Page 9

9

HARMONY

T he zarryn's hooves beat a frantic rhythm beneath me as I urge her faster. The silver mare snorts, tossing her shaggy mane as we crest another hill. My hands are raw against the reins, knuckles white, but I can't slow down. Not yet.

"Just a little farther," I whisper, leaning close to her ear. "Please."

The beast senses my desperation. She's a good animal, better than I deserve after stealing her from Lord Arkan's stable. Another betrayal to add to my growing list.

I didn't plan it—hadn't planned any of this. But when the sun crept toward the horizon and I still hadn't closed my eyes, the walls of my quarters felt like they were crushing inward. The memory of Adellum's lips against that xaphan woman's played on endless repeat behind my eyelids.

It only took three minutes to decide. Five to gather my meager possessions. Another ten to saddle the zarryn while the stable boy snored in the corner.

I glance over my shoulder. New Solas still shimmers in the distance, a glittering jewel against the dawn sky. Golden spires catch the first rays of sunlight, making the xaphan city look even more divine than usual. My chest tightens. Each mile I put between us makes breathing harder, not easier.

"This is the right choice," I tell myself, though the words sound hollow even to my ears.

The zarryn's pace slows as we reach a crossroads. South leads deeper into human territories. North back to everything I'm running from. For a moment, I hesitate. My practical side—the one that survived an orphaned childhood, that clawed out a respectable position in a noble household—screams to turn around. To find Adellum and demand explanations.

But the raw, bleeding part of me, the part that watched him with another woman, yanks the reins south.

The roads grow narrower as morning stretches into afternoon. The grand paved roads of New Solas give way to packed dirt tracks winding between fields golden with harvest. My shoulders ache. My heart feels like a stone in my chest.

"You're smart," I mutter to myself, brushing sweat-dampened curls from my face. "You're practical." The mantra doesn't help. Nothing helps.

I'm not sure how long I travel. I keep going, farther south, until I'm nearly out of supplies. And then, one morning, a beautiful village emerges from between gently rolling hills, the sun hangs low in the west. The zarryn's silver coat is dark with sweat, her two tails drooping with exhaustion. My own body feels hollowed out, scraped raw.

The village spreads before me like something from a storybook, nestled between fields and a lazy, wide river. Stone cottages with thatched roofs line cobbled streets worn smooth by generations of feet. Lanterns flicker to life as twilight approaches, their warm glow spilling from windows.

I dismount stiffly at the village square, leading the tired zarryn to a trough. My legs nearly buckle beneath me. How many hours in the saddle? I've lost count.

"You look like you've been riding since before the gods woke up," a voice calls.

An older woman approaches, her face lined with sun and laughter. She carries a basket of wildflowers, their scent sweet and heady in the evening air.

"I have," I admit, suddenly conscious of my disheveled appearance—hair escaping its scarf, dirt smudging my cheeks.

"Runaway bride?" she asks, eyes twinkling.

The question hits too close. I look away. "Just... running."

She nods, seeming to understand more than I've said. "Got a place to stay?"

I shake my head.

"Marda takes boarders above her restaurant. First corner past the well." She gestures with weathered hands. "Tell her Elsie sent you. And girl?"

I meet her eyes, startled by the kindness there.

"Whatever you're running from, it won't chase you here. Saufort's good at keeping secrets."

Something in my chest loosens, just slightly. I manage a nod of thanks before leading the zarryn toward the indicated corner.

The village moves at a pace that feels ancient. People nod as I pass, curious but not intrusive. A group of children chase each other across my path, laughing. A man stacks pottery outside his workshop, each piece glazed in colors that mirror the sunset.

For the first time since leaving New Solas, I take a full breath. The air smells of earth and river water, of baking bread and herbs from nearby fields. It smells nothing like the perfumed gardens of Lord Arkan's estate. Nothing like Adellum's paint-stained hands.

I tie the zarryn up so I don't lose all my belongings in one go. As I approach the building, I whisper to myself, "You are brave."

This time, I almost believe it.

