“Do you know who painted it?” I asked.
He scratched his chin, thoughtful, then crouched behind the stand and began rummaging through a small wooden chest.
“Yes, yes. I have the receipt here somewhere.”
The vendor straightened and held up a folded slip of paper. “Here. This is where I got it.”
I stepped forward and took it before he could even finish handing it over.
“How much for the painting?”
He chuckled softly. “Five coppers. But for you, my friend—three.”
Will leaned in again.
“Why are we buying a painting?”
“Because Licia made it.”
“Oh.” His eyebrows rose. ”OH.”
I turned to Aran, meeting his eyes. “Please.”
He groaned like he was being tortured, but reached into his pocket anyway. With a sigh, he counted out the coins and slapped them onto the table.
“Fine.”
The vendor wrapped the painting with careful hands and passed it to me. It was heavier than I expected, large and awkward in my arms, but I held it close.
The golden buildings. The paintings.
All that remained was finding theserpent.
And then we’d find Licia.
There was an address on the receipt, so we spent the rest of the day trying to find it. Asking questions in broken Alévi, weaving through streets that looped like rivers. Some led to busy markets, others to dead ends. The city was a maze of color and noise and heat.
But finally, we found it. Dusmere Lane 9.
The building looked like it had been forgotten. The plaster along the outer walls had cracked and curled, flaking like peeling skin.The windows were boarded shut, and a rusted sign leaned against thedoorframe, its letters long worn away. But there was light spilling out from inside.
Will stood beside me, staring up at it. “It looks abandoned.”
I didn’t answer. My eyes were locked on the door, the number.
Will shifted closer, lowering his voice. “We should leave, Kera.”
“But what if she’s in there?” I asked.
The door hung slightly open, so I reached out and gave it a gentle push. It creaked, but swung inward without resistance. The air inside was thick and stale. A single oil lamp burned at the far end of the room, its flame flickering on a narrow table. Light twisted across the walls, revealing peeling paint and floorboards gone soft with age. A man sat by the table, slowly turning the pages of a book. His coat was stained with dried paint, and his fingers were smudged black and red. His dark hair was shaved close at the sides. But it was the tattoo I saw first.
A snake, inked in black, winding up his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
Golden buildings. Paintings. Serpent.
Everything we’d been chasing, standing right there in front of me. We were in the right place.
“He’s the serpent.” I whispered. Will and Aran stayed silent behind me. Maybe they were waiting for me to go first. Or maybe they didn’t know what to say. I clutched the painting tighter in my arms and stepped forward, my heart pounding.
