Page 14

Chapter 13

I t had been two days since I’d woken tangled in Kazrek’s arms, and we hadn’t spoken about it once. But his hand still found mine when no one was looking, and I hadn’t pulled away. That was something.

Now, the Everwood Night Market pressed in—loud, bright, alive—and I was back in my booth, pretending like everything hadn’t changed.

I adjusted a bottle of ink on the wooden display table, carefully arranging it alongside neatly bound journals and parchment stacks.

The festival had been an opportunity I couldn’t afford to pass up. With the extra coin, I could restock supplies for the shop, maybe even afford some repairs before winter settled in fully. But right now, as a steady stream of customers perused my wares, each demanding my attention, I wished I had thought this through better.

Maeve had been off with Kazrek for the past hour, an arrangement that had started as an attempt to keep her entertained but had, admittedly, made things easier for me. She adored him, and he hadn’t exactly said no when she pulled him toward the stalls with a bright-eyed plea.

I had just finished reorganizing a stack of parchment when they returned, Kazrek’s steady presence registering before I even saw him. I glanced up just as he set something on the counter in front of me—a pastry wrapped in parchment, golden syrup glistening under the lantern light.

“Eat,” he said simply.

I blinked at him, then at the pastry—an Elandor roll. I hadn’t had one since I was a girl.

Maeve appeared beside him, already licking sticky syrup from her fingers. “The baker says it tastes like home,” she announced, grinning.

I picked it up, tearing off a small piece, and pressing it past my lips. The warmth of it spread through me, something rich and sweet, something that tasted of old memories and quiet promises.

Kazrek gave a small nod, as if satisfied, then turned his attention to a passing customer, seamlessly shifting back into the rhythm of helping at the stall.

I exhaled and followed suit, focusing on restocking a set of quills, pushing aside the awareness of him. There were too many people, too many things to keep track of. The last thing I needed was to get caught up in him again.

A woman in a deep blue cloak approached the booth, running her fingers over the edge of a parchment roll. “Do you have ink strong enough to hold prophecy?” she asked, her voice smooth, unreadable.

“Depends on what you mean,” I replied. “I have arcane-binding ink. It holds enchantments well. But if you mean ink that predicts the future... that’s beyond my expertise.”

The woman smiled, though it was impossible to tell if she was amused or simply assessing. “Prediction and permanence are nearly the same thing when viewed from the right perspective.” She tapped a nail against the parchment, the sound oddly hollow beneath the market’s hum. “But perhaps arcane-binding ink will do.”

I reached beneath the stall, fingers brushing the familiar cool glass of ink vials stacked in neat rows. Selecting one with dark plum-colored liquid, I set it carefully before her. “This should serve whatever purpose you have in mind.”

She didn’t reach for it immediately. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her eyes—gray, like slate after rain—studying me with open curiosity. “Do you bind magic often, ink-maker?”

"Sometimes," I answered vaguely. My father had done it more than I ever had. I knew the methods—binding circles, sigils, the way certain inks held power better than others—but I didn’t like meddling with things I didn’t fully understand. That had always been Finn’s territory.

She hummed, finally picking up the vial and rolling it between her fingers. “And yet, magic clings to you.” Her gaze flicked toward Maeve, who was crouched beside the stall, tying a fallen ribbon into her hair. “To both of you.”

Kazrek shifted beside me, the movement subtle but unmistakably protective. If the woman noticed, she didn’t react.

Despite the prickle in my lungs, I forced my posture to remain steady. “Magic clings to a lot of people in Everwood,” I said carefully. “It’s hardly rare.”

She smiled, slow and knowing. “No. I suppose it’s not.” She reached into a small pouch at her waist and pulled out a pair of silver pieces, setting them on the counter. “A fair trade.”

I watched her retreat into the shifting currents of the crowd, the deep blue of her cloak swallowed by the glow of lantern light.

Kazrek’s voice cut through the remaining tension like a steady anchor. “Go walk for a while.”

I turned to him, frowning. “What?”

He gestured toward the crowd with his chin, his arms crossing over his broad chest. “Take Maeve and see the market. I’ll watch the booth.”

I stared at him, trying to gauge if he was serious. “And what, you’re suddenly an ink merchant?”

His mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “I can handle a few customers. You’ve been here for hours.”

Maeve, ever quick to latch onto an opportunity, perked up. “Oh! Can we go see the glassblowers, Ro?” She tugged at my sleeve, eyes shining with excitement. “And the fire dancers?”

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to refuse—out of habit, if nothing else. The shop, the stall, responsibility—I never left these things unattended. I didn’t know how to.

And yet…

Kazrek watching over our wares was different from asking a stranger. His whole presence was built on reliability and steadiness. If he said he'd take care of something, he would.

Still, I narrowed my eyes at him. “If you give away anything for free—”

“I won’t.”

“And if someone tries to haggle you down—”

He huffed a dry laugh. “They won’t.”

I exhaled, weighing my options. Maeve was practically bouncing beside me now, tugging me away from the stall with insistent hands.