I push open the heavy oak door of the restaurant, the scent of herbs and roasting meat wrapping around me like a warm embrace. Inside, long wooden tables line the room, scarred from years of use and glossy with polish. The few patrons—local farmers by the look of them—glance up briefly before returning to their meals.

"Be right with you!" calls a voice from behind a swinging half-door that must lead to the kitchen.

I stand awkwardly, not sure how this will go. The long journey sits heavy in my bones, and all I want is a bed—any bed—and the oblivion of sleep.

The kitchen door swings open and a woman emerges, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. She's round and solid-looking, with streaks of gray in her dark hair and laugh lines framing her mouth. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, travel from my dusty boots to my windblown hair.

"Well," she says, crossing her arms. "You look like you've been dragged backward through The Ridge by your ankles."

Despite everything, my lips twitch. "Not quite that bad. A woman named Elsie said you might have a room to let."

"Elsie, hmm?" Her gaze softens slightly. "Old busybody. Always sending me strays."

I bristle. "I can pay." Luckily, I brought all the money I'd saved up. "And I won't be any trouble."

She makes a dismissive sound. "Didn't say you would be." She comes closer, studying me with the practiced eye of someone who's seen more than her share of life. "When's the last time you ate proper? You're skinny as a dreelk stalk."

"I'm fine, really?—"

"That wasn't the question." She cuts me off, turning toward the kitchen. "Sit. I'll bring something. Then we'll talk rooms."

Too exhausted to argue, I sink onto a bench, suddenly aware of the hollow ache in my stomach. The woman—Marda, I assume—returns minutes later with a bowl of fragrant stew and a chunk of dark bread still warm from the oven.

The first spoonful nearly brings tears to my eyes. Rich broth, tender meat, vegetables I can't even name dancing across my tongue.

"Good?" Marda asks, though she clearly knows the answer.

I nod, mouth too full to speak properly.

"So." She settles across from me. "Got a name?"

"Harmony." I hesitate. "Just Harmony."

Something flickers across her face—understanding, perhaps. "Well, Just Harmony, room's yours if you want it. Ten lummi a week."

The price is so reasonable I nearly choke on my bread. "That's... very fair."

"It's tiny," she warns. "Just the attic space above the kitchens. Gets hot in summer."

"I'd like to see it, if I may?"

Marda stands. "Finish eating first. No one leaves my table hungry."

When my bowl is empty—scraped clean with the last of the bread—she leads me through the kitchen to a narrow staircase. The room above is indeed small, with sloping ceilings and a window that looks out over the village. A single bed nestled beneath the eaves, a small washstand, a trunk for belongings. It's simple, bare—and perfect.

"I..." My throat tightens unexpectedly. "I can work, too. To offset the cost. I cook, and I'm good with plants—herbs and such."

Marda's eyebrows rise. "My garden's gone wild this year. Too busy with the restaurant." She studies me again with that penetrating gaze. "You know cooking and gardening, do you?"

"Yes. I worked in a noble's house in New Solas." The words taste bitter. I swallow hard.

"New Solas, eh?" She doesn't push, just nods thoughtfully. "Fine. Room and board for garden work and help in the kitchen three days a week."

Relief floods me. "That's more than fair. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I work my people hard." But there's warmth beneath her gruffness. "Get some sleep. You look dead on your feet."

After she leaves, I unpack my meager possessions. The room slowly transforms—a scarf draped over the washstand, my small collection of dried herbs lined up on the windowsill, my extra clothes folded neatly in the trunk.

I force myself to smile, to feel pride in this new beginning. This is mine. A foundation stone.

But when darkness falls and the sounds of the restaurant below fade to silence, the walls close in. I curl onto the narrow bed, pulling the blanket tight against the hollow ache in my chest. And then—only then—do I allow the tears to come.

I bury my face in the pillow to muffle the sound as grief breaks free. I weep for the whispered promises, for the future I'd foolishly begun to imagine. For Adellum's laugh, his touch, the way he'd called me "little bird" when no one was listening.

"Never again," I whisper into the darkness, my voice raw. "Never again will I be so foolish. Dreams are for children and fools."

The tears eventually slow, leaving me hollow. Tomorrow I'll be stronger. Tomorrow I'll begin building a life that depends on no one but myself.