“More like millions,” Aran said, reaching for another pastry without looking up.
“We have the clues,” I murmured.
Aran gave a low snort and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. “You mean the clues from the crazy woman who kicked you out of her house?”
My jaw tightened. “Both of you? Really?” I looked between them, waiting for one of them to act like they still remembered what we were doing here. “You’d rather just sit here and eat sweets all day?”
They exchanged a glance—barely a flicker—then shrugged in perfect sync.
“Yeah,” Will said, deadpan. “Sort of.”
I just stared at them. They weren’t even trying to be serious. Or maybe they thought they were being funny. I couldn’t tell anymore. Maybe I should’ve been glad they weren’t fighting for once. That they could agree on something. But did it have to be that? Did it have to be the one thing that actually mattered?
I needed them on my side.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, turning my face away.
The chair scraped hard against the marble as I stood. A few people turned to look. I didn’t care. I shoved the chair back in harder than necessary, fingers trembling.
“Please,” I said over my shoulder. “Enjoy your feast. I’ll go do the thing we actually came here for.”
I didn’t have a plan, just the need to move, to dosomething.
The second I stepped outside, the city wrapped around me. Alevé was already wide awake. People moved in every direction, talking fast, laughing, weaving through stalls with baskets on their hips or children clinging to their hands. Silk awnings in shades of green and bluestretched above the street, casting shifting shadows across pale stone. Even as the beauty unfolded around me—sunlight on white buildings, silk rippling like water—I couldn’t shake the weight creeping in behind my ribs. A presence. Like something unseen was keeping pace just behind me. Maybe it was nothing. Just nerves. But the last time I’d felt that way, the shadow came. And I killed it. It was dead, I think. But what if there were more? Alevé might be safe from Vultures, but nothing was safe from gods and monsters.
A vendor smiled at me from a street corner, holding out a folded piece of parchment. I hesitated, then took it. The sample was green and flaky, some kind of pastry, with crushed herbs, but it smelled sweet, like toasted honey and something herbal I couldn’t name. I tasted it carefully, and it melted on my tongue, buttery and strange. People gave food away there. In the streets. Just like that. I’d known Alevé was wealthy, heard stories about ships full of fruit and wine and silk, but I’d never imagined the difference would feel like that, when Vestance and Alevé shared a border. It was like stepping into another world.
I wandered deeper into what looked like a market, though it wasn’t like any I knew. There weren’t tents or wagons or a town square. The shops spilled directly from the buildings, doors propped open, windows flung wide. Goods were set out in tidy crates beneath awnings or arranged in shelves tucked right into the walls. And what struck me most was the families. Not just working, butbeingthere. Some had children beside them, painting wooden toys or carving bowls as their parents worked.
A narrow shop tucked beneath a low archway, nearly hidden. Its shelves were cluttered with little objects: bone charms, wooden carvings, trinkets made of glass and metal. And spread across the center shelf, a city in miniature, tiny towers and golden domes, painted gold.
Replicas of Alevé.Golden buildings.
The vendor smiled when he saw me. He looked older, with a patchy green cloak and deep lines etched around his eyes, but his smile was quiet and warm, the kind that didn’t try too hard.
“You like them,” he said.
I nodded. He chuckled softly and adjusted one of the little towers. “They are beautiful, yes?”
I might’ve kept drifting from piece to piece if something on the back wall hadn’t caught my eye.Paintings.
Most were bright and joyful, sunlit streets, domed rooftops, families dancing. The kind of art that made you feel like the world had never known hunger or war. But one painting stopped me. Stopped everything. A chill ran through me so fast it left me breathless.
It was a painting of a girl with golden hair, her body suspended in a sky of fire. The brushstrokes were wild, almost frantic, yet somehow alive. I couldn’t look away. Something about it pulled at me. Like I had seen it before. The world outside—the music, the shouting vendors, the blur of movement—faded beneath the rush of blood in my ears.
Footsteps sounded behind me. I didn’t turn. Will came to stand beside me, quiet. His gaze followed mine, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke.
“Is that...” he began, but I finished it for him.
“It’s me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Eh. Could be anyone.” Aran appeared beside me, still chewing on something. He leaned in, squinted at the painting over my shoulder, then gave a lazy shrug. My hand trembled slightly as I pointed toward the canvas. The vendor’s eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Ah, you admire it? Beautiful, yes? One of my favorites,” he said with a warm nod.
His accent was close to Vestoni, but not quite. The vowels stretched a little too far, the rhythm just off enough to sound foreign, like someone trying to speak clearly after a few glasses of wine. Still, I understood him. And when I spoke slowly, most people here seemed to understand me too. Better than I’d expected.
