Page 38 of Song of the Heart Scale (The Dragon’s Ballad #3)

CAT

T he marketplace of the Northern District always buzzed with the kind of energy that couldn’t be manufactured—clanging metal, the earthy scent of roasted nuts and fresh bread, and the occasional bray of a donkey wove through the narrow alleys.

Voices rose and fell in every direction, haggling, gossiping, and laughing.

Normally, I might have enjoyed it. But today, I was too tense.

I adjusted the hood over my head and cast a glance toward Maeve walking beside me.

She kept her cloak pulled low, hiding her braids looped behind her ears.

We slowly moved past vendor stalls, pretending to examine bolts of cloth and crates of fruit.

The sun overhead was warm, leaving dappled patches of golden light across the canopy of awnings overhead.

But it did little to ease the tight coil of unease in my stomach.

“What did he say, specifically?” I asked as we threaded through the marketplace.

“The raven he sent said to meet him here,” Maeve whispered as she leaned closer to me. “It didn’t say anything else, my lady.”

I couldn’t imagine he’d decided this quickly.

And to meet in such a public place… I scanned the area with wary eyes.

The market was filled with Thorne’s men.

Imperial guards marched through the crowd, stationed around the edges with orders to quietly observe any suspicious activity. We had to be careful.

“He's here,” Maeve murmured, barely moving her lips.

I didn’t look in the direction she gestured. Instead, I kept my attention on a display of glass jars filled with rare spices—some imported from the western isles, others grown in tightly guarded hothouses in the heart of Elaria.

Jacob stood a few feet away at a nearby stall, facing the merchant and examining something in his hand.

He looked like any other nobleman, dressed in muted forest-green riding leathers with a sword at his side and a satchel slung over his shoulder.

He didn’t glance at me, but I heard his voice—low, casual.

“I heard something interesting,” he said as he handed the merchant a coin and gestured to a bag of dried pears.

I didn’t respond at first, taking a few steps toward a different booth, this one selling leather-bound journals and writing implements. I fingered the edge of a quill, pretending to inspect it. “About what?” I asked, equally casual.

“My commander, Lord Mercer,” Jacob said, keeping his gaze on a polished inkpot, “had a visitor.”

My grip on the quill tightened, and I was suddenly very aware of the pulse pounding in my throat. This was supposed to be secret. If Jacob knew Damien met with Lord Mercer, then someone had been talking. There was a mole.

“Oh?” I replied. “And?”

He turned a little, still not meeting my eyes. “He doesn’t say much, but I know the signs. Something’s brewing. Something big.”

“Do you know what your commander is thinking?” I asked softly.

Jacob was quiet for a beat. Then he said, “Lord Mercer has always been a free thinker. A patriot. He serves the people, not a crown. Not unless the crown deserves it.”

That was answer enough.

I nodded faintly, turning a small leather journal over in my hand.

Sweat beaded at my back despite the cool breeze filtering through the market.

“We shouldn’t talk long.” I set the journal down and shifted toward another stall.

“Eyes are everywhere.” I peered around at the imperial guards stationed around the market.

“Agreed,” he said.

“See you on the battlefield,” I whispered.

“Hopefully on the same side,” he murmured before slightly turning to Maeve and offering a gentle smile. With a subtle dip of his head, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd as if we’d never spoken.

I exhaled slowly.

Maeve appeared at my elbow. “That was risky.”

“Most of what I do is,” I replied with a smirk.

We started walking back toward the main road, winding through the busy market as vendors continued to shout their wares and children chased one another between stalls. But even as I laughed when a boy nearly barreled into a fruit cart, my mind was elsewhere.

Lord Mercer knew. Jacob knew. That meant it was only a matter of time before others did, too. The pieces were moving faster than I could track, and I couldn’t help but wonder how much longer we had before the whole board was flipped.

Still, there was a flicker of hope in Jacob’s voice. A possibility. A chance.

Maybe that was all we needed.

The crowd had swallowed Jacob within seconds of our parting, his dark cloak disappearing into the throng of vendors and townsfolk like a shadow slipping beneath the tide.

I stood for a moment, staring at the place he'd been, my heart racing faster than I cared to admit.

His words echoed in my ears: “The commander always thinks about the people first.”

I just hoped that meant what I thought it did.

“Do you think he suspects something?” Maeve asked as we resumed walking, her voice low but tight with concern. Her eyes flicked around the marketplace, always alert.

