Page 6 of The Immortal’s Trick (Bound to the Immortals)

The clatter of hooves against cobbled stone sets my nerves on edge as the cart rattles through the bustling heart of Alexandria.

The sun has begun its descent, casting slants of light over the buildings, bathing the city in an almost sacred glow.

Everything looks softer, more magical. More dangerous.

“I am pleased your father allowed you ladies to join me this evening,” Lome calls over his shoulder.

I sit stiffly on the back bench, the fine blue linen of my dress creasing beneath my clenched hands. Nebet beams beside me, her energy practically humming. Her shoulder brushes mine as the cart jostles. It’s a small comfort—something solid to cling to amid the strangeness of this entire evening.

“I am, too,” Nebet answers brightly, bristling with excitement.

Lome turns slightly to glance at me. “And you, Eshe?”

“I’m glad to finally see a play,” I say, keeping my voice as neutral as possible.

It’s a half-truth. I am glad… but I also feel like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life.

Riding through the city in a cart with gleaming wood, delicate carvings, and the leather reins stitched with silver thread is not something girls like me do.

It screams wealth, foreignness, and status. I am none of those things.

And then there’s him .

Just being near Lome clouds my head. His presence coils around me like incense—intoxicating, heady, and oddly familiar.

I clench my hands to stop them from trembling. I don’t know why I feel this way. I don’t like it.

Lome doesn’t press further, content to let the silence wrap around me while he resumes conversation with Nebet.

They talk of Alexandria—the theater district, the street vendors, the imported spices along the harbors.

They leave me to my silence, and I’m grateful for the space to think… even if thinking doesn’t help.

When we arrive, Lome pulls the cart to the side of the street with a smooth tug of the reins. A young servant boy rushes forward, eager to help. Lome tosses the reins to him with practiced ease before leaping down from the front bench.

I don’t expect him to appear so quickly at my side, but there he is—hand outstretched, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “May I?”

His eyes glint with something playful. He’s noticed I’ve kept my distance. Part of me is glad. Let him know I am not easily swayed by his charms.

But the other part… the part that revels in the pull to this handsome man… is drawn to that teasing expression, to the quiet confidence behind it.

I drop my gaze and press my palm into his.

The moment our skin touches, heat jolts up my arm like lightning. My breath catches.

I start to pull away, but his grip tightens, steadying me. His eyes meet mine, calm, unreadable. If he felt the spark, he hides it well.

I force myself to breathe, stand, and descend with as much dignity as my shaking legs allow. Once I’m on the ground, he releases me without a word and moves to help Nebet.

I rub my arm. The sensation lingers—like his touch left something behind permanently. I try to shake it off as I scan the crowds approaching the massive stone building.

Men and women from every class—merchants in embroidered cloaks, noblemen with shining sandals, women in dresses that whisper with every step. Egyptian and Greek, side by side, drawn here by the promise of a story.

“Shall we?” Lome gestures toward the theater.

Nebet asks, “Should we wait for your brother?”

“He’ll meet us inside.” He offers his elbow to her. “Come. Let us find our seats.”

Nebet takes his arm without hesitation, radiant beside him. I follow, reminding myself that she is the eldest daughter. It’s etiquette for him to escort her over me.

Still, something twists in my chest, something I refuse to name.

Inside, the theater opens like a great stone mouth—pillars rise, corridors wind, and then the stage reveals itself in full.

It’s vast and beautiful. Half-circle seating rises around a central orchestra pit.

Light filters through carved openings above from dozens of flickering lanterns, casting long beams across the polished stone steps.

I brace myself for the steep walk to the general section, but Lome stops halfway down.

My lips part.

We are sitting in the prohedria?

These seats are for the elite—the city’s wealthy. Honored guests. My pulse kicks up. Who is Lome?

He catches my look and tilts his head. “Is everything all right?”

I nod once. My throat’s too dry for words.

He gestures for Nebet to pass and sit to his left. There are two seats on his right—mine and, presumably, his brother’s.

I hesitate again. I don’t like sitting apart from my sister. I glance at her, silently willing her to protest and ask Lome to switch. But she’s too dazzled by the view and elegance of everything around her to meet my gaze.

Resigned, I slide onto the seat, leaving a space between me and Lome. I smooth my dress, trying to hide how nervous I am.

The seats fill quickly. I keep my gaze on the stage, watching the workers shift props. The air is thick with anticipation, murmurs of excitement weaving around us like fabric.

“Lome,” a voice says behind me. It’s deep and smooth. When I turn, I nearly forget how to breathe.

This man is just as striking as Lome, but in a different way—deep green eyes, a more closed-off expression. It’s the man from the market. His brother.

“Des.” Lome stands. “Allow me to introduce Nebet and Eshe Akil.”

Des meets my eyes, and something kind passes between us. “Pleasure to meet you, Eshe. Nebet.” He doesn’t linger. He and Lome exchange a quiet embrace, then—somehow—Lome maneuvers him into the seat next to Nebet.

Which means…

Lome’s arm brushes mine as he sits beside me.

A jolt runs through me, sharp and silent. I freeze, like a field mouse under the shadow of a hawk.

“Would you prefer to sit by your sister?” he asks softly.

I lift my eyes and note the concerned glint in his eye.

“No,” I manage. “I’m content here.”

