They walked under sweeping branches, foxfire drifting like pale fireflies. The air smelled of moss and river-sweet incense. Each step pulled her farther from the weight of the Council chamber and into something gentler, something she could breathe in.
Mingxi walked a half-step behind her, sensing her pace, matching it without a word.
After a quiet stretch, Poppy exhaled softly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For not pushing. For staying near.”
His voice was low, steady. “I will always remain within reach.”
A warmth spread through her chest, small, blooming, real. They walked on. The quiet shifted as they went, soft at first and then threaded with distant sound. A faint rise of laughter. A vendor’s call echoing like a musical lilt. The bright ring of chimes stirred by wind.
Poppy slowed, brow furrowing. “Mingxi… what is that?”
He paused beside her, listening with the ease of someone who knew every contour of this mountain. “The heart of the clan city,” he said. “Shops. Stalls. Morning bustle.”
She blinked, startled. “It sounds… lively.”
“It is,” he admitted.
His gaze shifted to her face, reading her tension, her uncertainty, her exhaustion still lingering beneath the surface.
“We don’t have to go farther,” he said softly. “If you’d prefer quiet, I can take you back another way.”
Poppy inhaled, expecting panic, crowds, noise, brightness, but instead…
Surprise flickered. Curiosity. A strange, fragile wanting.
“No,” she said, shaking her head gently. “I don’t want to go back yet.” Her voice steadied. “I want to see.”
A subtle warmth touched Mingxi’s expression, approval, and something softer beneath it.
“Then we continue,” he murmured.
She nodded. They stepped forward together. The stone path widened unexpectedly, opening into a sprawling street bustling with color and sound. Lanterns hung from curved wooden beams, amber light reflecting offlacquered stalls and shimmering silk banners. The air was thick with the scents of roasted chestnut, plum wine, and river herbs.
Poppy slowed, breath catching—overwhelmed and entranced all at once.
“This,” Mingxi said quietly beside her, “is the Lower Marketplace.”
It was nothing like the quiet, clipped halls of English society. This place was alive. Fox shifters moved between the stalls in human form and half-shifted forms, ears, tails, flickers of magic gleaming in the morning sun. Kits darted under tables. Merchants haggled loudly. Musicians played pipes carved from moonwood. A pair of elders argued passionately over the price of mushrooms.
It was chaotic. Warm. Beautiful.
A small kit, the size of a house cat, shot out from under a stall and crashed directly into Mingxi’s boots.
Poppy gasped. Mingxi did not. He simply bent and scooped the kit up with practiced ease. The little creature squeaked and immediately burrowed into the front of his robe like it had done it a thousand times.
Mingxi sighed. “Auntie Li’s youngest,” he explained.
From behind a stall draped in dyed silks, a matronly fox-woman called out, “If that kit is bothering you again, Mingxi, just give him a tap on the ear! Teaches them respect!”
Mingxi’s ears twitched in horror. “No.”
Poppy pressed a hand to her mouth to hide her laugh—a real laugh, warm and startled. The sound surprised even her.
Auntie Li waved him off. “Spoiling them gets you nowhere! You were the worst of the lot when you were small.”
Mingxi closed his eyes, and Poppy sensed a long-suffering resignation.
“I was… adequate.”
