Page 20 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“Come on,” Roremar argued, still walking. “You can’t disagree with the Mezz. They’re known for having the best food on Lyra, and the widest variety of options. Even travelers make the trek from the Western Port just to get there.”

But Emmeline barely heard his argument.

Her mind tunneled in beneath impossibly bright lights, sweat beading along her brow.

Rough scales scratched her skin. Voices jeered and roared.

Magic bubbled in her chest, begging to be released.

“Not the Mezzanine,” she repeated, voice hoarse.

At her tone, Roremar paused. “Are you⁠—”

“We can go anywhere else,” she interrupted. Squeezing her eyes closed for a beat, Emmeline fisted her hands, ignoring the urge to reach for the triple blade in her satchel. “How about Fortuna Tavern in the foothills at the top of the Peddler’s District? They open early and it’s a short walk.”

He studied her, and once again, the endless effects of that too-piercing stare spiraled through her. She had the sensation of being stripped bare by her memories, all scars on display.

“Okay,” Roremar agreed without further questioning.

And as they cut through the jungle paths leading to Fortuna, Roremar didn’t press her. But she wasn’t foolish enough to think he missed a single blink.

Emmeline asked the barkeep for the simplest thing on the menu, her gut still riled from the mention of the Mezzanine. Roremar on the other hand seemed ravenous, ordering two different meals because he couldn’t decide which sounded better.

There was something boyish about him trying to choose, finally saying, “To the Fates with it” and requesting both. An unexpected innocence that pulled a surprised laugh from Emmeline.

The tavern was simple, but it was clearly designed to commemorate the Fate of Eddies and Lost Luck, Polyr. With the calming sea tones of the mismatched linens draping over tables, glimmering shells carving elaborate designs into the chair backs and doorframes, and the wide windows looking out over the ocean beyond the Peddler’s District, the whole place felt like it had been touched by the Fate who was known to share fortunes that rolled and flowed like tides.

It almost made it possible to forget the sanctity of vices their jungle-coated isle had become.

Almost.

Emmeline sipped her water and focused on the ocean, letting the waves wash away those worries.

Of the other six constellation isles, Della was typically where the most tributes to Polyr were held. While each Fate’s sigils could be found sprinkled across the islands that sat off the coast of Gallantia, they all had a dominant presence on one in particular. The Isle of Lyra was the exception, not tending toward one or the other, but honoring all Fates and the Angel who ruled over them, Valyrie.

Della, with its specialty in navigation and defense, was where Polyr’s sigil was most prominent.

Everyone speculated that Raul—Fortuna’s founder who passed a few decades ago—was aligned with the Fate of Eddies and Lost Luck, but no one knew for certain. It wasn’t that it was restricted to inquire about someone else’s Fate ties, but some Starsearchers chose to keep them private, just as no one learned the Fates’ true names until the stars themselves shared them with the warrior when their tie was revealed.

Much about spinning fortunes relied on superstition and trust in the universe, magic woven into their bones since the day Starsearchers were born.

“Have you gone through the information from Falliare?” Emmeline asked after a basket of pastries with jam was set before her, a tray steaming with meats, eggs, and some sort of hash dish in front of Roremar.

“Every page,” he said between bites, and Emmeline’s attention snapped up. “What?” he added at her wide-eyed expression.

“Nothing, I only…” Her words trailed off. She had read every word, of course. She’d stayed up late into the night, flipping through the pages and taking notes until her candle burned to the wick. “I hadn’t expected you to have read it all.”

“Underestimating me, DeLeoste?” Roremar asked, a crooked smirk highlighting the small scar barely touching his upper lip. He had another one just above his left eyebrow, the two combining with the slight bump on the bridge of his nose to mar this perfect facade he’d built.

“More like surprised someone matched my dedication to studying for once.” Emmeline wasn’t only in her position at Lyra Temple Academy because of her deep ties to the Fates. She’d had an exemplary tutor growing up and had worked hard to earn her role, regardless of her magic.

And because she’d often needed solace as a girl, books and stories became a haven. Myths and legends—both those of the Angels and Fates as well as her own wild imagination—were her sanctuary, knowledge a source of power and prestige.

Roremar grinned again, brushing his hands on his napkin as he chewed a bite of fluffy bread still steaming from the oven. “So,” he said when he was done, “what conclusions did you draw?”

“That there are no easy-to-spot patterns in the cases,” Emmeline admitted, twisting a bit of flakey pastry between her ringed fingers. “Beyond both missing Starsearchers being females.”

Roremar nodded, watching her hands. He rearranged the plates before him, saying, “The first one disappeared while walking home from a night shift at a local gambling hall.”