“He suspects everything.” I tucked a stray curl beneath my hood. “That’s what makes him dangerous. And useful.”

The marketplace was crowded for midday, filled with finely dressed merchants and nobles all flanked by their house guards or servants.

The scent of roasted almonds, fresh-baked honey loaves, and lavender oil hung heavily in the air.

Fabric stalls fluttered with imported silks and silver trinkets glittered in the sun.

But beneath the wealth and pretense, a current of unrest pulsed through the people like a heartbeat gone rogue.

Then it happened.

A man at a corner stall shouted, “No more grains! Not until the shipment at the next moon!”

The moment the words were spoken, silence fell like a heavy shroud.

Then, someone yelled, “They’re hoarding it!”

“No, the granaries are empty!” another voice countered, more desperate than angry.

And that was all it took.

Chaos erupted like a firestorm. Baskets overturned, spilling fruit onto the stones. Crates of preserved meats were broken open, goods snatched in greedy hands. People shoved, screamed, some even cried. A woman clutching a toddler shrieked when someone yanked a loaf of bread out of her hands.

A loud crash split the air, followed by the shrill clang of a cart tipping over, grain sacks bursting open like gutted prey. A murmur of voices surged into shouts, and then—

“It’s gone! All of it!”

I turned just in time to see a woman fall to her knees, clawing at the dirt where the grain had spilled and scooping handfuls into her apron like it might vanish if she blinked. Another man elbowed her aside, shoving her face-first into the mud. People screamed.

“There’s no more grain!”

“We were promised a shipment yesterday!”

“Where’s the Grain Steward?”

Panic spread like wildfire. Stalls were overturned and baskets were ripped from tables. Nobles scrambled behind their guards as commoners surged forward. Even the house guards were pushing back, shouting for order.

“The famine is real! The song was right!”

That chilled me more than the shouting. They were talking about the lyrics of the Song of the Heart Scale. I hadn’t realized how deeply it had sunk into the collective minds of the people.

“Maeve, stay close!” I hissed, grabbing her arm.

“What’s happening?” she whispered, her eyes wide.

“Exactly what we were afraid of.”

Then came the horns.

Loud, shrill, authoritarian. Trumpets blasted through the air as imperial guards stormed the square. Armor gleamed in the sunlight as they moved in perfect formation, swords drawn, eyes cold. They didn’t shout for peace.

“You will cease this madness!” one of them bellowed. “In the name of Emperor Thorne!”

That only enraged the crowd further.

“You mean the false emperor!” someone cried. “The one cursed by the Immortals!”

“The famine is his doing!”

Another person hurled a rotten apple at the guard.

When it hit the soldier square in the helmet, all hell broke loose.

Guards surged forward, swinging weapons. Screams rang out. Bodies collided, stumbled, crashed into stalls. People ran in every direction, trampling over spilled goods and each other. A vendor tried to protect her stall and was knocked aside.

They attacked.

One woman who'd dared to stand on a crate and demand answers was struck down with a single slash. Her body crumpled like paper. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, swiftly followed by enraged chaos.

“Move!” I barked, dragging Maeve behind me.

People scattered and ran in all directions. Shouts echoed, children cried, and the sharp tang of blood filled the air. The scent hit me like a punch.

A man lunged at us, his eyes wild and sunken as he reached for the satchel slung across Maeve’s shoulder. “Food? Please, give us something !”

I instinctively shoved him away, slamming my elbow into his chest and stepping in front of her. “Back off!”

Snarling, he stumbled away and disappeared into the chaos.

“M-My lady!” Maeve stammered, clutching my arm.

I pulled her closer, my eyes darting across the square. We were boxed in, pushed toward the center as people clawed to escape. The imperial guards weren’t just pushing—they were cutting down anyone who resisted. It wasn’t control. It was punishment.

A soldier shoved a young boy to the ground and raised his sword. I didn’t think—I just moved.

I kicked the guard square in the back, sending him tumbling. The boy scrambled to his feet and ran. The guard turned, his eyes narrowing behind his helmet.

“You little—”

I was already swinging. I grabbed a broken stall beam and cracked it against his chest. He staggered, then lunged at me. “Maeve, run!” I shouted.

But she didn’t. She clung to my side, her face pale with fear.

Two more guards closed in, their blades flashing.