My body is on autopilot, continuing to mist the herbs as I listen in. Then I realize I’ve been so caught up in their conversation, I’ve unintentionally drenched some of the plants.
I set the spray bottle down, retrieve my shears from my boot and begin to trim the stray stems and leaves.
Lucius scoffs. “You don’t get a scar like that if you lead an honest life.”
A scar.I startle, accidentally snipping the head off an aurora blossom. The blades slicing through the thick stem create a jarring sound, and Alaric looks up.
“Oh, Talia. I didn’t see you come in.”
“Morning, Alaric,” I reply, sweeping the severedblossom under a nearby wooden planter and stumbling numbly towards them. “I-I’m quite shocked to hear about that man’s death. You said he was … a merchant?”
Alaric scans the newspaper and shrugs. “That’s what it says. A jewel merchant. But he doesn’t look the part, I’ll tell you that.”
I edge towards the counter until I can discern the photo on the front page. I struggle to mask my horror. A man with a scar across his face, framed by light, straw-like hair. It’s him, my stalker from the Night Market. I sold him a stolen Necroseal, and now he’s dead.
The article swims in and out of focus before me.Merchant found dead. Suspected murder. Initial examination indicates poison, but Soulreaper involvement not ruled out.
I back away, feeling clammy and nauseous. Bile rises in my throat, and I have to force myself to breathe.
No need to panic. Weird coincidences happen all the time. He was clearly an unsavoury character. Who says his death has anything to do with the Necroseal?
At the thought of it, another kind of fear grips me. A powerful jewel like that is bound to pique the Principal Guard’s attention.
Assuming the merchant still had it in his possession when he died, they will have launched an investigation – and if they have an Astro elemental on their team, like Lucius with the power of retrocognition, they might be able to trace the ring back to me.
“Whatever the circumstances around this fellow’sdeath,” Alaric says, “if there is some kind of ruthless murderer on the loose in Stellargrove, you should refrain from walking alone at night, Talia.”
“You live with that baker sister of yours, don’t you? Down in the valley near the forest?” asks Lucius, acting like he doesn’t know Elara by name.
Back when our parents passed away, he still served as the village astrologer, and we found ourselves in numerous counselling sessions with him. I had hated them. He was always prying into the raw, private moments Elara and I shared, huddling together in bed as we cried ourselves to sleep.
“I’ll be fine,” I insist, smoothing my apron with shaky hands. “I know how to take care of myself.”
Dallard cocks a sceptical brow but doesn’t say anything. My heart hammers against my ribs as I rearrange the tonic shelves, trying to listen in on the rest of the men’s discussion, in case they have more information on the story. But they seem to have flipped the page in the newspaper and are now discussing the ballot results of the Reckoning.
Dallard pokes at the newspaper with a stocky finger. “Only one privately trained pair in the Reckoning this year.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” says Alaric. “The privately trained pairs were the first to go in the last tournament. Didn’t have the same grit as the Academy-trained folk…”
“Grit?” Lucius guffaws. “What distinguishes the Academy-trained from the rest is not mere pluck, butrigorous discipline and training. I notice the daughter of that famous sandshaper in the Principal Guard is among the competitors. Savannah Dlamini, if I’m not mistaken. That’s where my wager lies.”
“I’m betting on these two.” Alaric points at the ballot. “Gigi and Gunther Beck. A pair of twins, both Pyros, with a stack of inter-Academy endurance trophies to their names. Heard they won this year’s Inferno Challenge. The only team to keep their flames burning through fierce winds and torrential rain.”
“I think it’s rubbish they’re having twenty-four teams compete this year,” Dallard complains. “I’ve seen five Reckonings in my lifetime, and twelve teams is the tradition.”
“The tides of tradition have shifted, old friend.” Alaric rolls a peppermint leaf between his teeth, and it takes me a moment to recognize his words. They’re a quote from the most recent instalment of the Games Master’s Post. “It’s a bit of honorary fun. We’ve had three hundred Stellar Years of ordinance, after all.”
While the men grumble on, lamenting change and bickering over how they’d have fared as competitors in their youth, my mind inevitably drifts back to the dead stranger. More specifically, the stolen Necroseal he bought from me.
I bite my lower lip. It’s a horrible, wicked thought, but I hope whoever killed the merchant took the ring.
My stomach twists. How could I have been so reckless?Peddling stolen jewels to a stranger. My instincts warned me about him, but I brushed them aside. Now, who knows what kind of mess I’ve landed myself in? I hope the merchant didn’t have any family.
I’m still cursing my stupidity when the shop door bangs open, the bell’s loud jangle nearly making me drop a glass vial in my hand.
The vial, filled with a swirling red tonic, slips slightly in my fingers before I tighten my grip, heart racing. For a moment, I’m convinced it’s the Principal Guard bursting in, ready to haul me away. But it’s not.
It’s James, Alaric’s son. And you don’t have to be an Emo to tell he’s not coming with good news. His face is a fiery red like he’s been running, and beads of sweat are gathering on his forehead.