His smile blooms slowly, radiating warmth. I can’t breathe .

He murmurs, “I’m happy to hear it.”

I look away before I do something foolish, like reach for his hand to feel that enticing spark once more. From the corner of my eye, I note Nebet and Des speaking.

“I hope your brother is harmless,” I say quietly, eyes on the stage.

“Rest assured, Des has no noble or ill intentions toward your sister.”

I can’t help it—I’m insulted on Nebet’s behalf. I press my lips together.

The man beside me does not miss a single reaction. “I meant no offense.”

He says that a lot.

“None taken.” I lie.

Lome leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, angling closer. His warmth reaches me in tantalizing waves, along with his enticing spicy scent. “Des is… not interested in women.”

I blink. “Oh.”

My eyes flick to Des, and the truth dawns slowly. I’ve heard whispers of such things, but never met anyone like him.

Lome sees the thought forming and nearly chokes on a laugh. “No, not like that .” He pauses to chuckle, then adds, “He’s in mourning.”

Pain flickers in his eyes. Grief, shared between brothers as he continues, “Des lost someone he loved. He wouldn’t want me to speak of it, but I want you to know your sister is in safe company.”

“I am sorry.” I know too well the pain and heartache of losing a loved one. Without thinking, I place a consoling hand on his arm.

Lome’s muscle tightens beneath my palm. His head snaps toward me, eyes locking on mine.

Everything stills.

I forget the theater, the crowd, my breath. There’s something between us I don’t understand.

Everything about this man wills me to welcome him, to open up and share every single hope and fear I’ve ever had. My instincts scream for me to trust him—beg me to let him in.

Then, the first drum sounds. Applause breaks across the audience like a wave. And the spell is broken.

I pull my hand back, cheeks burning, and face forward. I hear Lome exhale beside me, then feel him settle back in his seat.

We don’t look at each other again, but my pulse accelerates every time his arm brushes mine. I don’t know what this is… what’s happening to me.

But as the actors step onto the stage … I let myself wonder what might happen if I stopped fighting this natural draw to the handsome man.

The first actor speaks, robed in crimson and green, his voice cutting clear through the amphitheater. Every line is exaggerated, every movement precise, ritualistic.

It takes only a few moments for the crowd to fall still, lulled by the rhythm of the chorus rising behind the actors.

I blink, letting the illusion take hold.

There’s a pulse to the performance, a kind of music stitched between each word, each beat of the drum. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, in the soles of my feet pressed flat to the stone beneath us.

The story is a tragedy—of course it is. Love and betrayal, gods and omens. A daughter cursed, a war born from pride. But it doesn’t feel distant. It feels... close . The words wrap around my ribs, tighten there. The actor’s anguish is too real, too raw.

Beside me, Lome hasn’t moved. I sense him more than see him—the heat of his arm, the faint catch of his breath when a smile draws at my lips. I wonder if he’s watching the stage at all, or if he’s watching me .

I don’t dare look to find out.

The heroine appears, veiled in white, her voice soft and piercing. She loves the god, but she hides it. The other gods are cruel, and fate is twisted, yet she still loves him in secret.

I glance around Lome’s back at Nebet.

Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, one hand pressed to her chest. She’s always felt deeply. Des sits beside her, head slightly bowed, watching the performance with a quiet, reverent sadness. I think of what Lome said about him and wonder who Des loved, and what happened to her.

My gaze returns to the stage. I shouldn’t relate so profoundly to the actress’s fear and her aching silence. But I do.

The chorus sings again, a slow, mournful lament. My throat tightens.

I press my fingertips to my temples, pretending to fix a strand of hair that’s slipped free—my pulse thuds against the pads of my fingers. I need to pull myself together. This is a performance. It’s not real .

Except... it is. Because grief is real, love kept in the dark is real. So is the terrifying feeling blooming inside me—a warmth that spreads like fire beneath my skin whenever Lome shifts beside me.

The air feels thick. I catch the scent of citrus oil on Lome’s skin as he leans forward slightly. He’s close. Closer than before.

His whisper brushes my ear like silk. “Are you enjoying the play?”

The question is soft, almost hesitant. I’m not prepared for how intimate it feels.

I nod. My lips part, but no words come.

He waits, patient. I finally manage, “It’s more beautiful than I imagined.”

His smile returns, but he keeps his gaze on the stage. “The first time I saw a play, I felt as if a new level of humanity opened up to me—a new way to experience beauty, life, and pain.”

“Yes.” I’m whispering too now, barely trusting my voice. “That’s exactly it.”

After that, there’s a long silence between us—comfortable, but charged.

As the story reaches its climax, the chorus swells, and the heroine reveals her truth. She loved the god all along, and she doesn’t care about the consequences.

But it’s too late. It’s always too late.

The audience gasps as the heroine dies, sword gripped in her hand, her eyes fixed on the god who wielded the blade—the one who was supposed to love her.

Something cracks in my chest.

I sit frozen as the stage falls quiet before the roar of my pulse in my ears is drowned out by the crowd’s raucous applause.

Like a moth to a flame, my eyes are drawn to Lome’s.

Emotion burns hot in his hazel gaze. No smile. No teasing. Just something unspoken, yet I hear the message loud and clear.

There’s something between us.

And fighting it is not an option.

It never was.