The Night Market is a monthly serialised novella set around a traveling, interdimensional bazaar that appears only under moonlight, in forgotten corners of the world.
By dawn, the Market vanishes—reappearing somewhere new, always one step ahead of unseen danger. Within its lantern-lit stalls, anything can be bought or sold, from impossible wonders to secrets best left buried.
At the heart of the Market is Vireya “Vee” Thorne, a sharp-witted, skeptical former thief now serving as a fixer and “Problem Unraveler” for the Council of Stalls. Bound to the Market by an unresolved debt and invisible obligations she barely understands, Vee navigates disputes, dangers, and bargains that defy reality itself.
As each episode unfolds, fragments of Vee’s shadowed past surface alongside unsettling truths about the Market’s real purpose. For something ancient is hunting it—feeding on secrets, unraveling protections, and threatening to unmake the Night Market forever.
Episode 1: The Tooth Fairy
The Night Market had taken root tonight in a place that barely remembered its own name — the shattered husk of an old amphitheatre, half-swallowed by vines and sleep. Moonlight dripped down like candle wax through broken arches. Stalls bloomed like exotic fungi in the mossy cracks of the stone floor, each humming with strange life. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that made even laughter feel borrowed.
Episode 2: Salt & Sorrow
The brine trail began at the edge of the glassblower’s stall and slithered down the stone like a slug’s ghost. Vee Thorne crouched to inspect it, the dark hem of her coat brushing the salted cobbles. A soft hiss rose from the moisture—faint, but wrong somehow. Not steam. Not melt. A sound like a sigh released from between clenched teeth. She touched the residue with a gloved finger.
Episode 3: The Bone Clock
The man stumbled into the Market like he’d been poured out of a shattered hourglass. Vee Thorne caught sight of him from her perch above the gate, where rust-colored vines bloomed with waxy clock flowers. One moment, the southern arch stood empty but for the usual trickle of spice-vendors and scrap peddlers. The next, Jonas Kett lurched into existence.