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My boots click softly against the slick stones as I hop from one to the next like a child’s game of hopscotch. Today’s a new day, and Magda is a new place without Silas in it. I push forward until I reach the hill that overlooks the pirate town below.

Even now, in the hush of dawn, when the sky hangs bruised between night and morning, the island hums with activity, like magic courses through the streets and shadows.

Market bells chime in uneven rhythms as early vendors drag open their stalls. Somewhere down the sloping streets, a drunkard is still singing an off-key tune from the night before, his voice hoarse and triumphant, as if he survived something worthy of applause. Laughter echoes from a second-story window. A crate splinters. A gull screams overhead. Magda exhales salt and smoke. Magda is alive.

Tar clings to the docks, nets drip brine, the scent of fried bread mingles with spiced rum, and beneath it all, I can still smell the faint, coppery tang of blood that never fully leaves this place. Even the cobblestones are stained darker near the taverns, scrubbed but never fully clean.

Out on the horizon, a ship catches my eye. One I don’t recognize. It’s too far away to make out the flag, but something about it seems familiar. I’ll check it out after I take care of everything I need to do.

I make my way down the steep hill until I finally reach the edge of town. The smell of warm cinnamon buns hits me and my mouth waters. I fight the urge to cave. The last thing I need is that heavy, full feeling dragging me down.

But then again, I did survive something I wasn’t supposed to. Literally fought fate, and came out on top. Screw it. I deserve to reward myself.

I walk up to the bakery window. “Morning, love. How’s it going?” Taya, the older woman who owns the bakery, has been operating it every single day without fail for fifty-five years. She beams down at me and throws the window open wider. The rusted hinges scream in protest.

“Neressa! Good to see you. You look stunning as always.” Her voice is weathered but sweet. “Have you come for a bun? Very unlike you. Blink twice if you’re being hunted, I’ve got my gun right below me.” Her smile says she's ready, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It feels good, real, and unforced. “No trouble today, Taya. And you know if there was, I could handle it.” I wink. “But yes, I came for a bun. How much are they today?”

I ask as if it matters, digging in my pocket for a gold coin. I always overpay her. These buns barely cost a sliver of silver.

“No, you don’t pay. A queen never pays,” Taya says, pressing the bun into my hand. Steam coils up, mingling with the morning fog and the first streaks of golden light breaking through. My gods, the bun looks divine. Who needs men when I can have a food-induced orgasm?

“Stop it. Take this.” I slip a single gold coin into her palm. “Don’t argue with me, you know I don’t like being tested.” I wink again.

Taya laughs, her voice cracking with age, her wrinkled face soft as ever. “Thank you, beautiful. You have a nice day now. Be safe.”

If only being safe were ever a guarantee. “Do me a favor, love,” I say, turning slightly, cradling the warm bun between my cold hands.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“Take a day off soon. For me?” Taya nods and flashes me a smile as warm as her perfect cinnamon buns. She’s the town’s grandmother, through and through.

I turn away, walking down Magda’s colorful streets, already alive even at this hour. The air hums with life, vendors setting up, laughter in the distance, the faint clanging of ship bells. Birds caw overhead, their wings spread wide as they ride the coastal breeze. Part of me wishes I could soar through the sky with the seagulls. Not a care in the world, just air, water, and food.

I take a bite of the bun and, oh my gods. The cinnamon, the homemade icing, the perfect softness of the dough, it all melts together into something divine. Before I know it, the entire thing is gone. I lick the sugar and icing from my fingers.

As I’m contemplating how absolutely spectacular the cinnamon bun was, I nearly walk straight past the library. I stop mid-step, then pivot. The building leans dangerously to one side, stubbornly refusing to collapse. The wood is warped and rotted by the sea air. Shingles hang unevenly from the roof. The windows are cloudy with age, the glass rippled and imperfect.

But it is exactly as a library should look, old, defiant, full of secrets. Magda may be loud, violent, and restless, but even here, knowledge survives. Not many seek it. The library isn’t exactly the most popular joint in town. Approaching the entrance, I sidestep an unconscious drunkard slumped against the wall.

I brush stray sugar from my fingers and stare at the door. If Roman is a real healer, then I need to know everything. When the last one was seen. What they’re capable of. What it costs them. What it means for me. What better place to dig up ghosts than a library?

I grab the golden handle and pull the door open slowly. The hinges grind against rust.

The sharp creak startles the sleeping pirate. He grunts and rolls onto his side, clutching a half-empty bottle of rum to his chest like a child with a doll. His beard is tangled. His boots are mismatched. His hat hangs lazily atop his head. Typical pirate.

I scoff as I step inside.

The scent greets me first, dust and paper, ink long dried into brittle pages. A faint trace of dried lavender lingers between the shelves, tucked there to keep the moths from feasting on the knowledge of Magda, of the world.

It settles into my lungs, into my skin. Gods, I love this place. I love the stories bound in these spines, the worlds waiting patiently to be opened and entered. Here, I can step into another life, another sea, another love, without ever leaving the island. There’s something intoxicating about it, finding a new romance hidden between pages or discovering truths long buried in text.

The library rises two stories high. The lower level holds research, histories, maps, ledgers, records of wars and bloodlines. The upper level is for wild minds. Stories, legends, romances, fantasies for those who want an escape from this life.

Normally, I would wander. Today, I don’t have the time. I move toward the front desk instead.

The woman sitting there turns before I speak. She heard the moment I entered, through the obnoxious old creaking door. Her long, light-brown braids sway gently with the movement. She’s one of the most striking women in all of Magda, even now in her middle age.