And to that, we all laugh—too loud, too suddenly, drawing a few glances from nearby tables.
I feel it before I see it—that prickle at the back of my neck, the unmistakable sense of being watched. My laughter falters as I glance up, heart already racing. Because I know.
Thane is watching me.
He’s leaning back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back of Jarek’s, the other cradling a pint. His eyes meet mine across the room, steady and unreadable—but there’s something in them. Something quiet. Intense.
Slowly, he lifts his glass in a silent toast, offering a smile—real, soft around the edges in a way I’ve never seen from him.
I blink, caught. Breathless. Then quickly look back down, hoping no one noticed the way my pulse just jumped.
Gods. What am I doing?
Just smile back, Amara. It’s not that hard.
I raise my eyes, ready to meet his gaze again, to return that rare, quiet smile. But when I do, he’s no longer looking at me.
He’s speaking to someone now—a woman. Sergeant Auren Quenvale. Her blue eyes sparkle with whatever story she’s telling, her corn silk-colored hair braided and pinned into a perfect crown around her head. She’s nearly as tall as Thane, with the kind of quiet poise that makes people lean in when she speaks.
She’s gesturing with her hands, animated and confident, and he—he looks fully engrossed. His body angled toward her, his mouth curled into something dangerously close to arealsmile. For someone else.
Something twists low in my stomach. I force myself to look away.
It was just polite. That’s all it was. My friends are clearly getting into my head.
As we step out of the pub to visit the shops, the cool spring air hits my face, carrying the scent of wildflowers and woodsmoke. The sun has shifted just enough to cast long shadows across the cobbled street.
I steal a glance back through the open door. Thane is still speaking to Sergeant Quenvale. She’s leaning closer, one hand mid-gesture. Thane listens intently, that same small smile playing at his lips. He doesn’t look over.
I don’t know why I expected him to. Or hoped he would. But I feel a twinge of disappointment anyway.
“Alright,” Lyra says beside me, clapping her hands together, “where to first?”
I turn my eyes back to the street, plastering a smile on my face, and follow my friends.
The village is alive with motion, the sun breaking througha patchwork of clouds, casting shifting light over the cobbled streets. We split up naturally—Taila heads toward the bookshop with Lyra, already debating whether they’ll buy anything or just spend an hour reading on the floor. Darius and Fenric fall into step beside.
Fenric slings an arm around my shoulders, grinning like this is some grand expedition. “For the record,” he says, “I love Darius. Both deeply and passionately. But Ihaveto know if the apothecary girl really wants a roll in bed with me.”
Darius snorts. “She probably just wants you to buy more overpriced salves.”
“Jealousy,” Fenric says, gesturing to himself. “A very natural response to my devastating charm.”
I roll my eyes. “You two are insufferable.”
Fenric beams. “Thank you.”
We pass stalls tucked into the narrow spaces between buildings, colorful canopies fluttering in the breeze. Vendors call out their wares—fresh fruit, roasted nuts, fire-glazed pottery, woven scarves dyed in wind-touched hues. Children chase one another between carts, laughing, while a bard strums a cheerful tune on the corner, his case open for coin.
A wind chime tinkles softly overhead as we pass beneath a wooden awning strung with herbs; rosemary, sage, lavender. The smells mingle with the scent of baked bread and woodsmoke from neighboring shops. It’s the kind of village that reminds me of home.
The apothecary comes into view at the edge of the market—a narrow shop nestled between a weaver’s stall and a florist, its pale blue shutters open to the breeze. A small bell above the door jingles as we step inside.
Warmth envelops us, thick with the scent of mint, lavender, and something earthy. Shelves line the walls, filled with vials, tinctures, and jars labeled in neat, curling script. Sunlight hitsa cluster of crystals near the front window, throwing small rainbows across the floor.
The shopkeeper stands behind the counter—young, pretty, her honey-colored hair swept into a loose braid over one shoulder.
The second she sees Fenric, she blushes.