“You."

Kazrek lifted a brow. "Me."

"Are far too useful,” I muttered, surrendering the two silver pieces into his palm. “In case you need change.”

His fingers brushed mine as he took the coins—deliberately, I realized. Not a fleeting touch, but one meant to linger just enough to remind me of what had been unfolding between us.

I pretended not to notice.

With a final glance at the stall, I let Maeve pull me into the market’s depths, her laughter curling through the cool night air like a ribbon.

Behind me, Kazrek settled into place, already watching over our little corner of the world like it was something worth guarding.

We moved through the market’s winding paths, Maeve tugging me forward with boundless enthusiasm. Her excitement was contagious enough that I let myself relax, just a little. Lanterns hung overhead like captured stars, their golden glow reflecting off swirling fabrics and flickering through the iridescent blown-glass figurines lined up at one stall.

“Look!” Maeve gasped, pulling me toward the glassblower’s stand. A great furnace roared behind the counter, where a woman wielded a long pipe, turning molten glass in the flames. Before our eyes, she shaped it into the delicate form of a bird, its wings outstretched mid-flight.

Maeve pressed close to the edge of the stall, eyes wide. “She’s making a sparrow,” she whispered, awed.

I found myself watching Maeve more than the craft itself, taking in the way the firelight danced across her features—the way wonder softened her usually sharp curiosity into something utterly childlike. That was the thing about Maeve. She wasn’t just magic in power—she was magic in the way she saw the world, in the way she could find enchantment in the simplest things.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

We wandered farther into the festival, past a stall where enchanted ribbons wove themselves into braids, past a shadow-puppeteer whose creatures seemed to move with minds of their own.

Maeve squealed as she caught sight of the fire dancers, their torches spinning in perfect arcs, the flames reflecting in her wide eyes. She pulled me forward without hesitation, weaving through the gathered crowd until we were close enough to feel the heat of the performance.

For a moment, I let everything else fall away—the responsibilities, the worries, the ever-present weight of the past. I let myself exist in this space, at Maeve’s side, feeling the pulse of the market around us. The flames painted shifting patterns of gold and orange across the cobblestones, their crackling warmth wrapping around us like an embrace.

Maeve clapped her hands together, bouncing on her toes. “I want to do that when I’m older,” she whispered, her voice full of awe.

I arched a brow. “You, tossing fire into the air? Seems a bit reckless.”

She grinned. “I’d be careful! Mostly.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s what worries me.”

The laughter between us lingered as the fire dancers spun through their final flourish, flames arching into the night like golden ribbons. The crowd erupted in applause, Maeve among them, her hands clapping with unfiltered delight.

“Alright, little spark,” I murmured, ruffling her hair. “We should head back before Kazrek starts thinking we’ve run off and left him with the stall forever.”

Maeve huffed a dramatic sigh, but she took my hand willingly enough as we wove back through the festival paths. The market was still alive with color and movement, though the crowd had thinned just enough to make walking easier.

I was already tallying the night’s earnings, thinking about what still needed packing, when Maeve tugged hard on my sleeve.

“Oooh, look at that one!” she gasped, pointing toward a stall crammed with magical trinkets and relics.

The vendor was an older man, his salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, his cloak a little too fine for a simple merchant. A salesman, through and through. He was in the middle of regaling a small crowd with some fantastical tale, gesturing grandly to a set of crystal pendants laid out before him.

“This fine amethyst,” he declared, holding up a glimmering purple stone wrapped in delicate gold filigree, “was enchanted by the lost Fae Lords of the western isles. It will grant you visions of your truest love—”

“Oh, that’s not true,” a woman in the crowd scoffed, shaking her head. “That’s just quartz dipped in dye.”

The merchant didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, but perhaps that’s just what the Fae want you to believe!”

Maeve giggled. I couldn’t help but smirk myself. The man was utterly full of it, but at least he was entertaining.

As I turned back to the table, my eyes landed on a delicate silver chain with a small emerald pendant—pretty, nothing remarkable, but I considered it for a moment. Maeve had been eyeing the jewelry stands all night, and it might make a good little keepsake.

The vendor noticed my interest instantly, leaning in with a knowing smile. “Ah, a fine choice, madam! That stone is said to ward off ill omens and protect one’s home.”

While the merchant prattled on, Maeve’s gaze had settled elsewhere—on a small, unremarkable bauble nestled among the other trinkets. A polished pendant of dark, glassy stone, its surface barely reflecting the lantern light. At first glance, it looked like onyx, maybe obsidian. But as I followed Maeve’s stare, something about it made my breath hitch.

The shadows inside it moved.

Not the way light might shift across a smooth surface. They writhed—coiling and twisting like ink dropped in water, stretching toward the edges of the stone before pulling inward again. A slow, pulsing rhythm, as if the thing inside it breathed.

I swallowed hard, forcing my expression to remain neutral as unease slithered down the back of my neck.

