The tavern was barely more than a tiled awning wedged between a perfumery and a shuttered bathhouse. A few mismatched stools. A chipped counter. A chalkboard menu with three items and none of them spelled correctly. But the cheese was aged, the flatbread warm, and the watered wine less offensive than most.

  Gale sat alone at a narrow table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, silver ring catching the light as he tore off a piece of bread and used it to scoop the soft white cheese. The street beyond was already humming — carts creaking, children yelling, shutters flung open in bursts of color. Somewhere close by, a caged bird whistled an off-key tune that grated just enough to be charming.

  Kentar, for all its gaudy bravado and sunburned pride, had its moments.

  His second cup of wine was half gone when the procession passed.

  It was small — modest by Kentarian standards — but unmistakably festive: a pair of young newlyweds walking side by side beneath a garlanded arch carried by cousins and friends. Musicians followed, plucking strings and tapping tiny drums, while neighbors tossed petals from window boxes and applauded from doorways. A woman waved a brass kettle in the air and shouted something obscene about fertility. Laughter followed. The bride blushed. The groom grinned.

  A dozen steps behind them trailed a thin boy struggling to carry a layered cake taller than he was. A piece slid sideways. The crowd erupted with delight.

  The tavernkeeper chuckled as he wiped the counter. “Lucky day,” he said, nodding at the street. “Unless that boy drops the cake.”

  Gale didn’t answer. His gaze had caught on the bride’s hand — a glint of gold, pale fingers clasped in darker ones. The bells rang again as they turned the corner and vanished from view.

  He looked down at his own hand.

  The silver band on his finger was smooth, its design plain to the untrained eye — no gemstone, no sigil. Just three narrow lines carved around the band, crossing once like a river’s fork. Old Ishtari for “joining.” A scholar’s ring. A mage’s. A vow.

  He turned it once, slowly, and let out a breath that barely moved the air. The wedding bells had faded, but their echo lingered—joyful, distant, final.

  “Two skoutae says that cake won’t make it five more steps,” said the tavernkeeper.

  Gale set a coin on the table and stood. “If it does, give it to the boy. He’s earned it.”

  He left before the next bell rang.

  Outside, the market bloomed — all sun and color and unbearable life. The main square stretched ahead like a stage, flanked by cascading stalls and overhanging banners. Spices burned the nose. Honeyed nuts stuck to the air. Voices hawked, muttered, bartered, praised, cursed. He was jostled twice by the time he reached the row of booksellers near the central fountain.

  He drifted between them with the ease of someone who had always found comfort in shelves, even the open-air kind. Battered crates. Threadbare cloths. Faded ink scrawled prices across parchment signs. A flick through a water-stained bestiary. A frown at a pretentious treatise on soul theory. He muttered something obscene about the author and moved on.

  A thin leather volume on mushroom breeding caught his eye. No thanks. He bent over a pile of scrolls, sniffed one, recoiled, and straightened his coat. The paper was moldy enough to qualify as necromantic.

  Then he saw it.

  Wedged between a crumbling volume on maritime laws and a blank ledger, it sat like a jewel in a ditch: a richly illustrated herbal of Zanatheian flora. Not just herbs — mushrooms, vines, sea-thistles, flowering lichens. Some pages glittered faintly with mineral-based ink. The drawings were… beautiful. Precise. A little theatrical.

  Fran would love it.

  He could already hear her trying to pronounce Vevylenia myrrh with the full academic accent, only to stumble midway and argue that the name was “a trap,” and that if the Zanatheians had wanted the damn plant respected, they should’ve given it a name that didn’t sound like someone drowning in honey.

  He smiled.

  Beside it, another book leaned — thinner, with a cracked spine and delicate script along the cover: On Salt and Spice: A Journey Through Kentarian Kitchens. It smelled faintly of cardamom and burnt paper.

  Two books. No real reason. Just a pull in his gut that said: yes.

  A voice came behind the stall.

  “Lovely choice, that one. Twenty-six skoutae, firm. Thirty-five if you want the cookbook too.”

  Gale raised a brow without looking up. “Twenty-six? For The Painted Garden of Zanatheia?”

  “That’s a first edition—”

  “Of the abridged edition,” Gale interrupted, gently setting the book back down as if mourning a loss. “Missing the supplement on subaquatic spores and the appendix on seasonal flux. And don’t get me started on the translator’s marginalia — I spotted three transcription errors in the fungi section alone.”

