Sarkaz Silk & Steel

The first customer through the door was a Sarkaz woman with a scar that ran from her temple to the corner of her mouth. She wore a soldier's coat, patched at the elbows, and her horns had been filed down to blunt nubs. That meant something. Filing meant she'd been trying to pass, or she'd been captured once and they'd done it for her. I didn't ask. You don't ask questions like that in a shop like mine.

She picked up the Amber Cascade, turned it over in her calloused hands. The glass was smooth, curved like a river stone, with a golden coil suspended inside. When you twisted the base, the coil heated up slow and even. Not enough to burn. Enough to feel like you were holding something alive.

"How much," she said. Not a question. A demand.

"Forty-seven marks."

She put it down. Walked out. I watched her through the window, crossing the street with her hands shoved in her pockets, and I knew she'd be back. They always came back. The soldiers, the refugees, the ones who'd seen too much and needed to feel something that wasn't pain or fear. My shop sat on the edge of a district that didn't have a name anymore, just rubble and tarps and the smell of smoke that never quite washed out of the air. The Sarkaz Civil War had been grinding on for three years. Nobody thought it would end soon. Nobody thought it would end at all.

I named the place The Velvet Gate. Classy enough that people didn't feel dirty walking in. Cheap enough that they could actually buy something.

The shelves were organized by color, not function. Red on the left wall. Blue on the right. Black in the back. I'd learned that people shopped with their eyes first, their hands second, and their brains last. A woman who came in looking for something small and discreet might walk out with the Obsidian Serpent if the light hit it right. The Serpent was a curved length of polished obsidian, cool to the touch, with ridges that spiraled from base to tip. It weighed almost two pounds. I'd sold twelve of them in the last month alone.

The second customer that morning was a young couple. Victorians, by their accents. The man kept touching everything and then pulling his hand back like he'd been burned. The woman was calmer, more deliberate. She picked up the Moonpetal, a pale white vibrator shaped like a flower bud, with petals that unfolded when you pressed the button at the stem. The mechanism was delicate. Too much pressure and you'd snap the hinge. But when it worked, it worked.

"Do you have anything," the woman said, lowering her voice, "that's meant for two people at once?"

I pulled out the Twin Flame. Two identical curves of rose-gold metal, linked by a thin chain. Each piece was shaped to fit against the body, warm to the touch, with a small weight inside that shifted when you moved. The chain was long enough to wrap around a wrist or an ankle. Short enough that you couldn't forget the other person was there.

The man's ears went red. The woman smiled.

I wrapped it in tissue paper, then in brown paper, then in string. I always triple-wrapped. Made the purchase feel important. Like a gift you gave yourself.

The afternoon brought a different crowd. Three Sarkaz men in civilian clothes, but I could see the military bearing in the way they stood. Shoulders back. Eyes scanning. One of them had a fresh burn scar on his neck, still pink and shiny. He didn't look at the merchandise. He looked at the exits.

I kept my hands visible. "Help you find something?"

The one with the scar spoke. "We heard you have things that help with. Pain."

I nodded. Walked to the back shelf. Pulled down the Emberheart. It was a small glass sphere, no bigger than a marble, with a red core that pulsed like a heartbeat. You swallowed it. The warmth spread from your chest outward, slow and steady, and the pain didn't disappear but it moved somewhere else. Somewhere you couldn't find it. The effect lasted about four hours. I'd tested it on myself once, after a bad night, and I'd slept without dreaming for the first time in months.

"How many you got?"

"Seven."

"I'll take all of them."

I didn't ask why. I didn't ask what kind of pain. I just counted the marks and handed over the box. They left without another word.

The shop went quiet after that. I sat behind the counter and cleaned the Dustfall, a glass toy filled with fine silver powder that drifted downward when you tilted it. The motion was hypnotic. Calming. I'd designed it myself, after the first time I saw ash falling from the sky. Some people needed beauty to remember what they were fighting for. Other people needed distraction.

The door opened again just before dusk.

A woman stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the orange light. She was Sarkaz, but not like the others. Her horns were long, curved, polished to a shine. Her coat was clean. Her boots were new. She carried herself like someone who'd never had to run.

She looked around the shop with an expression I couldn't read. Not disgust. Not curiosity. Something in between.

"I'm looking for something specific," she said.

"Tell me what it is."

She walked to the counter. Placed her palm flat on the glass. Leaned in close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something floral. Something expensive.

"Something that makes people forget."

I didn't move. "Forget what?"

She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

"Everything."