Brave.
In this cold, I’d refuse.
Merchants here are more of the unusual nature, offering boxes of small bones, ritualistic daggers, and dust-covered tomes bound in questionable leather. Necromancy and blood magic are illegal—yet it would be all too easy to procure materials to perform either among these merchants.
An amplified beam of sunlight bounces off Cyran’s armor blinding me and I smother my yelp. My hand flies to my eyes as they become narrowed slits and Cyran peers over his shoulder.
“Do you have to wear your full regalia all the time?” I mutter, turning my face away from the light. “Is there less ostentatious armor? Perhaps something more like Eve’s?”
“Eve isn’t Royal Guard,” Cyran replies, turning his lavender eyes forward.
Were my eyes not watering, forcing me to blink thirty times per second, the scowl I give Cyran’s back might be more effective.
More people emerge on the street, their cloaks clasped tight, their hoods raised against the wind. It’s less abrasive today, yet just as cold. A bold red catches my attention, a bright red cloak donned by a woman as she walks in the opposite direction.
My eyes linger upon her longer than they should as she passes, and as I turn—else risk running into Cyran—bold, black lettering plastered against gray stops me.
Today’s paper.
With today’s headline.
And for the first time in weeks, it isn’t about the number of undead encountered the night before. Instead, it’s aboutme.
Erus to Expect a Sovereign Queen?
Below it, there’s an inked image.
Like the portraits of Celesta in the texts—which now sit in several stacks tucked into the corner of a library thanks to the researchers. Following my feet, I wander closer, the headline ignored in favor of discerning the artwork.
It’s… Ryc and me.
The day we were in the South Ward.
For a time I stand. Silent and staring.
It doesn’t feel real—to see a portrait of myself. Ademonfeatured in amortalpaper… and it’s not a scene depicting the demon’s death.
Capturing Ryc I can understand, he’s their king.
But me?
Even with the evidence staring me in the face, I don’t believe it. Some artist’s rendering of us together in the rain. I blink, lifting my gaze from the row of papers with the screaming headline and meet the stare of the man working the stand.
He watches me warily.
As if I’m going to snatch a paper and dash off.
Or he’s waiting for an answer.
“D-did you say something?” I ask.
His brows furrow. “Just in greeting, ma’am,” he replies. “But if you’re interested in today’s news, paper is five gold. Going to sell fast, people are curious to see the female they’ve heard about with King Alaryc.”
“Heard anything interesting about her?” I dare to ask, unable to resist the urge to hear more about the gossip I know exists.
The man shakes his head. “If you call speculation about her being the daughter of a fishmonger interesting,” he offers with a shrug. “Apparently she’s been spotted around the North Docks all summer.”
Netharis the fishmonger.