  The seller blinked. “Still, it’s rare—”

  “Oh, I agree. A rare disappointment, at that price. And this,” he lifted On Salt and Spice, “is charming, truly. But see here?” He pointed to a smudged corner. “Someone’s splattered cumin oil on page thirteen. Which is forgivable. Less so the fact that they annotated the fish chapter with the phrase, and I quote, ‘no one eats this shit anymore.’”

  The man stared.

  Gale smiled like a cat who had just named every rat in the cellar. “Now, I’ll be generous — twenty-six skoutae for both. It’s a kindness, really.”

  The seller opened his mouth.

  Gale beat him to it.

  “Think of it as clearing space. Inventory rotation. Philosophically liberating. If I walk away now, some lesser buyer might paw at them with greasy fingers and no sense of historical context. But me? I’ll cherish them. Share them. Imagine — Vevylenia myrrh in the northern herb garden. Kentarian lentils properly appreciated at last.”

  A pause. A sigh. A long look of spiritual defeat.

  “…Twenty-six.”

  Gale beamed. “Marvelous.”

  He paid the man — twenty-six skoutae and a grin — then tucked the two books, wrapped in a square of oilcloth, bound with twine, under one arm and stepped away from the stall, barely three paces into the crowd when a flicker of red caught his eye near the greengrocer’s.

  Daimon.

  He was unmistakable — tall and gangly as ever, wearing a deep green tunic and his usual guarded expression, though softened by something else. Or someone else.

  Beside him, a short girl with a riot of chestnut curls and curves that defied subtlety had both hands full: in one, a cloth bag spilling herbs; in the other, a honeyed fig she was teasing toward Daimon’s mouth like a bribe. Selina. Her laugh — clear and reckless — rang over the market noise as she leaned in to say something that made Daimon’s ears turn red to the tips. She clung to his arm with the possessive ease of someone who hadn’t thought too hard about why she wanted to.

  At their feet trotted a black dog with ears far too large for her head and one cloudy eye. Patzì, the little stray they’d found together at the ruined chapter.

  She stopped mid-step.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Turned.

  And looked directly at Gale.

  The market fell away for a moment — banners, voices, spice-smoke — all washed clean in the clarity of those mismatched eyes. One dark and sharp, the other pale with old injury. She blinked once. Then, without ceremony, trotted toward him.

  Gale crouched as she approached. “You again,” he murmured, offering the back of his hand. “Inspector of my every sin?”

  She sniffed him — wrist, books, boots — then gave a thoughtful sneeze and sat down at his feet, tail curled tight.

  Behind her, Daimon paused mid-reach, blinking in confusion. “Patzì?”

  The girl turned — and her grin lit up the street.

  “Well, well. Good morning, Master Dekarios!” Selina called, one brow raised and all mischief. “Are you lost, or just stalking us with scholarly intent?”

  Gale straightened, brushing a curl of hair from his eyes and ignoring the look Daimon shot him — part surprise, part resigned horror.

  He looked at the dog. Then at the books. Then at the two of them, standing side by side with sunlight in their hair and a dozen clashing herbs in Selina’s bag.

  They looked like a young couple running errands. Laughing, close. Whole.

  Just like he and Fran had, that morning in Virevale. Bread and pears, herbs and books. Her hair still damp from the bath, his coat still carrying flour from the bakery. Ordinary, and therefore unforgettable.

  Gale inhaled. The world had decided, apparently, that today would be a full inventory of what he missed most.

  Home.

  Her.

  Same thing, now.

  He glanced down at the books, then at the silver band on his finger. The carving caught the light — a river’s fork, barely visible. A vow.

  He managed a half-smile and stepped forward.

  Daimon sighed, not even trying to mask the weariness. “She dragged me here. Said I needed fresh air and fresh vegetables.”

  Selina popped a grape into her mouth and spoke around it. “You did. Left to your own devices, you’d live on dried pears and ink fumes.”

  “I was supposed to study.”

  “Groceries are part of life,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “You can’t illusion a stew.”

  Gale raised an eyebrow. “And what did you two manage to procure that was so vital to the Crescent’s wellbeing?”

  “A headache,” Daimon muttered.

  Selina grinned and pointed to Gale’s bundle. “What about you, Master Dekarios? Rare tomes? Cursed artifacts? Some tower you plan to set on fire?”

