Page 9 of Sanctuary and Spices (Tales of the Ardent Veil #1)

JANI

R onhar shifted closer to me, one foot sliding subtly to center his weight, ready to move. His green markings glowed against his skin, strobing in a pattern I already recognized as agitation. His presence, steady and calm, felt like a shield against the market’s noise.

“Lyrian. The Solace Pact’s right hand himself graces us with his presence.” Ronhar’s tone was dry but not hostile, his stance relaxed but alert—the practiced ease of someone who always knows where they stand.

“Come now, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

The stranger’s voice was smooth, almost melodic, as he stepped into view. His golden-bronze skin shimmered in the market’s light, catching and refracting it like liquid mercury—dazzling, yet intimidating. Glowing golden eyes locked onto Ronhar with a piercing, predatory intensity.

Fine, silky white hair fell just past his shoulders, framing aristocratic features that could have belonged to the Crown’s most entitled patrons.

Yet it was the battle scars that drew my attention. They weren’t flaws; they were statements, reminders that beneath the liquid-metal grace lay something lethal.

“And you haven’t introduced me to your charming companion.” His gaze flicked to me, his golden eyes narrowing slightly, as though he could see straight through me. “I’m Lyrian. A…co-worker of Ronhar’s.”

The Pel’ax vendor quietly backed away, antlers quivering. Other merchants found sudden interest in reorganizing their wares.

“ Crayle.” I stepped forward before Ronhar could stop me, instincts kicking in. I’d managed diplomatic disasters in my kitchen before. “New chef at the Wanderer’s Rest.”

“Ah yes, the infamous Crown incident.” Lyrian’s perfect posture never wavered. “Quite the dramatic entrance to our little corner of space.”

Heat crept up my neck. “News travels fast.”

“Everything travels fast here.” His metallic skin rippled. “Especially news about someone who stands up to an Aurenai ambassador. Most impressive.”

Ronhar’s markings flickered with what might have been amusement. “We have supplies to gather. Unless you’re here to actually help with inventory?”

“What a coincidence.” Lyrian’s movements were too smooth, too calculated. “I was just heading to check on some of our more... interesting vendors. Perhaps I could assist?”

I noticed Ronhar’s jaw tighten ever so slightly, but his voice remained calm. “That depends on whether you’re offering actual help or just reconnaissance.”

“Actually,” I cut in before whatever this was between them could escalate, “an extra perspective might be helpful. Since I’m still learning the market.”

“Excellent.” Lyrian gestured toward a side corridor. “Shall we begin with Mai’s spices? Unless you’ve already visited?”

“We have,” I said. “But I’d love to see your recommendations.”

Other shoppers gave us a wide berth as we moved through the market. A pair of heavily armored mercenaries shifted subtly out of Lyrian’s path, their weapons-grade crystals dimming in what might have been deference or warning. A Krythari merchant abandoned her haggling mid-sentence to nod her head as we passed. The reactions split clearly—cold fear for Lyrian’s perfectly controlled presence, wary recognition of Ronhar’s quieter authority.

The space between them crackled with old history, and I found myself wondering how two such different men could make hardened merchants equally nervous.

We stopped at a stall run by a towering Ulthari. Lyrian’s movements were fluid as he examined a crystalline container of dried mushrooms, his tone light but pointed. “The varieties from the lower levels of Danti are exceptional.”

“Those are restricted harvest zones,” Ronhar growled.

“But perfectly legal with the proper permits.” Lyrian turned to me, ignoring Ronhar’s glare. “These would add incredible depth to stocks, wouldn’t you agree?”

I studied the mushrooms, interest warring with wariness. “They would. The earthiness would balance spice blends beautifully.”

Ronhar crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. “Our current suppliers are sufficient.”

“Perhaps.” Lyrian handed the container to the vendor. “But why settle for sufficient?”

The tension between them was palpable, like the air before a storm. I stepped back, letting them navigate their unspoken rivalry while I cataloged the market around us: merchants arguing over storage methods, whispers about trade routes, and the faint hum of Leyline currents beneath it all. It felt alive in a way I hadn’t expected.

We moved through the market’s layers, each man steering us to different vendors. Ronhar favored established merchants with clear connections to their goods’ origins, while Lyrian led us to hidden stalls tucked into shadowed corners, offering rare and exotic ingredients I’d never seen before.

At one stall, a Jeth merchant with crystalline growths caught Lyrian’s eye. Her rasping voice made my skin prickle. “Lord Lyrian. I have that information you inquired about.”

Ronhar stiffened beside me.