Maeve’s fingers twitched at her sides. She was entranced, her wide hazel eyes locked onto the pendant, her small body leaning forward like she was being drawn to it. A sharp whisper curled at the edges of my hearing—just below the hum of the market, just above the merchant’s next enthusiastic pitch.

Come closer.

My pulse lurched.

I needed to get the merchant’s attention, pull him away before he noticed Maeve. Before—

Maeve reached out.

“—and this, my dear,” the merchant continued, oblivious, “is particularly rare! A gift from a traveling scholar who—”

The moment Maeve’s small fingers brushed the pendant, a loud crack split the air.

A pulse of darkness shot outward from the stone, a shockwave rippling through the space between us. It wasn’t violent—not outwardly—but something unseen shifted, something wrong. The nearest lanterns flickered, their flames dimming as an unnatural chill passed through the air.

The merchant turned sharply, caught mid-sentence, blinking in confusion. “What in the—?”

I snatched up the pendant, shoving it into my palm, curling my fingers around the stone to block it from sight. Maeve barely had time to react, her gaze snapping up to mine, her breath fast and startled.

The merchant peered down at the display with a puzzled frown, rubbing his temples like he was trying to recall what he’d been saying. His eyes flicked over his wares, narrowing slightly. “Strange… Felt like a draft just now.” His voice carried mild confusion but not alarm—he hadn't noticed the shift. The way the world had tilted for a second, like a breath inhaled too sharply.

Maeve clung to my side, her fingers gripping the fabric of my sleeve. She was staring at the pendant in my clenched fist, her lips parted, eyes round with something too close to fear.

I needed to get her away from here.

Forcing a tight smile, I shoved a few coins onto the table. "We'll take this one," I said, my voice steady, practiced—making it sound like nothing had happened at all.

The merchant gave me an appraising look but shrugged, sweeping the coins into his palm. "Pleasure doing business with you," he said, already turning to the next curious customer, launching into another breathless tale of fae-ravaged kingdoms and enchanted relics.

With a guiding hand on Maeve's back, I maneuvered us out of the crowd and away from the stall, weaving through the shifting bodies and murmured conversations until the noise melted into something quieter.

Only when we were in the relative stillness of an alleyway behind a spice vendor’s cart did I stop, pressing my back against the cool brick and taking a deep, shaky breath.

Maeve looked up at me, the question already in her eyes. "Ro..." she whispered.

I opened my hand.

The stone lay motionless in my palm now, its surface dulled and lifeless compared to the writhing shadows it had held moments ago. But a deep crack had formed across its face. The lines curved and connected in a way that made my eyes want to slide away from it, forming a symbol I didn't recognize but that felt inherently wrong, like looking at something backward in a mirror.

"It spoke to me," Maeve whispered, her voice small but steady. She reached toward the stone but stopped just short of touching it again. "Like... like it knew me."

"The shadows know their own."

The voice sliced through the quiet. I whirled around, instinctively pushing Maeve behind me, to find the woman in blue standing at the alley's entrance.

"You have no idea what forces you're dealing with," she continued, her tone almost gentle.

My grip tightened around the stone. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Don't you?”

Ice slid down my spine. Maeve pressed closer to my side, and I could feel her trembling.

"What do you want?" I managed, keeping my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my throat.

"To help." She took a step forward, shadows pooling at her feet.

"Rowena."

Kazrek's voice cut through the tension like a blade. He filled the opposite end of the alley, his presence both reassuring and dangerous. He reached us in three long strides, his hand finding my shoulder, warm and steady. “Auntie Brindle felt the magic surge. What happened?”

The woman in blue didn’t seem startled by his arrival. If anything, her smile deepened as her slate-gray eyes flicked over him, assessing.

“A healer, then,” she mused. “How fitting.”

Kazrek didn’t react outwardly, but I felt it—the way his grip on my shoulder subtly firmed, the slight shift in his stance. A silent, steady warning that she was being measured just as much as she was measuring him.

She only hummed, like she’d found something amusing in his silence, and pulled something from her sleeve—a small, white stone that seemed to pulse with its own light. "When you're ready to listen, break this. I'll find you."

She let it fall. I caught it reflexively, and in that moment of distraction, she melted into the shadows as if she'd never been there at all.

I glanced at the mouth of the alley, then back at the stones in my palm. "We need to get out of here." My voice came out tight, controlled. "The booth—"

"Already packed up," Kazrek interrupted, his golden eyes studying my face. "Iris is watching our things."

Before I could protest or ask questions, he bent down and scooped Maeve into his arms. She went willingly, wrapping her small arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder. The sight of her seeking comfort from him so naturally made something in my chest ache.

Kazrek held out his free hand to me, palm up. An offering. A choice. I hesitated for only a heartbeat before sliding my fingers into his.

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded, letting him lead us through the shadows. The stones in my other hand seemed to pulse against my skin, a reminder of choices yet to be made, of dangers still lurking in the dark.

But for now, I held onto Kazrek's hand and let him guide me home.