[title]

1

People filled the market. No, not people. Magicians. Fae. Hundreds of species and races flooded the warehouse by the seaside. The subtle crashing of waves backed thousands of voices. Someone, possibly a founder, enchanted the place so it was impossible to hear from outside the rusted chain fence. Every store is unable to have more than two lamps to maintain a shadow of Level Three to allow people to Travel. One of those people is Robin Penbrooke.

She roamed the aisles, searching for a certain stall. A potions stall. A giant-goblin breed shouts something obscene as Robbie shoves past it. A quick confusion spell, muttered under her breath, causes it to forget what had angered it. Finally, she finds what she was looking for. She stops in front of a stall with hundreds of filing cabinets. Though it looked like the go-to store for an office daimon, those cabinets housed the contents of ten apothecaries; potions, bottles, books, ingredients, you name it. Anything concerning magical brewery was stored here.

The owner, Percival, was a man with a kind, wrinkled face and bright green eyes that have seen too much for this lifetime. He had black sideburns, peppered with grey, lining his cheeks.

"What do you have for me today, Parc?"

"Ah, Penbird," he greets, flashing her a smile, "it's good to see you again."

"A pint of dragon's blood, a small bottle of unicorn tears, assorted seeds, and a brew of your choice, please," She ordered, placing a measured bag of coins on the counter.

"My, my, what a large order." he smirks, "I regret to inform you that we're out of small bottles of unicorn tears, you'll either have to upgrade or pick something else."

"I'll take the upsize." She places a couple more coins on the counter.

Percival turns around and snaps. Three cabinets slide in front of him. Gathering the ingredients, he turns around. The cabinets move back to their positions. "As for the potion." he holds out his hand and a medium-sized bottle filled with a shimmering grey liquid (it was slowly changing color) flies out of a drawer to his empty palm. "It's a Saving Throw," He placed the bottle on the counter with a thud.

"Whoa, really?" Saving Throws were extremely rare potions, only traded in Level Eight dark, by the faintest candles. They provided the user with the skill or boost needed for the very moment of consumption. He nodded with lips suppressing a grin and a mischievous, almost playful, glint in his eyes. "Thank you, really. How much do I owe you?" She said, reaching into her pocket.

"No, no, it's on the house."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Of course." he looked up, like a dog who saw movement in the shadows. He hurriedly bagged the other goods and pocketed the golden coins. "You need to leave. Now."

"Wh-"

However, Robin was interrupted by screams such as:

"THEY'RE HERE! THEY'RE HERE!"

"SCATTER, SCATTER!"

"RUNNN!"

Shops disappear in bursts of light and smoke. Those who couldn't afford the Vanishing Stalls are forced to grab their most valuable wares and flee. More screams and other loud noises rip through the air.

"Is it the Force?" Robbie asks.

"It's worse than the Force."

Shadow Demons peel from Level Eight shadows. They don't have forms, they're just the void manifested into vague shapes if that makes sense. They swallow people and products into their inky darkness, transporting them to who-knows-where or killing them instantly, the only difference being a slight mist of blood.