Page 6 of A Fate in Flames

“What in the Heavens has broughtthemhere?”she muttered, just loud enough for nearby ears.

King Farden was as useless as ruler could be.Tales of his wealth and gleaming palaces were known to all, not that his prosperity ever trickled down to us.The people here, especially the elders, harboured deep grudges against the royals.When illness had swept through our village, no aid had been sent.No healers spared for those who needed it most.

My hands curled into fists at my side, resentment festering at the thought.

I had lost my father to that illness, his final days spent shivering on sweat-soaked bedding.Theo, now standing with his arms braced tight against his chest, had lostbothparents.

The scarred guard must’ve heard the woman, because he stopped abruptly, boots scrapping against the dirt as he pivoted to face her.

Unfortunately, she stood right behind me.

He stood so close I could see the small details of the king’s sigil embossed on his chest piece in burnished bronze—a falcon with wings spread wide, clutching a crescent moon in its talons.A thick burgundy sash was tied at his waist, representing the king’s colour.

The snarl etched into his face was lethal, deepening his scar into a grotesque valley.His eyes—one brown, one slightly clouded—swept over me dismissively before fixing on the elder woman.

I stole a glance over my shoulder where she stood firm, hands braced on her plump hips and chin tilted upward in defiance.

I wanted to laugh.She reminded me so much of my mother.

The guard simply shook his head, a muscle in his jaw twitching.With a grunt that might’ve been out of disgust, he continued forward.His heavy boots faded as the market gradually roared back to life.

The guards didn’t care about us, and from the way people resumed their business as if they had never interrupted, the feeling was mutual.

I turned back to Theo, grabbing his forearm to pull him along, I quickened my pace, dodging the group of children who had circled back, chasing after a small kitten that darted between stalls.

I motioned toward a group of young women watching him from a distance, their gazes filled with a mix of desire and envy.

“Look at them, Theo,” I said, placing the back of my hand against my forehead.“Swooning.”

He turned his head dramatically, as if only now noticing his admirers.He straightened his back, rolled his shoulders and with exaggerated flair, spun in a small circle.

“Do you blame them?”he asked, flashing a smug grin.“I mean… look at me.I’mgorgeous.”

“Ha!”I scoffed.“Sure, if you like thatobvioustype of beauty.You know, the kind that requires no imagination whatsoever.”

And hewasbeautiful, in the way that made people stop and stare without realising it.Tall and broad-shouldered, with a frame built for battle.His light brown hair—now tied back in a careless knot—had streaks of gold from weeks under the sun.It was the kind of effortless handsomeness that only irritated me more, especially when he knew exactly the effect he had.

He slung his arm around my shoulders, and I immediately pried it off, shoving him away.

I couldfeelthe daggers being glared into my back, a sensation so familiar I could identify it without turning around.Even though everyone in the village knew we were nothing more than childhood friends, it didn’t stop the jealous stares.Even as children, girls would throw mud at me for the crime of being thechosen one—the only person Theo wanted to play with.

“Heavens above,” I muttered, hunching my shoulders as we passed a group of particularly venomous-looking women.“If looks could kill, I’d have been buried a thousand times over.”

“Again,” Theo said, spinning in another slow, self-satisfied circle.“Can you blame them?”

I rolled my eyes and kept walking.“I can, and I will.”

He fell into step beside me once more, his gaze drifting over the sea of bustling stalls like a hawk.“Where’s Malira?”

“She’s probably haggling some poor merchant to death,” I said, standing on tiptoe to scan for her.“You know how she gets when the traders come.”

Theo nodded.“Ahh, yes.The art of bargaining.A sacred tradition passed down through generations of formidable women.”

“More like a public execution.I’ve seen merchants weep after dealing with my mother.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration.My mother could talk a man down from gold to copper with nothing more than sheer determination and an arched brow.She called it a gift.I called it a slow, agonising death for whoever had the misfortune of selling her anything.

We stopped at a stall where an old woman with henna-stained fingers arranged delicate pastries on a tray.The fragrance of honey and cardamon drawing me in.