Breglio and the Merchant of Frozen Voices

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The night was filled with a strange silence as Breglio reached the market. No dog barked, no bird sang, only the clinking of crystal hung in the air. Rows of stalls stood there, but their wares weren't fruit, fabrics, or metals—they were voices trapped in glass. The glasses sparkled in the light of his lantern, each bottle shimmering a distinct color. From some wafted giggles, barely audible, frozen like a drop of frost. Others contained screams that threatened to shatter like ice if one came too close. Above all this strode a man, tall and gaunt, wearing a cloak that shone bluish in the light. His face was as pale as snow, his eyes cold and deep as winter wells. "Welcome, little wanderer," he spoke, but his voice was strangely smooth, as if it weren't his own. "I am the Merchant of Frozen Voices. Whatever you lack, I have it." Breglio put down the lantern and looked past the bottles. Some voices were bright, like children's songs, others dark, like curses. A shiver ran down his spine. "Where do they come from?" The merchant smiled thinly. "Stolen, forgotten, sold. Some give their voices willingly—in exchange for gold, in exchange for memory, in exchange for forgetting. Others I take for myself. Every voice is a gem, and I guard them like treasures." Breglio approached a stall. In a glass, a sound that smelled of summer hovered: a bright, clear girl's voice singing a name. His heart clenched. Voices, he thought, are more than words. They are life. "You want to trade?" The merchant tilted his head. "I see an emptiness in you. Perhaps you are looking for a voice to show you the way?" Breglio narrowed his eyes. "And if I want to give some back instead?" A shadow passed over the man's face. "Give it back? Ha! Voices never return without a price. Those who receive them are changed. Some bring home joy, others guilt, others madness. Yet..." He reached for a shelf and lifted a glass. A scream pulsed within, frozen, blinding white. "I could make you a deal. A name for a voice." Breglio felt the light flicker in his lantern. Inside still lay the name he had recovered in the labyrinth. The merchant had noticed. "Ah... something precious. A name, pure as spring water. Trade it, and you will receive this voice. Perhaps it belongs to someone who seeks you." Breglio was silent. The weight of the decision lay heavy on him. Keeping the name meant preserving a piece of memory. But trading it could give a person back their voice. But to whom? And at what price?