The Market of Sawahil: A Gateway to Shadows

Under a dusty orange sky, where the light seemed dulled by the constant breath of the desert, the narrow street widened as Gharib and Souuhl approached two arches. These modest gates, one larger than the other, stood like weary sentinels guarding the restless chaos of the Sawahil market beyond. The noise from within was a living thing, a rising tide of mingled voices, rough laughter, and the sharp cries of merchants locked in endless barter.

--- "Keep low profile," Gharib murmured, his sharp gaze sweeping across the bustling square ahead.
--- "Wow! We are in operation?" Souuhl asked, his voice carrying a note of innocent excitement.

Gharib didn’t answer. His thoughts were already consumed by the scene unfolding before them.

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The buildings around the market loomed like forgotten sentinels of a bygone age. Some, towering and cylindrical, bore the unmistakable echoes of the Imperial keeps from the First Era. Their flat rooftops were cluttered with rusting antennas and sagging cables, relics of a world that stubbornly refused to collapse entirely. Above, drones and hovering skiffs patrolled lazily, their shadows flickering over the chaos below like restless spirits.

The market itself formed a perfect rectangle, its tightly packed stalls outlining a perimeter around the central plaza. At each corner, imposing watchtowers rose, silent guardians maintaining a fragile semblance of order. But the eye was drawn to the monument at the square’s heart.

The temple stood as a slender, hollow pyramid, rising nearly fifteen meters high. Its base of rose-colored marble was etched with concentric runes, glowing faintly as if charged with some ancient energy. In its core, a spiraling double helix twisted upward, an elegant ladder of impossible craftsmanship. At its peak, a luminous sphere cast a soft, hypnotic glow over the square. An ascending staircase circled the structure, leading to a raised platform that allowed access to the temple’s interior—a place both revered and forbidding.

As Gharib and Souuhl approached the first row of stalls, a glider cut through the air just ahead, forcing them to weave through the dense throng of bodies. The crowd was suffocating, the press of humanity accompanied by the choking haze of dust kicked up by countless restless feet. The stalls themselves overflowed with goods of questionable worth: reconditioned mechanical parts, mutated or recycled foodstuffs, and vegetables painted in unnatural hues of blue, likely grown in gene-tampered soil.

Vendors shouted with desperate fervor, their voices competing with the ceaseless hum of the market. Overhead, hovering skiffs delivered crates and packages to merchants scrambling to restock their wares, their shouts mingling with the gruff negotiations of customers. Everything seemed in perpetual motion, a relentless rhythm beating at the heart of this frenzied humanity.

Gharib stepped ahead of Souuhl, his movements deliberate, calculated. He slipped under the crimson awning of a nearby stall, his eyes fixed on the square with unwavering focus. The air thickened suddenly, charged with tension.

From the sky, an Imperial assault craft descended slowly, its engines humming with quiet menace. It landed behind the temple, its arrival as calm as it was ominous.

Gharib’s expression hardened. Amid the apparent chaos, the unyielding order of the Empire had made itself known. What had been a teeming, defiant market was now a hunting ground. The danger was close—closer than he had hoped.