that softened the clamor of the market. The fountain's edges were worn smooth by time, its rim dappled with moss and coins that glimmered beneath the surface. Without a word, they sat. The breeze tugged at the hems of their coats, the red and blue lines stitched along their sides catching the light like quiet flames.
As they settled, their katanas shifted—Nyota reached over his shoulder and unfastened his, laying it carefully beside him on the stone rim. Its presence felt deliberate, a quiet gesture of openness or perhaps caution. By contrast, the stranger—Malik—let his own katana hang casually across his back, untouched, as if it belonged there, part of him. The hilts of both blades caught the daylight, glinting like mirrored warnings.
The young man in crimson spoke first.
"How long have you carried it?"
Nyota glanced over, brows pinching in curiosity.
He nodded toward Nyota's side. "The blade, I mean."
"About half a year now," Nyota replied, fingers brushing the sheath lightly.
"Only? Huh. I mean, I guess it figures. The hilt still looks brand new."
"I'm surprised you can tell." Nyota offered a faint smile. "My late mentor got it for me. Passed not too long ago. Ever since then, it's been my most prized possession."
The young man leaned back slightly, arms braced against the rim of the fountain. His gaze drifted to the sky, then to the water below.
"A good sword's more than steel," he said. "It's proof you've survived something. Maybe even someone."
Nyota looked down at the katana resting beside him, fingertips brushing its sheath. He thought of the day Jora placed it in his hands—how it had felt too heavy, too noble, too final. A gift meant for someone older, braver, steadier. Not for a boy still trying to figure out which way was forward.
But Jora had believed in him. And now Jora was gone, killed by Elwin and left cold and still outside the same halls where he used to laugh and teach. And above Elwin, watching from her polished throne of silence—Noriko.
He swallowed.
Proof I've survived.
Nyota tilted his head. "How about you?" He nodded toward the stranger's blade. "What's the story behind yours?"
A crooked smile ghosted across the young man's lips.
"Let's just say... Working in the military's no joke. My katana, it's seen things I haven't quite forgiven myself for."
Nyota huffed a breath. "So it's not just a weapon to you."
He shook his head. His tone softened, honest beneath the cool edge of his words. "No. It's a mirror I get to swing."
They both chuckled lightly, the kind of laugh shared by people who weren't sure they were joking.
The sound was swallowed by the bustle around them.
Nyota shifted, turning toward him more fully. "You said your katana's seen things you haven't forgiven yourself for. What did you mean by that?"
The other man didn't answer right away. He tapped the hilt of his katana again, eyes fixed on the shifting ripples in the fountain's basin.
"A blade remembers everything," he said at last. "Even when you try to forget. Especially then."
He sat forward a little, elbows on his knees, coat folding with the motion.
"Some memories, they don't live in your head anymore. They live in the muscles. In reflexes. You draw the sword, and you draw everything that came before it."
He paused.
"And sometimes… that's the heaviest part of carrying one."
Nyota studied him—this quiet swordsman who spoke like he was translating weight into words. His expression didn't shift much, but something in the set of his shoulders, in the way his hands lingered restlessly on the fountain, betrayed a history Nyota could only guess at.
The market clamor continued around them, yet the moment felt suspended. As if the sounds dulled at the edges, like a song fading behind a closed door.
Nyota looked away, letting his eyes follow the movement in the crowd. A vendor had caught a young boy with sticky fingers, a half-bitten fruit in his hand. The man barked something stern, but the child only laughed and darted off, vanishing between clusters of legs and woven baskets. The vendor sighed, then smiled faintly to himself as he returned to his stall.
A small part of Nyota envied the boy's freedom—the ease with which he slipped through the world unnoticed. Unburdened.
His gaze drifted back to the fountain's surface.
"You ever wish you could disappear into a crowd like that?" he asked quietly. "No weight. No name. Just... noise."
The other man didn't look at him. His gaze stayed out into the distance, unreadable.
"I used to," he said. "But when no one's looking for you... disappearing stops feeling like freedom."
The words lingered, heavier than the breeze. Nyota turned his head, watching him more closely now—studying not just his silhouette but the quiet grief woven into it. "You've been alone a while."
There was no denial. Just stillness.
Then, after a long beat—so soft it almost drowned in the fountain's trickle—
"How does it feel to have people who care about you?"
Nyota blinked, the question catching him off guard. It was like the air between them thickened, carrying something raw, something that shouldn't have been so easy to ask.
"It still takes some getting used to," he replied, his voice quieter than he intended. It was honest, though. The weight of it surprised him, but it was true.
He hadn't been alone—not really. There had always been faces, hands that reached for his, voices that called him back when he drifted too far. But even surrounded, he'd carried things no one else could hold. Pain that didn't have language. Self-imposed expectations that never loosened.
So now, when kindness came without warning, when people stayed even after seeing the fractures—it still felt strange. Not unwelcome. Just... delicate.
Like something he was still learning not to flinch from.
The words hung in the air between them.
A faint smile flickered across the other's face. "From our short conversation, I don't know whether or not I should have expected that answer."
Nyota let out a soft laugh, though it was more a sigh than anything else. The irony wasn't lost on him. Even in this brief exchange, the stranger had already pieced together something about him—something true, and yet still difficult to admit aloud.
He glanced away, the noise of the market fading into a distant echo rather than a present distraction. The moment settled into a quiet lull. Neither of them spoke as a breeze passed through, lifting the ends of their coats—blue-lined and red-lined—fluttering like mirrored flames.
"Well, I've got to go," Nyota said, rising to his feet. "I'm meeting some friends. I never did get your name."
The swordsman stood with him, letting out a low chuckle. "Right, right... you do need that."
Nyota extended a hand. "I'm Nyota. Nyota Atar."
The red-striped agent met it with a firm grip, his calloused palm warm against Nyota's. A bright, easy smile lit up his face.
"I'm Malik. Malik Enola. Pleased to meet you."