Beside me with the quiet woven of a comfortable closeness that needed no words.
“Was that your first proper meal today?” she asked.
“Depends on what you count as ‘real.’”
“You count battlefield rations as cuisine, don’t you?” she said, a prim line to her lips that barely masked the glint of mischief in her eyes.
I didn’t answer.
“You’ve done this before,” she added. “Escorting people. Was that your job?”
“For a while.”
“What about before that?”
I looked straight ahead. “Different work.”
She didn’t push. Merley nodded, as if that answer still told her something.
We drifted onward. Near the edge of the square, a low wall curved behind a cluster of wooden booths. Children had scrawled it with chalk pictures of flowers, animals, and looping shapes. Wyn reached out to touch a crude sketch of an herb sprig. Then we both saw it.
One figure stood apart. Drawn in black.
Its limbs were too long. A sword slashed across its back. And where the face should’ve been, two white circles stared out like empty moons.
In the depths of those eyes, there was no spark, no reflection. Just empty ash.
I stopped, the air around me suddenly felt starved of oxygen, thin and biting.
Wyn followed my gaze and tilted her head. “Erindor?”
I gave a quick submissive shrug. “A child’s drawing.”
A cold dread had already begun its insidious crawl, seizing my heart and numbing my entire body.
She didn’t press. I didn’t elaborate. She might have already known I wouldn’t tell her, even if she had questioned me.
She lingered by the wall a moment longer, back at the black figure.
“I don’t require that information,” she whispered, lost in thought. “But I’ll listen if you ever decide to tell.”
Somehow, that struck harder than any demand would have.
I motioned for us to move on.
At a weapons cart near the back of the square, Wyn lingered over a rack of polished daggers. She frowned thoughtfully, fingers grazing the hilt.
“I should carry something,” she said. “Just in case.”
The merchant handed her a slim, silver-hilted blade. It was narrow and light enough to conceal beneath her cloak. She assessed the grip, then tucked it into her belt with quiet resolve.
Then, a moment later, a sharp, sudden yelp tore through the quiet, making us both jump.
The blade had shifted, jabbing her in the thigh.
“Blast—”
She tried to fix it, flustered, tugging at the strap with one hand.