  Gale smirked, unwinding the twine. “A gift for someone who enjoys plants that bite. And a recipe book — ‘On Salt and Spice.’ The stall owner insisted the latter was a local classic.”

  “Oh, I know that one!” Selina said. “Page thirty-something has a stew that nearly set my tongue on fire — the cook swore by it, said it was ‘cleansing.’ I say he hated us.”

  Daimon had gone quiet.

  He stood with his back half-turned to them, gaze fixed across the square. His ears, already a little pink from the sun and Selina’s teasing, had turned a violent shade of red.

  Gale followed his line of sight.

  A girl leaned slightly out of the bakery’s upper window, tossing breadcrumbs to the birds below. She was young, with dark braids coiled over one shoulder and a flour-smudged apron tied around her waist. Her glance toward the street was quick — just a sweep of the eyes before she disappeared inside again.

  Selina didn’t look right away.

  She looked at Daimon.

  Then she followed his gaze.

  Her smile vanished so fast it might have never existed.

  “Well,” she said, with a brightness sharp enough to cut. “It’s getting late. Madam Yperion will flay me if I forget the mint.”

  She thrust the bag of herbs into Daimon’s arms, dusted her hands against her skirt, and stepped back.

  “I’ll see you both later. Don’t get lost in your books, Master Dekarios. Daimon, escort Her Furry Majesty home. She’ll sulk if you don’t.”

  And just like that, she slipped into the crowd — chestnut curls bobbing once, then gone.

  Gale glanced at Daimon, then at the bakery window, and back again.

  “So,” he said, adjusting the books under his arm, “who’s that girl?”

  Daimon glanced up, frowning. “Selina. You know her.”

  “No,” Gale said, already rubbing his temple. “Not that girl. The one in the bakery window. The one who made your face go so red I thought you might spontaneously combust. The one whose very existence just made you forget Selina was standing right next to you.”

  Daimon flushed deeper, avoiding his gaze. “She’s Lysa. The baker’s daughter.”

  Gale nodded but said nothing.

  Daimon fidgeted. Then, quietly, almost reverently: “Most beautiful girl in Kentar.”

  “Do you like her?” Gale asked, already suspecting the answer.

  “Yes!” Daimon said — too loud, too fast.

  “Then go talk to her,” Gale said, gesturing toward the bakery. “Cross the square, say hello, compliment her bread, offer to burn something down in her honor — I don’t care. I’ll head back to the inn.”

  “No... I can’t,” Daimon muttered.

  “Why not? Did something happen? Did you argue?”

  “No, it’s not that. I just...” He looked pained. “I—”

  Gale sighed. “Daimon, for all the gods’ sake. Just knock on her door, say whatever tragic poem you’ve rehearsed in your head, and let her scold you into happiness.”

  Daimon’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “We never spoke.”

  Gale squinted. “What?”

  “I said—” Daimon took a breath, then practically shouted, “We’ve never spoken!”

  The square seemed to pause around them.

  “You’ve never... Wait. Not once?” Gale said, incredulous.

  “Never,” Daimon mumbled. “I come here just to see her. Every day. But I’ve never said a word.”

  “Does she even know you exist?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. And it doesn’t matter. She’s marrying that guardsman.” He gestured to a tall young man in armor entering the bakery.

  Gale stared at him for a moment. Then exhaled — slow and dramatic. “So let me get this straight. You like a girl you’ve never spoken to. Who probably doesn’t know you exist. Who’s about to marry someone else. And you’re so hopelessly smitten that you don’t even notice the girl right next to you — the same one who brings you food when you’re about to pass out and drags you to the market just to spend time with you?”

  Daimon frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on,” Gale said. “You, master of illusion and detail, blind as a bat when it comes to actual humans.”

  He gestured broadly toward the space Selina had just occupied. “She clings to your arm like it’s hers, laughs at your terrible jokes, and offers you figs. Figs, Daimon. In some cultures, that’s a legally binding proposal.”

  Daimon’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “You mean Selina?”

  “No,” Gale deadpanned. “I mean the Queen of Vevylenia Myrrh, who you obviously don’t deserve either.” He threw a look skyward and muttered, “Gods, grant this boy the brains you forgot to pack at birth.”

  “I didn’t— I mean, I just thought—” Daimon ran a hand through his hair. “She’s always like that. Isn’t she?”

  “No,” Gale said flatly. “She isn’t. Not with everyone.”

