That shop. The name alone stirred something unsettling within her, a reminder of the strange, unshakable pull she had felt upon arriving in Velenshire. She needed to leave. Immediately.
Forcing a polite smile, Evelyne murmured her thanks and turned swiftly toward the exit. The library, and everything within it, was starting to make her skin crawl. She wanted to ask more. A lot more. But the entire encounter left her unnerved.
Keeping to the well-lit stretches of the market streets, Evelyne moved swiftly, her bag drawn close. The last thing she wanted was another nighttime encounter like the one with Lord Bavrick. Her focus was clear: reach the main square and return to the carriage.
Yet, before fully registering where her steps had taken her, she stood at the threshold of the shop. The one the librarian had urged her to visit. The one that had pulled at her the moment she arrived. And before she could stop herself, before she could even think, her hand was already on the knob, turning it.
As Evelyne stepped inside, the bell above the door chimed softly, its sound swallowed almost instantly by the warmth of the space. The air carried the scent of jasmine, rich and heady, curling around her like an unseen welcome.
The shop was small but overflowing, every inch crammed with relics, trinkets, and objects that seemed to hum. Wooden shelves lined the room, cluttered with glass vials, intricately carved boxes, and aged tomes. It was crowded, yet everything seemed precisely where it was meant to be.
A woman emerged behind the counter when the bell rang, like she had expected Evelyne. She appeared to be around Evelyne’s mother’s age, her soft brunette curls laced with silver. She had the kind of beauty that didn’t fade with time—gentle yet commanding, with a quiet strength behind her kind expression.
She met Evelyne’s stare, assessing without intimidation, fearless without arrogance.
“Welcome,” she said smoothly.
Evelyne slowly closed the door behind her, her eyes trailing over the strange and wonderful things that filled the shop.
“I’m glad we’ve finally met.” The woman smiled, her gaze flicking toward the door. “I’m glad we’veallfinally met.”
The bell above the entrance chimed. Evelyne turned—and there stood Alaric, stepping into the shop.
***
Alaric had been sent by his father to meet Lord Corvin and Lady Mireya Shaw of Velenshire, tasked with uncovering the true extent of the darkness that had begun swallowing the trade routes. Judging by the grim expressions of the noble couple seated before him, he already knew the news wouldn’t be good.
Lord Corvin exhaled slowly, his weathered hands clasped together as he met Alaric’s gaze. “We are losing men.” His voice was heavy. “Most don’t return. They seem to… vanish.”
Alaric’s brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”
Sitting at her husband’s side, Lady Mireya traced the rim of her goblet, her delicate fingers trembling; a flicker of emotion she quickly hid.
“As you know,” Lord Corvin began, “we’ve expanded our trade routes to the eastern lands of Centaro, exchanging meats and spices for coal and fur. The cold is unpredictable in the south, and our people rely on these exchanges to survive the bitter months of late autumn. But the carriages never make it through. We find them abandoned, broken down in the middle of the road, cargo scattered… but no bodies. No signs of struggle. Just… emptiness.”
Alaric tightened his jaw. He needed answers, not more warnings.
“Who can I speak to?” He pressed.
“Someone must know more about what’s happening.”
Lady Mireya rose from her chair, her golden hair cascading over her petite frame, and stepped toward him. She was striking, young and poised, but as she leaned in, her voice fell to a whisper, both playful and edged with warning.
“Find Charise Hallowell, and you will get your answers.”
Alaric studied her carefully. “And where, exactly, would I find this Charise?”
Lady Mireya’s lips curled into the faintest smirk as her fingers traced the table’s edge. Instead of returning to her seat, she leaned back against the table near Alaric, her hands resting on either side to steady herself.
“Go to the market,” she murmured. “She will find you.”
Alaric exhaled sharply. Cryptic. Great.
Lord Corvin reached for something beside him, unfolding a piece of parchment before handing it to Alaric—a map.
Another map. As if he didn’t have enough of those back home.
Lord Corvin must have caught the flicker of frustration in Alaric’s face, because his voice took on a graver tone. “This is not a mapyou’ve seen before.” His expression darkened as he tapped a finger against the aged parchment. “This will help you avoid the shadows.”
