Page 4

A week passed like water through cupped hands—not fast, exactly, but steady.

Impossible to hold. The archives settled into my bones day by day, and the dust, quiet, and scratch of quills became as familiar as breath.

Ellie grew used to the rhythm, too. She'd sleep through my morning cleaning, wake for a feed when the light hit the east windows, then doze again until lunch.

I learned the rules without being told. Which shelves hummed. Where not to touch. How to move around Edwin's scattered mess of papers without disturbing his system. Even Fira's scowl softened, though she'd never admit it.

The people I’d met were kind in ways I didn't know how to accept. Gruha slipped extra portions onto my plate at breakfast, watching with sharp eyes until I finished. A few days in, she handed me a brass key without comment and nodded toward the back stairwell. “Try not to set the mattress on fire,” was all she said. I’d been sleeping on a cot in the shared room, behind a folding screen near the hearth, but that night, I carried Ellie upstairs to a narrow room with a door that closed and a window that looked east. Small. Quiet. Ours.

Dora appeared one evening with a woolen hat for Ellie—far too big, but "she'll grow into it soon enough, won't she?"

Even Fira started leaving small things behind—never handed over, never explained.

A rattle tucked beside the return basket.

A folded scrap of flannel that somehow ended up in my satchel.

Once, a little tin of salve for cracked knuckles, set neatly on the windowsill with no note.

When I glanced up at her, she just muttered something about “clutter in the drawer” and walked off.

It scared me sometimes. How easy it would be to trust this. To believe we were safe.

The last bell had just rung when Edwin limped around the corner of Shelf Eight, a fresh ink stain blooming across his sleeve.

"Heading out?" he asked.

I nodded, already wrapping Ellie closer against the evening chill. She was awake but quiet, one tiny hand curled against my collar.

"Good work on the catalogs today." He scratched his chin, leaving a new smudge of black across it.

I slipped out the front door. The evening air hit my face like cool water, and Ellie made a small sound of protest before burrowing deeper into the plum wrap.

"Issy!"

I tensed, then relaxed. Leilan stood at the corner, silver hair catching the last light. She had a basket hooked over one arm and a wool shawl drawn tight against the wind.

"I thought-" she started, then paused. Shifted her weight. "I'm heading to the market. If you wanted to come?"

My first instinct was no. Always no. The market meant people, eyes, questions. But I needed cloth for Ellie's diapers. Soap too. And my first week's pay sat heavy in my pocket.

"Just for a little while," Leilan added, like she could read my hesitation. "The cloth merchant stays open late on market days."

I glanced down at Ellie. She was alert now, watching the world with those solemn eyes that sometimes startled me with how much they saw and how quiet they were.

"Alright," I said. "But not long."

Leilan nodded, falling into step beside me as we turned toward the market. She didn't try to fill the silence with chatter, and I was grateful for that.

The market square opened up ahead of us like a bright wound in the dimming day. Lanterns strung between buildings cast pools of golden light across merchant stalls and wandering crowds. The air smelled of fresh bread and roasted nuts, woodsmoke and dried herbs, the sharp tang of winter approaching.

"The cloth merchant's this way," Leilan said, guiding us past a cart laden with steaming sweet buns. "She has good prices, especially near closing."

I followed, pressing one hand to Ellie's back through the wrap. She was watching everything, her little head turning to track the colors and movement around us. A child ran past with a wooden toy that sparked and fizzed, and Ellie's eyes went wide.

The fabric stall was tucked between a spice merchant and a charm-maker's booth. Bolts of cloth lined the walls in neat rows: linens, wool, soft cotton dyed in practical colors. The merchant was a short woman with strong arms and quick eyes. She nodded at Leilan like they knew each other.

"What's your need?" she asked me directly.

"Cloth for diapers," I said. "And maybe something warmer for wrapping."

She pulled down several bolts of fabric, laying them across her counter with practiced efficiency. "This one's good for soaking," she said, indicating a cream-colored cotton. "And this wool blend will keep warm without getting too heavy. Three silvers for both, cut to size."

I counted coins in my head. It would leave enough for soap, maybe a bit of dried fruit if I was careful. I nodded.

A small figure darted past the stall, barely reaching the height of the counter. A halfling child, maybe four or five, stopped and stared up at me with wide eyes.

"Is that a cabbage?" she asked, pointing at Ellie's wrapped form.

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it—short, startled, but real. Ellie chose that moment to peek her head out, and the child gasped in delight.

The merchant started measuring and cutting the fabric while I counted out coins. The weight of silver leaving my palm still made my chest tighten, but having something to show for it helped. Ellie would need these things. That made it worth it.

"Here," Leilan said suddenly, reaching past me to drop two coppers on the counter. "For a bit of that yellow flannel, too. Babies need soft things."

"You don't have to—"

"I know." She shrugged. "But I want to."

The words stuck in my throat. Kindness was still the hardest thing to swallow.

We moved from the fabric stall to a row of food vendors, the evening crowd thinning enough that I could breathe easier. Leilan bought roasted chestnuts wrapped in paper. When she offered me some, I took them.

"The nut seller's grandson is sweet on her," Leilan whispered, nodding toward the merchant's daughter at the soap stall. "Brings her fresh flowers every morning, even though his grandmother says it's a waste of coin."

I watched the young woman arrange her wares, careful hands stacking squares of lavender soap into neat pyramids. She was humming something, cheeks pink from more than just the cool air. It felt strange to know these little stories, these threads of other people's lives.

Ellie started to fuss, making those little sounds that meant she was hungry. I found a quiet corner near the bakery, its wall still warm from the day's ovens. While I settled to feed her, Leilan disappeared briefly and returned with something wrapped in wax paper.

