Aiden seemed unbothered by the silence. His tone dropped just a bit, quieter, but not intimate. More like a man letting a truth slip on purpose.

  “After what my father did… I was never supposed to rise again.” He let out a humorless laugh. “Tarnished the name. Got himself executed and left me with the mess. But now?” He looked ahead, past the crowds, as if he already saw himself on some distant battlefield, bathed in glory. “Now they’ll have to remember me. Not him. I’ll bury his shame in banners and steel.”

  His voice brightened again, shifting as quickly as it always did. “And you’ll be right there behind me, supporting me as my wife. Just imagine it.”

  But Imogen wasn’t imagining banners or titles.

  She was imagining stormroot, brightleaf, and sun petals

  All growing in silence.

  All needing light.

  And being pulled too far from it.

  Imogen tried to smile, but it felt thin. Hollow.

  “Do you want to stop here for a moment?” she asked, pointing to a row of dried herbs glowing faintly beneath soft alchemical light.

  Aiden blinked at her, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Oh. Sure. If you need to. I’ll wait here.”

  She stepped toward the stall, finally free for a breath. The subtle tang of stormroot and crushed mint wrapped around her like a balm, grounding her.

  As she counted out the stormroot and picked through the bundles of sun petals, her thoughts drifted, not to wedding dresses or gilded titles. Not to imagined futures.

  But to the way he spoke of daughters like disappointments.

  Like tools that had failed him before they’d even existed.

  And beneath that, a quiet voice whispered:

  This isn’t what you want.

  Not really.

  She tucked the last of the brightleaf into her basket, the familiar weight of it oddly comforting. For a moment, she felt like herself again. Steady. Rooted.

  But as soon as she turned back toward Aiden, he lit up, eager to reclaim center stage.

  “Oh… and I nearly forgot to tell you,” he said, clearly thrilled. “My uncle, the general, finally agreed to take me with him next time he rides out. Can you believe it? A real dragon hunt.”

  Imogen’s brow creased. “A… hunt?”

  He nodded, grinning like a boy promised a crown. “They spotted a nest near the cliffs of Theral Reach. Big one. Might be the same bloodline that torched the outpost last winter. If we bring one down, especially if I’m the one to do it, that’s glory no one can ignore. Dragonslayers are treated like royalty these days.”

  Her stomach twisted, the brightleaf scent suddenly too sweet.

  “Why hunt dragons, though?” she asked carefully, forcing her tone to remain neutral. “What did they do to be hunted like game? Most of them just want to live… like you and I.”

  Aiden chuckled, brushing her concern aside with an effortless shake of his head. “You’ve been listening to too many of Elanor’s bedtime stories.”

  She stiffened, just a touch.

  “They’re not just stories,” she said. “There are records. Songs. Whole villages that once lived alongside dragon kin in peace.”

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  “Yeah, well… once, maybe,” Aiden replied, waving a hand dismissively. “But times change. The ones left now? They’re wild. Dangerous. Unpredictable. We’re better off without them.” He smirked. “My uncle says the only good dragon is one mounted on a noble’s wall.”

  Imogen looked down at the basket in her hands, the petals and roots suddenly seeming fragile. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but steady.

  “I don’t believe that.”

  Aiden glanced at her, his smile faltering just slightly. “Come on, don’t get soft on me now. You’re strong. You get it.”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  Because maybe… she didn’t get it. Not at all.

  Imogen stopped walking.

  She gripped the basket tighter, her voice quiet but firm. “So you really believe they should all be hunted? Just because your uncle says so?”

  Aiden blinked, caught off guard by the shift in her tone. “They’re monsters, Imogen. Burn down one village and suddenly it’s 'just trying to live’? Is that what you’d say if it were your family they torched?”

  Her jaw tightened. “Not all dragons are the same. You’ve never even seen one. You don’t know what they’re like.”

  “I know enough,” he snapped. “They’re beasts. Dangerous. The more of them we take down, the safer we’ll all be.”

  “They’re not just beasts,” she said sharply. “They’re intelligent. Some of them were bonded to humans… guardians… not enemies. You’re talking about slaughtering creatures that once protected us.”

  Aiden’s face twisted, his lip curling like she’d insulted him. “What are you, some kind of dragon lover now?”

  The words hit like a slap. Imogen stepped back slightly.

  He leaned in, voice low, no longer playful. “Be careful saying things like that, Im. That’s a quick way to end up with a rope around your neck these days.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Aiden must’ve seen the shock on her face, because he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying, people talk. You don’t want to be seen sympathizing with creatures that tear towns apart.”

  But the damage was done.

  Imogen stared at the ring on her finger, the once-vibrant emerald now dull in the morning light. It felt colder than metal had any right to be, like a stone pressed against something soft and breaking inside her.

  “I should finish my errands,” she said softly, her voice nearly lost beneath the hum of the market.

  Aiden hesitated, watching her for a beat too long, as if waiting for a reassurance she no longer felt like offering. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Instead, she turned and headed down the row of remaining stalls, each step tighter, more strained than the last. The village moved around her, vendors calling out prices, children laughing near the fountain, the scent of sweetbread and citrus warming the air, but it all felt distant. Muffled. As if she were walking underwater.

  She tried to focus. Stormroot. Vinefruit. Brightleaf. She repeated the list over and over, clinging to it like a rope in a current. Just a few more things. Just finish the task. Then she could go.

  But her hands trembled as she reached for the herbs. Her fingers fumbled the pouch of coins. Her chest tightened every time his words resurfaced.

  Not what daughters are for.

  Mounted on a noble’s wall.

  Lady Wyrmgaurd.

  Wife.

  She forced herself to move from stall to stall, counting out ingredients, pretending her mind wasn’t unraveling thread by thread.

  As she tucked the last bundle into the basket, she glanced toward the sky, surprised to see how low the sun had dipped. Morning was fading fast.

  She sighed, adjusting the basket against her hip. Time to head back.

  The weight of Aiden’s words still clung to her like smoke as Imogen wound her way out of the market and onto the quieter road leading toward Aunt Elanor’s cottage. The basket felt heavier now, like the herbs inside were soaked with doubt.

  But as she walked, she imagined the sound of her aunt’s voice calling from the porch, warm, familiar, laced with that gentle chiding affection that always made her feel like a child who was still welcome to be one.

  The pit in her stomach lightened, just a little.

  She pictured Elanor’s arms wrapping her in a hug that smelled faintly of lavender and old books, the savory aroma of something bubbling in the kitchen, and the soft creak of the old cot waiting for her upstairs, its quilted blanket already turned down, a comfort Imogen hadn’t known she’d need.

  And for the first time since Aiden’s voice had gone quiet, she let herself exhale.