But I don’t stop to think, to second guess.
I just run.
And in a blink, I’m gone, swallowed by the cool shadows of the Air Realm.
My footsteps stayquick and quiet, as I slip through narrow alleys and dipping in and out of shadow. The Innerlands are too clean, every cobblestone scrubbed so clean you could practically eat off of it.
A young man brushes past me, pressed lines, polished shoes, a sleek jacket slipping off one arm. He doesn’t even notice when my fingers catch it. One smooth pull, and it’s mine. I drag it over my shoulders, covering the patched, sweat-worn mess I actually am with something that looks like it belongs here.
To my right, a door clicks open, spilling the warm scent of fresh pastries as the young man—now one jacket short—slips inside without ever noticing.
Head down, I keep walking and the crowd around me thickens. Workers streaming through the alleys like neat, orderly rivers. No shouting. No shoving. Just the steady rhythm of shoes on stone and the soft murmur of voices asking for passage.
It’s… weird. Not bad, exactly. Just weird. In the Outerlands, crowds are loud, fast, and unpredictable. Someone bumped you, you checked your pockets. But here? They step aside. They say pardon, and no matter how many times I’ve snuck in, I never get used to it.
A flash of red pulls at the edge of my vision. The tailor’s shop—I’ve passed it countless times but I still slow, just for a second. Behind the glass, something new gleams: a pink silk dress, scattered with tiny silver stars. Not my style. Too frilly. Too clean. But someone, somewhere, will buy it for a girl who’s never had to steal her breakfast.
In the reflection I catch my brows pulling tight, lips thinning, I glance away and keep walking before it sticks, no use getting mad about things I can’t change.
But just as I turn, something flickers at the edge of my vision—a faint mark etched in the middle of the tailor’s red door; it’s delicate and strange, like it doesn’t quite belong. I’ve walked this street a hundred times and never noticed it before?—
Someone brushes past, wavy boyish hair, taller than most. They mutter a soft apology, and the moment quickly slips.So Ikeep walking, until the alley opens into a vast square. And it hits me, not the sight, thesmell.
Rosemary, lemon peel, and crushed cloves. Herbs tied in tidy bunches and hung to dry in the late morning sun.Dozens of them, stacked high in open bowls and glass jars.
A tightness creeps into my chest, the colours alone could feed a storybook—golden yellows, deep blood-red paprika, soft curls of pale green thyme.
There’s too much choice. Too much ease.
My throat tightens before I can stop it, the reaction as automatic as breath. I can’t help it—not with all this gleaming abundance on display, not when it’s so clear they’ve never had to choose between hunger and heating, or weighing a fever against next month’s rent. And god, I wish I didn’t either.
Pressure builds behind my ribs, my Threads, shifting restless beneath my skin. But I exhale hard, forcing the surge down before my magic does something stupid, reminding myself I’m here for one thing and one thing only.
Spice.
Keeping to the side, I scan the square. One, two... three stalls down from the apothecary’s—and there it is. Same crooked awning, same rust-red canvas, faded and fraying at the corners. And on the back shelf, vials and vials of bright powdered Spice stand in a perfect line, yellow and glinting like sunlight caught in glass.
Jacket collar high, head down, I move toward the cart. A steady rhythm builds beneath my ribs as I cut through neat rows of merchant stalls—eyes sweeping for patrols, exits, anything off.
Heart ticking fast. Every step a calculation.
But nothing pings. No lingering stares, no sudden shifts. So I let the tension ease for a second, but as soon as I reach the cart and my gaze snags on the price, and the rhythm spikes again. Fists curl tight.
Back home, this would cost twenty, maybe fifty, times more. And that's if you could even find it at all. But here? It’s stacked likecheapfirewood; just one vial of this could clear an infection overnight. Two, and you’d stop a plague in its tracks.
All I would need to do is steal one vial and I could pay my rent through winter, maybe even buy a coat that doesn’t leak.
And the price difference, that’s blood money.
The fucking Veirmonts’ taxing every ounce like it’s sacred. Hoarding cures, squeezing gold from a sickness they’ll never smell. All so they can just keep padding their lavish velvet-draped lives.
The image burns. Heat prickles under my skin, power twitching at my fingertips, I swallow hard and push my magic down. Not now. Not here. Not with market eyes watching.
But if I ever met a fucking Veirmont?—
Before I can finish the thought, a shout cuts through the hum of the market.
“I haven’t done anything wrong!”