"Honey cake," she said, breaking off a corner. "They're best when they're still warm."

The sweetness bloomed across my tongue—not the refined sugar of court desserts, but something earthier. Wild honey and oats, maybe a hint of nutmeg. I broke off a tiny piece and touched it to Ellie's lips. She blinked at the taste, then grabbed for more with surprising determination.

"She knows what's good," Leilan said, laughing. "Smart girl."

I wiped a crumb from Ellie's chin. "Too smart sometimes. She watches everything."

"Like her mother."

I stilled. But there was no edge to Leilan's words, no hidden barb. Just that same gentle observation she brought to everything.

The market lamps were being lit one by one, magic catching in glass globes like captured stars.

A street musician had set up near the fountain, playing something slow and sweet on pipes that gleamed copper in the falling dark.

For just a moment, I let myself believe in ordinary things.

In markets and music. In the way Ellie's hand curled against my chest, trusting and warm.

In friends who bought honey cakes just because.

A gust of wind stirred the scent of roasting meat and ash, tugging at the hem of my coat. I pulled it closer around us. Ellie was still nursing, her small hand curled around the edge of my collar, half-asleep again.

Leilan nudged my arm with her elbow, subtle. “They’ve got juniper soap over there. And wild mint.” She pointed to a stall, its shelves stacked in neat rows. “Want to try it?”

I hesitated. I had enough soap, barely. But that wasn’t why I paused. Something itched at the base of my skull. A low thrum of awareness I couldn’t quite place. I looked over my shoulder.

Nothing. Just the swell of people moving through the square, laughter rising in pockets, the clink of coin and the call of vendors. A dog barking near the baker’s cart. A child whining over a lost sweet.

I shook it off. “Maybe next time,” I murmured.

Leilan nodded and didn’t press. We gathered our things, Ellie now snug and dozing again in the plum sling, her breath steady against my chest. I reached to tighten the knot across my shoulder.

That’s when the voice came.

“Mrs. Duskryn.”

It felt like someone had stepped on my chest.

I didn’t turn right away. The name hung there, sharp and cold, cutting through the warm weave of evening noise like a wire pulled too tight. Duskryn. My married name.

“Mrs. Isolde Duskryn,” the voice said again, warmer this time, confident in its familiarity. “Don’t be shy.”

I looked.

He stood just behind a spice stall’s flapping canvas, the hem of his dark robes dusty from travel, but the golden embroidery clear enough. The clasp at his throat bore the twofold flame insignia: Order of Renewal. Not high-ranked, not political. A courier, maybe, or a tracker.

“Mr. Duskryn has been looking for you,” the man said. “Both of you.” His gaze slipped to Ellie, sleeping against my chest.

I stepped back instinctively. Leilan shifted beside me, her basket swinging slightly as she turned.

“You’re mistaken,” I managed, my voice too steady to be honest. “I filed my separation with the Hearth Office. I’m under protection.”

The man’s smile didn’t change. “You know protections like that don’t extend beyond city limits. And they certainly don’t outweigh a bond sealed by council and blood.” He moved forward slowly, like a herder drawing a gate closed.

“I’ve done everything I’m supposed to,” I said. “You have no right to touch me.”

He leaned in, his smile sharpening. “The Order answers to Elandiel’s High Seat, not border cities with bleeding hearts.”

His hand shot out, gripping my forearm, dragging me forward.

Leilan grabbed my other arm. "Let her go."

"How dare you—" he started, but his words cut off as shadows shifted behind him.

An orc stood there, massive and still. He'd been at the blacksmith's stall earlier—I remembered glimpsing him through the crowd, noting how other patrons gave him space. Now, his golden eyes swept over the scene with dangerous calm before landing on me. He looked straight at me. Then Ellie. His hand moved to his sword—but he didn’t draw it. Not yet.

That's when it clicked.

Natural law. That's what Edwin had been reading about yesterday—ancient rules older than paper and seals. The kind that recognized blood and bone and wildness. The kind that made even the Order pause.

Mating bonds superseded foreign contracts. Everyone knew that. Even Gavriel's pet bureaucrats couldn't argue with magic that predated their precious councils.

The words rose from somewhere deeper than thought. "You can't take me," I said. "He won't let you."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

I gestured to the orc. "My mate."

The silence that followed felt like glass about to break.

The man blinked. I could see him calculating—weighing the cost of challenging such a claim. But then the orc stepped forward and slung one arm around my shoulders, warm and solid as stone.

"Problem?" he asked, voice low and rough like gravel.

The tracker's face went slack. He looked between us, then at the arm draped possessively across my shoulders, then at the sword still resting easy at the orc's hip.

"You'd be wise," the orc continued, his voice deceptively casual, "to remove your hand from my mate's arm."

The tracker's fingers uncurled from my sleeve. He took a step back, straightening his robes with affected dignity. "This... arrangement will need to be verified. Through proper channels."

"By all means," the orc replied. His arm stayed steady around my shoulders, thumb brushing once against my collar in a gesture that looked instinctive to any observer. "File your papers. Make your inquiries. But touch her again, and we'll have a different conversation entirely."

The threat in his voice was subtle but unmistakable. The tracker's face paled slightly.

"The Order will hear about this," he muttered, but he was already backing away. "Mr. Duskryn will want to review the situation personally."

"I'm sure he'll enjoy the paperwork," the orc said dryly.

The tracker disappeared into the thinning crowd, his dark robes melting into shadow between merchant stalls. Only when he was completely gone did the orc's arm slip from my shoulders.

"So," he said, turning to face me. His golden eyes were unreadable in the lamplight. "My lovely mate..."

He paused, and I could feel the weight of the question before he asked it.

"Want to tell me what that was about?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Because for the first time in months, I didn’t know what the safest lie was.