“Separated how? Here in town? Along the coast?” His gaze flicked past her shoulder, scanning the street as though her husband might stumble into view.
Ilys’s throat tightened. “No—near the border.”
“The border?” His brows knit, fire sparking behind his green-gold eyes. “Gods. With the fighting there…” He swore under his breath, eyes searching hers again. “Was he taken? Drafted? Hurt?”
Her pulse tripped. The story she had whispered to herself now pressed down on her chest, demanding more shape, more flesh. “We lost one another on the road,” she confessed falsely. “There was shouting…smoke. I do not know if he—” She let her voice tremble, let the unfinished thought hang heavy between them.
“Come,” he urged, already half-turning as though to lead her. “My uncle is well connected with the guard. He’ll send word, and we’ll know if your husband’s passed through anywhere.”
The earnest promise struck deep in Ilys, warming her despite herself.Was this truly how people treated one another?Or was it only because she was a woman alone and adrift?
Her gaze studied him, and the illusion faltered. He looked nothing like Baron, not really. Different jaw, different eyes,different voice. She admitted, grudgingly, that his selfless urgency, the way he leapt into action without hesitation, was…attractive.
Arriving at a cramped dockside storefront, the man slid a scrap of parchment and a stub of charcoal toward her.
“Write down his name. His appearance. Anything that will help.”
Ilys stalled, the false story snagging in her throat. She had not meant it to carry this far. Her fingers hovered over the parchment, stiff and unwilling. His expectant gaze pressed down on her until she bent to write.
Jorrin.The name came first, sharp as a wound.
She paused, heart hammering, and added a surname her mind seized on in desperation, one she had heard Baron mutter once when cursing a guard captain.Marrek.Jorrin Marrek. The letters looked wrong, alien, but the lie was sealed.
The man leaned close, scanning the name, and gave a short, decisive nod. “I’ll get this to my uncle. He’ll see it reaches the guards.”
He looked back at her. “Where are you staying?”
Ilys’s stomach knotted. “Nowhere. My husband has all our coin.”
His brow furrowed. He studied her a moment longer, wary but not unkind. “Perhaps my sister can house you for the night. I’ll ask her.”
Relief washed through her, though she bowed her head with feigned humility. Inside, she cursed Death bitterly for not giving her even a single coin to shore up the ruse.
The man folded the parchment into his jacket. “Stay near the market. I’ll find you in a bit.”
“Wait,” she called, and he turned back. “Your name?”
“Owin,” he answered. “Yours?”
Ilys hesitated, her mind scraping for another lie, another mask to wear. But she was tired and unpracticed in the art of make-pretend.
“Ilys,” she said at last. No one outside the castle would recognize it, she assured herself.
Owin gave a short nod. “Stay near the market. I’ll find you soon.” And then he was gone, leaving her with the smell of salt and tar thick in the air.
Ilys wandered the market, attempting conversation with vendors. At first they greeted her readily enough, but the moment they realized she carried no coin, their warmth vanished. She felt the shift each time, the polite smile turning brittle, the tone growing curt.
She drifted farther down the road, murmuring to herself that she would return in a bit. Surely Owin would not come back so soon. The market noise faded behind her as the sea opened before her, vast and endless. She had never seen the coast before. Never seen water stretch beyond the horizon, swallowing the sky. On impulse, she stooped to pick up a stone, skipping it across the surface until it vanished. The gesture felt foreign, childlike, but she couldn’t help herself. She slipped her boots off and waded in until the cold lapped at her toes. Her thoughts turned to Grim, and she spoke to him in her mind.It’s just like you described,she noted.It’s perfect.
The sea spray kissed her face, and she smiled, eyes stinging from the salt. She loved the roar of the waves, how it drowned out everything else. The ocean was a jealous creature, she thought: loud, consuming, demanding her whole attention.Youwill feel me. You will hear me. You will know me,the waves seemed to say, each crash against the rocks a promise. And she let it take her; hair whipped by the wind, skirts dampened by spray, the sea’s cold insistence drawing her wholly into the moment.
A palm on her shoulder plucked her back into reality. She turned and found it belonged to Owin.
“You look like a sea witch,” he teased with a quick laugh. How long had he been standing there, watching? Her expression must have betrayed the thought, because he added quickly, “Sorry. I did’na mean to startle you.”
He stepped up beside her, gazing out at the waves. “My uncle’s already sent word. We’ll hear soon enough. And, my sister agreed to put you up for a couple nights.” He tilted his head, considering. “She’s a bit ornery, but she’s decent.”
Ilys thanked him, startled at how natural the words sounded on her tongue.
