When I wake next, the early-morning sun is spearing in through the window. My head is no longer throbbing and invisible nails are no longer clawing at the back of my neck. Taron must be awake. I turn over and look at the bed, but he’s not there.
I push myself upright, ignoring the crick in my neck from the hard ledge. Did he leave? Did it all become too much for him and he decided to flee?
But then the washroom door opens to free a billow of steam, and Taron walks through in a towel. He holds it together at his waist with one hand, while he ruffles his hair with the other.
“Oh … good morning,” I say, turning away to look out of the window before he can see the blush creeping into my cheeks.
The glass captures his silhouette against the warm light beyond. The sharp angles of his shoulders and collarbone stand out, and his skin gleams faintly with drops of water.
The lines of old scars and new bruises interrupt the smoothness. I’m intrigued. More than I should be. I hope he doesn’t notice.
“Get ready,” is all he says, pulling his clothes on behind me. “I’m starving.”
*
Fifteen minutes later, I’m navigating the busy marketplace of Rava.
It’s a sea of stalls that winds through the narrow streets towards the harbour, its tented canopies made of vibrant canvases in blue, pink, orange and red. It feels like a living, breathing entity: merchants bartering, children’s laughter echoing down the alleys, and spectators gasping at street performers re-enacting battles from Reckonings long past.
“Witness the Reckoning of Stellar Year 1180,” the lead performer bellows, brandishing a wooden sword painted gold to mimic a Helio’s blade made of light.
They leap on to a stack of crates and proceed to face off against another performer, whose twirling green ribbons represent vines controlled by a Flora. A third performer pretends to be injured on the ground. I can only assume the red pom-poms tied around their wrists are meant to be a Pyro’s flames. The battle ends with the Helio performer stabbing the Flora’s chest with their wooden sword.
“Our champions,” they announce, helping the Pyro to their feet, “are two strangers, thrust together by their fathers, both respected Solaran generals of the Principal Guard. Wielders of light and fire, together they conquered Aurora Isle and wished for eternal prosperity to bless their two homes. Wealth. Power. Influence. The family names Caelum and Ashen have thrived ever since. Their names are etched into legend, for generations to envy.”
It’s a tale I’ve heard many a time over the years, though not in the sweet, homespun way the performers tell it now.
There are darker whispers about the Reckoning of 1180, twenty Stellar Years ago. About another team, besides the winners, that returned alive but broken.
The team were a boy and a girl. The girl is said to have vanished shortly afterwards, never to be seen again, while her teammate refused to speak another word about the tournament. He is meant to have settled in a village not far from Rava, a hollowed-out shadow of himself, scarred in ways that couldn’t be seen but that still, after all these Stellar Years, lingered in his eyes.
I watch the performers only a little longer, just in time for the ending.
“Victory belongs to the brave!” cries the lead performer amid another exaggerated clash, and the crowd swells with applause.
Victory belongs to those foolish enough to think they’re brave, I think.
Taron shifts restlessly beside me, and I hurry after him through the market. Shoppers are crowding all around us to buy the morning’s freshest produce. Fruits and vegetables hailing from across the three principalities, some of which I’ve never seen before.
I frown at something labelled a cacti nectar – a small reddish fruit vaguely resembling an orange, with a knobbly peel and spikes like a cactus. I’m almost tempted to try it, but I’m too exhausted to think about eating, and my stomach is knotted with anxiety at the thought of what lies ahead.
Tonight is the dreaded Obsidian Banquet. And then tomorrow … Taron said the competitors will all be sailing to the island. I’ve never been at sea – I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stomach it.
I slowly shuffle after him, pushing the thought from my mind as we weave further through the market.
We pass a street-food stall, where one of the vendors is making a show of dishing pulled pork into bread bowls for customers. He slathers them one by one with a thick reddish-brown sauce. A second vendor is crouched by a fire pit, rotating a hog on a skewer. She loads some unlit coals on to the pit, and her hands dance through the flames, using her Pyro talents to stoke the fire.
Taron stops a little further down at a stall that smells of freshly baked milk bread. He digs out a coin and hands it over in exchange for a few rolls.
“I’m not hungry,” I say when he offers me one.
“You have to eat.”
I half-heartedly accept it, forcing myself to chew as I study the next stall, arranged with wooden bowls filled to the brim with colourful spices.
Before, a place like this would’ve seen me sneaking past to pinch handfuls of Elara’s favourites. It used to be a natural instinct – stealing. But now, the thought disgusts me, making my skin crawl.
Taron hungrily polishes off a bun before immediately starting on another.