“Perhaps,” Lyrian said smoothly, his gaze flicking to Ronhar, “we should discuss business another time.”

“Of course.” The merchant bowed, her crystalline growths throwing rainbows across the stall.

The market’s energy shifted as we approached a food stall tucked into the edge of the maze. A Syrithan vendor with elaborately braided sensory tendrils lit up at the sight of us. “Ah! My favorite critics! The usual for you both?”

I blinked, turning to Ronhar. “You eat here together?”

“Occasionally,” Lyrian said smoothly, his metallic skin rippling with amusement.

Ronhar shrugged, his markings faintly glowing. “When the noodles are worth it.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “And now we feed the new chef, I suppose?”

“Extra spice?” The vendor’s tendrils wove complex patterns as they began preparing bowls.

“No—” Ronhar started.

“Yes,” I said. Both men turned to stare. “What? I like spicy food.”

The vendor cackled, adding an alarming amount of scarlet powder to my bowl. The noodles arrived steaming, the scent making my eyes water. I took a bite—and fire exploded across my tongue, followed by smoky, savory layers of flavor. It was exquisite.

“This is amazing!” I gasped, reaching for another bite.

“Told you.” Lyrian’s perfect posture relaxed slightly as he accepted his own bowl.

Ronhar’s golden eyes watched me intently as I inhaled the noodles. “You really can handle the spice.”

“My grandmother would be ashamed if I couldn’t.” I wiped my streaming eyes. “She always said bland food was a sin.”

“Wise woman,” the vendor said, handing Ronhar his portion. “Now eat, before it gets cold!”

Ronhar’s voice dropped as he bantered with the vendor, the low timbre resonating in a way that sent an unexpected warmth curling through me. I focused intently on my noodles, hoping the spice-induced flush would hide my reaction.

For a moment, the tension between the three of us eased. Just three people enjoying ridiculously spicy noodles in a market full of wonders. Then:

“...another ship delayed on the Caraxis route...” “...something strange in the deep archives...”

Both men stiffened. Lyrian’s skin took on a mirror-bright sheen, and Ronhar’s markings flared faintly brighter. Lyrian set his empty bowl down with deliberate care, dabbing his mouth with a silk-edged cloth that seemed far too elegant for a casual market stroll. His golden eyes flicked to me for a moment, then back to Ronhar, his smile sharpening like a blade.

“You know,” Lyrian began, his tone light but edged with something deeper, “this is the third time I’ve seen you out in the market this cycle. Keeping the café in order is admirable, of course, but don’t you ever miss the field?”

Ronhar’s markings flared faintly, the green light pulsing in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “The field doesn’t miss me.”

“Ah, but I think it does,” Lyrian said, leaning forward slightly, his metallic skin catching the light in a way that made it impossible to ignore him. “Solace could use your... particular expertise. You’ve been away long enough to forget how chaotic things have become. Or perhaps you’ve just been hiding behind your plants too long?”

I glanced between them, sensing the weight of whatever history lay unspoken beneath Lyrian’s teasing. Ronhar didn’t rise to the bait, his expression steady, but there was a tension in his shoulders I hadn’t seen before.

“Some of us choose to build something lasting,” Ronhar said finally, his tone calm but firm. “Not just chase after the next fight.”

Lyrian tilted his head, his smile widening as though Ronhar had proven some unspoken point. “The Wanderer’s Rest is lucky to have you, then. Though I’d argue that lasting might not mean what you think it does.”

His gaze flicked to me, sharp and assessing, before he rose with his usual liquid grace. “A pleasure, as always, Ronhar. Ms. Crayle.”

And just like that, he melted into the crowd, leaving a faint tension in his wake.

Ronhar stood still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the spot where Lyrian had disappeared. I wanted to ask what Lyrian had meant, what history they’d shared, but the rigid line of Ronhar’s jaw and the faint flare of his markings stopped me.

“Well,” I said instead, gathering the bags of supplies. “That was interesting.”

“That’s one word for it,” Ronhar muttered, his voice low. His shoulders relaxed slightly as he adjusted his grip on the bags. “We should head back.”

“After I try more of those mushrooms?”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Tomorrow. There’s already enough change happening today.”

The walk back was quieter, the market’s buzz fading into the background. Ronhar carried the bags effortlessly, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the lingering crowd. I found myself watching the way his markings pulsed like the quiet rhythm of something alive and steady.

He glanced at me once, his golden eyes catching mine for the briefest moment. Something unspoken passed between us—an understanding, maybe, or a question neither of us was ready to answer. I looked away first, but the warmth lingered, curling low in my chest like the embers of a fire waiting to burn.