I’d slipped from training by the skin of my teeth, ducking out before Callum or Duke could tack on another twenty-milecool down.
For once there was no summons for Elva, no duties nagging at my heels. Just the village center, spread open before me, humming with market chatter and a rare calm I could almost call peace.
Almost.
Scales slipped across my eyelids, never quite content with the quiet.
A melody floated across the square, winding itself through shafts of sunlight. I followed it, drawn as if by spell, to where a woman stood near the ruined statue of the king, still half drowned in the fountain’s pool.
How terribly tragic.
The singer's coiled hair sprang from the plum fabric draped around her head, her olive skin blushed and aged.
Disappointment pricked when I realized it wasn’t Nezra, the ache of questions still unanswered lodging in my gut.
Her song brightened while she spat on the exposed marble face of Obrann, not missing a note.
My mouth curved, but only when I was certain no guards had noticed.
Good.
Rebellion wore many faces, and this one sang beautifully.
The grin lingered as I turned away. Let them try to smother fire like that, it would only find new voices, new flames.
A bell chimed just ahead, tugging my attention from the fountain and toward a crooked sign swinging above the doorway:Pastries…& wine.The&scribbled in like a drunk’s afterthought.
Oh, itwasa glorious day.
The jingle came again as I stepped inside, the air lavished in cinnamon and vanilla, stitched with the tang of fermented berries. The scent hit like a joyful slap to the face.
This was where Duke had gotten a cinnamon bun the other day. My stomach roared awake, erasing the ache of training. I kissed three fingers, lifting them skyward, and thanked the gods for their rare generosity.
Gemma and I sat outside her cottage, the little home tucked into bricks and forest, swallowed by green. It sat farther back than most, giving her garden the space it demanded, rows of herbs and roots, each sprouting in tidy lines.
Around it shimmered a faint dome, light catching just right to show its thin, delicate film. A shield of safety. A necessity, so Gemma’s remedies could survive the winter.
Obrann had allowed her that much. Only because one day he might need her if he fell ill, or if he was poisoned.
Gods forbid. The thought was as sweet as the pastry melting on my tongue.
The icing left a faint sheen on my fingertips, a subtle glaze that I licked clean as my head tipped back, sunlight seeping into every scrap of skin the chill hadn’t stolen.
Gemma chuckled low, a hand sliding across mine, thumb pressing three soft taps before slipping away. “It has been a long while since I’ve had something so delightful.” She rose, smoothing the folds of her skirt, tugging her fur-lined cloak closer around her frame. “Thank you, my girl.”
I blew her a lazy kiss in fondness.
A pounding shattered our peace, a fist hammering at the door, hard enough to shake the frame.
Gemma stilled, her hand braced on the back of her chair.
I was already moving, a shroud between her and the sound. “Were you expecting a patient?”
Silver strands slipped loose across her cheek. “No, not for hours.”
The pounding came again, rattling the hinges. She slipped past me, calm as ever, through the back door and into the honey-warm kitchen.
I caught her arm. “No, wait—”
