I remember the summer he dared Kat to kiss a toad to “reverse his curse.” She chased him around the mill pond for hours after. He has a gift for worming his way into people’s lives—and a knack for pretending he doesn’t care. But I’ve seen him sneak apples for the hungry urchins who dart between market stalls. Once, when my mother was sick, he brought Kat and me a satchel of wildflowers and healing elixirs along with a note that said,Don’t give up hope.
His duality infuriates me. And I think he likes that.
“Selling off your enchanted beasts today? Or just the surplus?” he teases.
Somehow, that stupid grin of his loosens the cold knot in my gut. I laugh despite myself and toss him an apple, which he catches effortlessly. “Here—make yourself useful,” I quip. “Cut this into four slices, one for each horse.”
A fellow horse lover, Aaron does just that, tossing me a wink. My stomach flips in disgust. Ever since we were kids, he’s called Kat and me witches for our strange affinity with animals. It’s never stopped him from flirting with us, though—us and every other eligible maiden in Solmere.
Despite his wealth and station, Aaron isn’t useless. He works for the Council as a tracker, tasked with hunting down anyone who tries to escape justice—and he’s damn good at it. Once, he found a thief hiding in the Council’s own archives. Since then, solving cases has been his obsession.
“Have you heard about the winner today?” he asks.
I ignore him and adjust Ashwing’s cinch, careful not to pull it too tight. In another week or so, I won’t be able to ride her.
“As I was saying,” Aaron begins again, stepping in front of me so that I have to look at him, “the winner of today’s race has the right to ask the Council for one favor. Anything.” He grins. “Trader Max is racing to have his son released from prison. And I’m going to ask the Council to suspend modesty ordinances on the first day of each month.” His expression remains perfectly serious. “We can call it the New Moon observance.”
I roll my eyes. “Really? That’s your big request?” As if he keeps his clothes on more than he takes them off.
“Or,” he adds, leaning in conspiratorially, “maybe I’ll just demand that they name the west bridge after me. The Aaron Arch. Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Sounds like something I’d like to push you off of,” I mutter. “Then we can forever call it Aaron’s Memorial Bridge. ‘Here fell the most arrogant boy who ever lived.’”
He grins wider, crossing his arms and resting his hand on his disturbingly perfect jawline. “Anything taking my name in this city would vastly improve it.”
“Your endless humility never ceases to amaze me,” I say drily.
“Why, thank you!” He gives me a little mock-bow.
As we reach the stable, a thin, spectral figure appears at Aaron’s side, her silver-gray gown and eerie crimson sash standing out among the rough-spun tunics all around the livery.
Rosanne, daughter of the Oracle. The townsfolk call her eerie. The traders call her dangerous. But I’ve always just called her… unsettling. Even when we were younger, Rosanne never played. She never ran or laughed like the other girls. She simply watched. And sometimes, she whispered things that came true.
None of that ever stopped Aaron from befriending her. Their bond formed quietly, forged in the aftermath of loss. After Aaronand his brother lost their mother, Rosanne became a constant presence rather than something to fear.
Rosanne pauses at my side and leans in. “The night is red. Rings of flame. One will burn,” she whispers, her voice low enough that only I can hear. She straightens and smiles faintly, as if brushing off a trivial thought.
Then she brushes past me, her fingertips grazing my arm. My breath catches. Her hands are ice, but the chill runs deeper, as if it’s touched something… old… inside me.
“What does that mean?” I ask, but she’s already drifting away.
She doesn’t answer. She never does.
Rosanne is known for her spontaneous prophecies, fragments of fate dropped like ash from a flame. I still remember the day she predicted the barn fire. We were twelve. She wandered into the square and murmured something aboutsmoke chasing hooves.
That night, lightning struck our neighbor’s stable. Five horses were lost. No one believed her before, but after that, they feared her.
I never did, not exactly. But I learned to listen. And when she touched me, it felt like that same storm—contained, waiting—crackling just beneath my skin.
Though she has yet to inherit her mother’s official title, her words already send shivers down the townsfolk’s spines. Most people fear her, but Aaron never has. They’ve been inseparable since childhood—born of shared loss, held together by stubborn loyalty. A prophetess and her shadow.
Before I can ask again what she meant, the market bell tolls twice. It’s almost time.
The bells echo like thunder across the rooftops, sending a hush rippling through the crowd. People pour into the square, their expressions clashing, either bright with anticipation or dulled with dread.
The closer we ride to the city’s heart, the louder the world becomes. Bells toll from every district, calling worshipers to the temples along the Avenue of Faith. Smoke rises from thousands of censers, carrying incense and prayer and the stench of hypocrisy.
“They act like this doesn’t happen every other year,” Aaron says, falling into step beside me as I lead Ashwing through the crowd. “You’d think the gods themselves were descending,”