  Silence fell between them, broken only by the distant clatter of hooves on stone and the yapping of Patzì chasing a pigeon.

  Gale looked over at him again and sighed, softer this time. “You’re a lost cause, my young friend. Let’s just hope she’s smart enough for the both of you.”

  The market noise faded behind them, replaced by the rhythmic clatter of hooves and carts along the sunlit street. Patzì trotted ahead, her mismatched eyes scanning for pigeons or discarded bread, ears perked with purpose.

  Gale adjusted the weight of his books under one arm. “Perhaps I already said it, but I think you made an interesting choice, calling your dog that.”

  Daimon squinted toward the dog, then sighed. “I’m not sure anymore. You and Selina are the only ones who pronounce her name right — everyone else says ‘Pawsy.’” He made a face. “Master calls her ‘mutt’ or ‘fleabag,’ which she’s not. I charmed her against fleas, ticks, worms and—”

  Gale laughed aloud. “Finally! You’re pissed off over something the venerable harridan said. Congratulations — you’re officially a true, miserable apprentice of Ludmilla Yperion.”

  Daimon grinned, kicking a loose stone from the path. “I think you’re right.”

  “Still,” Gale added, “isn’t Patzì a Zanatheian word?”

  “Yes,” Daimon admitted. “Means ‘paw.’ Not very original, I know.”

  “Maybe not. But I doubt anyone but a proud citizen of the islands would use Zanatheian to name their dog.”

  Daimon shrugged. “I just read it in a book, ages ago. Thought it was a nice name. Suited her.”

  “Mmh.” Gale’s tone remained light, but his gaze flicked toward the boy. “Funny thing, though — ever since I arrived, I keep stumbling across little references to Zanatheia. A name here, an old charm there. Always seems to surface when you’re around.”

  Daimon scratched his nose, looking far too casual. “There are plenty of islanders in Kentar,” he said quickly. “It’s a port city — accents, traditions, bits of language… It’s natural it comes up.”

  Gale smiled. “Of course. Natural.”

  They walked in silence for a stretch. Patzì circled a stray crate, then loped back toward Daimon’s heels. The boy’s fingers twitched against his trouser seam, the tips of his ears going pink again.

  “A-About what you said earlier…” he mumbled.

  Gale glanced sideways. “In the square? About Lysa?”

  “The girl I’ve never spoken to who’s marrying someone else, yes.” Daimon groaned. “Yes. Her. But not just her.”

  He fiddled with the strap of his satchel. “I mean… how does it work? Love. How do you know?”

  Gale tilted his head. “Know what, exactly?”

  “That it’s real,” Daimon said, too quickly. “That you’re actually...” He hesitated, then pressed on. “That you’re in love. With someone. Like you are with the Duchess.”

  That earned him a long, unreadable look.

  Then Gale smiled — not his usual smirk, but something smaller. Calmer. “Because the silence felt wrong when she wasn’t there,” he said. “And right when she was.”

  Daimon looked down at Patzì, then ahead at the Scarlet Crescent rising at the curve of the street.

  “I suppose,” he said slowly, “that’s one way to understand it.”

  Gale gave a soft hum. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose it is.”

  They stopped just outside the Crescent’s door. Patzì sat patiently, tail swishing once against the step.

  Gale glanced at Daimon, who was still staring at the street, lost somewhere between flour-dusted windows and dreams that hadn’t spoken back.

  “Go,” he said gently. “She’ll be waiting. Don’t keep her too long.”

  Daimon blinked. “Selina?”

  “The venerable harridan,” Gale replied, dry as ever. “Madam Yperion.”

  Daimon smirked. Gale didn’t.

  “And next time,” the mage added, softer now, “look at what’s in front of you. Not just what’s out of reach.”

  He turned, adjusted his coat, and began walking back toward the inn, leaving the boy and the dog and the city behind.

  When he reached the inn’s front steps he glanced down at the small bundle still tucked under his arm — the books, still wrapped in brown paper and string.

  He thought of the girl in the window. Of Daimon, red-faced and hopeful and hopeless all at once.

  He thought of the chestnut curls that had vanished into the crowd.

  As he pushed open the inn’s crooked door, he thought of Fran.

  She would have laughed at the whole day. Would have teased him for haggling like a fishwife, for getting sentimental over stew, for sighing at young love like an old man.

  Gods, he missed her.

  And the silence, once again, felt wrong.