August studied the bottle. It had no label, only a thin red-orange string coiled up the neck.
“How long does it last?”
“Hard to say. I suppose it depends on the person. A few hours at the least, a day at the most.”
This was such a bad idea.
After setting a pile of caern on the countertop, August stuffed the bottle in his pocket, then muttered a quick thanks as he turned to leave.
“Hold on,” the man said, and when August looked back, he held a single caern pinched between his thumb and finger. “Your change.”
August took it, eyeing the strange engraving. “What is this?”
“Old caern. Prewar. Don’t worry, it’s still good.”
With a frown, August pocketed it separately from the rest.He doubted it was legitimate, but he’d always had a habit of collecting strange objects.
“I’ve never seen silver rings,” the shop owner said, studying him with far more interest than August was comfortable with. “If I may ask, whatisyour magic?”
August’s fists tightened. “You may not.” He spun and pushed back out onto the empty street.
It had been a terrible day, Felix’s foul mood set from the moment he woke to Marlow’s heavy expression. Another wielder had gone without a word. No warning, no goodbye.
Felix had truly believed the reassurances he’d given Marlow, that the handful of wielders disappearing from the shelter were simply moving on. Finding work and alternate housing. Hatha House was meant to be temporary, after all.
Marlow had always been a worrier. Compassionate to a fault. It was in her nature as a healer, he figured. But as the number of missing wielders steadily grew, his explanations wore thinner. His first instinct was to tell her to stay clear of it, to come stay with him. He couldn’t lose her. But Marlow wasn’t the type to turn away when people needed help.
Worry had clung to Felix like a dark cloud all day, heavy and smothering, making it impossible to focus on anything else.
Until he bumped into a fascinating stranger with silver rings in his eyes.
Felix drew in a breath of crisp night air as he watched the boy tear into a greasy venison pastry with grand enthusiasm,the weight of the day momentarily forgotten. The distraction was welcome. He’d hate to waste a festival night sulking. Every evening, the sleepy city of Fallowmoor stirred awake for the night markets. But on festival nights, it transformed entirely.
This particular festival marked the birthday of the twin aeslings. A celebration for two guests who would never actually attend. The heir aesling hadn’t been seen in so long that rumors had spread like a plague. He was deathly ill in some stories, long-dead in others. One even claimed he’d been locked away in Fallowmoor’s asylum since the aesveran’s death. The subject was common gossip among the nobility.
However, for Felix, who couldn’t care less about the royal family, this festival marked the beginning of spring.
He tipped back his head, reveling in the fantastic buzz of it all—the familiar tug of the Market Square and all its comforting scents and sounds. Felix was in his element here. He knew these streets, these shops; he had grown up among them. He and Marlow had sold newspapers at the market as kids and were nearly arrested for stealing food more than once.
Flawed as it was, Fallowmoor was his home. And on nights like this, the city seemed to celebrate with every ounce of energy it could summon.
“This is incredible,” Henry mumbled around a full bite as he lifted the pastry and examined it like a treasure. “Where have you been all my life?” He shoved the last piece into his mouth, and a flake clung to his bottom lip.
Felix’s gaze followed the slow sweep of his tongue as he caught it.
“Do they not feed you where you’re from, Henry?”
The boy’s eyes widened in surprise, like he’d completely forgotten Felix was beside him. He muttered something, but the words were lost behind the mouthful.
Felix let his eyes linger on Henry’s lips, tracing the shape of his mouth, admiring the soft curve of his bottom lip. Then he smiled. “Come on.”
He skirted the edge of the square, passing a line of people clutching hand-written signs. He cast them a pitying glance.
Life was hard for wielders. Distrust, disrespect, and the sharper edge of fear from nonwielders, made finding work nearly impossible. Still, some jobs benefited from magic, and in those cases, the convenience and efficiency outweighed the risks for employers: flamewielders as streetlamp lighters, growers as gardeners, menders as tailors.
Those possessing greater powers had slightly better prospects. A few fortunate conjurers found work in theatre, empaths assisted surgeons by calming patients, and healers, of course, practiced medicine alongside doctors. Yet even those lucky enough to land such positions were poorly compensated.
Because of this, many wielders relied on the night markets and the festivals, offering their services or staging performances. Nonwielders, drawn by both fear and morbid fascination, seemed to love these shows. They’d marvel at the magic, toss some spare change, and then return to their lives, unbothered by the way those same people were treated in the daylight.
