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Like all the buildings of Nolderan, Flour Power has a cobalt roof and walls built from white granite. The door is painted powder blue and has paneled windows. Through them, I see cake stands filled with colorful treats. Lace trim decorates the edges of each tier.
It’s only when my teleportation spell is complete and the aether has faded away that I remember which part of the Upper City this bakery belongs to.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see the alley where Heston’s undead pursued me—where my mother saved me. And I’m certain I currently stand upon the very spot where Arluin fell. But when I look down, the cobblestones beneath me are no different to any of the others. Since that fateful night, I’ve visited this part of the city several times. And it always leaves me shaken.
The bakery’s gleaming windows spin around me. I barely notice as the others open the door and head inside. The tinkling bell chimes over through my ears.
“Reyna?” Eliya asks. A frigid wind blows over us, and she pulls her cerulean robes tighter around herself. “Are you coming inside?”
“Coming,” I murmur. I tear my feet from where they stand and follow her inside with everyone else.
The others have chosen to sit at a circular mahogany table with curved legs. A lacy tablecloth covers its surface. There are only two empty chairs left. Both face the windows and have a clear view of the alley beyond.
For a moment, I consider asking Lorea to swap with me, since her back is to the window. But then I wordlessly slide onto the chair beside Eliya. Explaining why I don’t want this seat would mean reliving those horrors. Over the past three years, I’ve tried to bury the nightmares as deeply as I can. But now, being here, so close to where everything happened, all those terrifying memories are violently bubbling to the surface.
The locket around my neck suddenly feels as heavy as a string of bricks. I clasp at the fabric of my robes, feeling where the locket lies beneath.
Not once have I taken it off. Nor have I opened the locket and watched the memory recorded within. Arluin’s promise echoes through my mind. His words are loud enough to drown out the conversation around me.
There has never been any sign of him. To this day, I don’t know his fate.
We never found a body but if he’s alive, why has he never tried contacting me? I know he can’t return. My father and the Archmagi would have him executed
the moment he sets foot inside Nolderan. But surely if he’s alive, he would try to see me again. Or at least let me know he isn’t dead.
After all, we made a promise to each other. The proof of it hangs around my neck.
A sharp nudge pulls me from my thoughts.
I turn to Eliya and blink.
She gestures to Mrs. Baxter who stands before us. “Reyna, what are you having?”
Mrs. Baxter is the owner of Flour Power.She bought this property six months after the necromancers attacked. I can’t remember what this building was before she took it over. Perhaps it was a tailor’s, or maybe a quill and ink shop.
She’s a plump lady who wears the same flowery, pastel apron and bright smile every time I visit her bakery. Her pale blue eyes mark her as being neither a mage nor a descendant of the founding families. She uses no magic in her baking, but her cakes are the most delicious I’ve ever tasted. My mother would have liked her. Especially since she always went on about how we shouldn’t use our magic for everything.
“Um,” I begin, chewing on my lip.
As lovely as Mrs. Baxter’s cakes are, I’ve lost my appetite. With the bitter lump swelling in my throat at the thought of Arluin, I don’t know how I’ll swallow a single bite. And then Mrs. Baxter will think I don’t like her cakes. I suppose I could say I’m not hungry, but then Eliya will want to know what’s the matter. And I don’t feel like explaining to her right now, especially not while the others are around. Though we’ve been in the same classes for the past five years, I’m not particularly close to any of them. It’s Eliya who is friends with them.
“I’ll have the same as you,” I quickly say to Eliya.
Thankfully, no one comments on my hesitation.
“Would you like cream with it?” Mrs. Baxter asks.
I have no idea what I’m ordering. But I can’t say that without revealing how distant I’ve been.
In the end, I just nod.
“All right,” Mrs. Baxter says, turning away. “I’ll get everything plated up for you now.”
When she leaves, the others carry on talking. I tune them out and stare into the alley across the street.
All the images of that terrible night come rushing back so vividly I can hear the growling of ghouls and smell the putrid stench of their rotting
flesh. The mahogany chair wobbles beneath me, and now the thought of eating cakes and cream—or whatever else I ordered—almost makes me vomit all over Mrs. Baxter’s floor.
