Alaric disappeared somewhere to my left. Jasira and Gideon were talking to a fruit vendor, their voices muffled.
Suddenly, I was alone.
The crowd pressed in, a suffocating embrace of bodies and booming music, yet I felt a profound, chilling solitude.
My throat tightened.
I turned sharply down a narrow path between vendors, my heart pounding.
The primary thoroughfare unfurled in a wild tangle of stalls, canopies, and painted stands. Vendors shouted over each other in multiple tongues, hawking fruit, perfume, spices, beads, and bottles of glittering oil that caught the sun like molten fire.
Incense drifted from stone censers, smoke curling like pale fingers toward the blue sky. Banners snapped. Coinsclinked. Laughter rose. Unfamiliar music played on stringed instruments. Color, sound, and touch greeted me at every step.
It was more than I could handle.
I passed a table where gold-flecked shells shimmered like stars. Someone offered me a cube of candied ginger. A hand brushed my back. Another touched my hair. Compliments chased me in every direction.
“So fair! Are all northern girls like snow and roses?”
“Pretty little bones under all that fabric, I bet. Shame to keep ‘em hidden.”
“That mouth looks like it’s used to saying no, but I’d love to hear it say yes.”
I lowered my head, my hands attempting to fend them off.
I was still bleeding, not externally, but internally. I could still hear Riven’s voice. I could still feel Erindor’s blood on my hands. And here, in this place of sunlight and jewels, I was nothing more than an oddity. A pale doll from the mountains.
A woman tried to wrap a gold-dusted scarf around my shoulders. “This shade matches your hair,” she said with a smile.
I backed away. “Oh, no, thank you. I don’t want it.”
She blinked, surprised. “It’s not for want of trying, girl. It’s for being.”
Her words stuck, like something half-prophetic, but I ignored her, walking away as swiftly as I could.
I searched for Erindor’s face, or Jasira’s laugh, or Gideon’s shape, but they were gone, lost in the crowd. I wasn’t far from them, probably. But it felt like an entire world had unfolded between us.
This was something I wasn’t meant for. Not the noise. Not the color. Not the attention. Not the pretending.
My pulse thundered. My feet moved without asking permission. I turned onto a quieter lane where the stalls dwindled, and the voices faded.
There, beyond a curve of white stone, a small awning stood in shadow.
It was the only place that didn’t shine.
I nearly wept when the noise dulled.
The alley curved behind a row of closed shutters, and suddenly the world softened. No shouting, no bright silk, no clinking coin or perfume. Muted light and the hush of worn stone underfoot.
I followed the scent until I saw the stall.
They tucked it beneath an old wooden overhang, shaded with fronds of woven sea grass. Petals dusted the floor in soft confetti, not the kind that glittered, but the kind that fell. Natural, wilted, authentic. Bowls of flowers lined a long table: some still vibrant, some drying for preservation, all unfamiliar to me.
A small woman stood behind the display, her hair tied up in coils of pale rope cord. Her skin was wind-darkened, her hands stained green at the fingertips. She wore no gold, no silk. Just a pale blue tunic and a wreath of dried tidebloom flowers woven around her wrist.
As I approached, she merely tilted her head slightly, lips tightly sealed.
She smiled, as though she’d known I was coming.
