Whispers catch my attention, causing me to search for the source.Two women work nearby, heads tucked in tight, eyes flickering back and forth in my direction.
I know the look they wear on their faces too well; not curiosity, but suspicion.
Wisps of shadow stretch behind me, darker than it should in the synthetic light that calls itself morning.It pulses once, as if hesitant to show itself, as a cold heat flashes up my spine.
My insides freeze as I glance around, ensuring no one has seen the shift in the ground.
Come.My fingers twitch in the soil before I can stop them as the word brushes my thoughts, sending an icy chill snaking down my back.
I dig faster, as if the work can bury the unease clawing at me, but my thoughts won’t quiet.
Last night; those cloaked figures slipping into the alley and the innate desire to follow, the mark on the wall.Yara is right, somethingisstirring, and I can see it in the soil now, watching me.
“...tunnels are marked,” one of the women hisses.“It’s done.”
“They say the Veil doesn’t just pick anyone.”
The blood in my ears drums loudly, drowning out part of the conversation.
“...it marks its own.”
My hand slips, slicing open on a sharp root.My shadows twitch as blood seeps into the dirt, tainting it a darker shade of black.I tear a strip off my apron, binding the cut, as I scramble to shove the remaining roots into my sack.
That’s enough for today.
A rickety stall made from broken pallets is occupied by the Forage Overseer—an old man with deep wrinkles he calls skin, and futile glasses framing his cloudy gaze.He sits with his ledger—whose pages are as weathered as his skin.
His eyes flick up, trembling slightly as his gaze struggles to focus on me.He feels his way through my bag, before tipping the sack upside down, the contents spilling out over the countertop.
His fingers fondle the produce; misshapen carrots and roots streaked with dirt skim his fingers.“Barely worth the coin,” he grunts, scribbling something onto his ledger before sliding a few coppers across the wood.
I bite down the reply burning on my tongue.It’s always barely worth the coin.I stare into his milky depths, holding the look a second too long.The sensation curls around my spine, pressing at the seams.I close my eyes and release a breath.
No.
I mutter my thanks, scraping the coins into my hand before pocketing them and leaving without another word.
* * *
The Lantern Marketbreathes louder in the evenings; lanterns sway on a phantom breeze, tarps snap, voices rise as the day’s work spills into night.
I keep my satchel tucked in tight at my hip, my head down low, as I weave between stalls, lingering far too long at the ones reminiscent of home.
My stomach twists at the scent of roasted root and broth, and my feet move of their own accord, drawing me closer toward the steam.
Thoughts turn to Sylas, alone and in pain.Guilt eats away at me like moths to silk, as I relive the past all over again—making the hard choices of staying to offer comfort, or putting food on the table.Yet every day, I choose to leave.
Guilt has me choosing a beet rootcake—Ma’s favourite—or so I’m told.
The woman at the stall smiles.Her jagged teeth promise savagery but her voice is soft, offering only comfort.
“For your Ma?”
I shake my head, gaze dropping to the stockpile of goods littering the stand.
“Brother.”
Her mouth curves downward, a sad smile coating her lips.She doesn’t press, but instead drops the cake into a paper bag, twisting the ends to seal it shut.
