Chapter 24 Harper
HARPER
The hidden passage deposits us at the edge of Anvaris in a hush of wind and shifting stone, and for a moment the four of us simply stand there, letting the village breathe around us.
Autumn has taken hold of the market, thick garlands of burnt orange leaves hang from the stalls, braziers perfume the air with cinnamon and clove, and every vendor seems wrapped in some shade of warm gold.
Students weave between the townsfolk, laughter threading through the distant hum of music.
But beneath all of it, beneath the color and chatter, something feels… wrong.
Off-balance.
Like the earth is holding its breath.
Liam walks ahead, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, posture tight enough that I can see the strain in his shoulders.
Theo keeps close to his side, his wand angled downward, head tilted just slightly, as if the entire market is a map he’s reading by sound alone.
And behind me, close but not too close, Sebastian lingers.
His steps match mine without him meaning them to.
The unease crawling along my spine only sharpens as we reach the center of the market square, where vendors pitch their voices above one another, promising charms, sweets, herbs, fortune readings.
It should be comforting. Instead each smile feels rehearsed, and each passing glance lingers as if waiting for me to slip.
Liam murmurs that we should split up, find what whispers we can. Theo nods and drifts toward a line of storytellers whose tales always end in rumors. Sebastian gives a curt nod, scanning the rooftops and upper stalls before stepping away.
I move alone into the heart of the market.
The warmth from the cooking pots is almost enough to soften my nerves. Almost. A woman selling enchanted teas gestures me closer, her voice low, her eyes darting between customers. She looks like every other vendor here, but her hand trembles when she slides a jar back onto her table.
“You’re Vireldan, aren’t you?” she asks, her voice pitched low, careful. “There’s been talk. Strange talk.”
I pause, letting the din of the square swallow the tension between us. “What kind of talk?” The question comes quietly, measured, even as my pulse stutters.
“People going missing.” Her fingers tighten around the rim of a ceramic cup. “Men in cloaks slipping down alleyways at dawn. Questions being asked by those who aren’t from here. Tall men. Silent. No crests. No reason to be in Anvaris unless they’re hunting.”
The words settle like ash in my lungs. Shadeborne scouts, slipping closer than we ever imagined.
The vendor’s fingers hesitate on the rim of a steaming kettle, and for a moment I’m not sure if it’s the heat or fear that makes her hand tremble.
She flicks a wary glance toward the stall across from hers, where a jeweler loudly advertises charm-lockets to a cluster of passing students, before leaning closer to me, her voice thinning to a whisper meant for no one else.
“You didn’t hear any of this from me,” she murmurs. “Not unless you fancy trouble.”
A curl of scented steam drifts between us, carrying cloves, dried rose, and something metallic beneath it. Her eyes, soft brown, too tired for someone her age, hold mine with a weight that makes the market around us dim.
“There’s been movement in the woods.”
My stomach tightens. “What kind of movement?”
“The kind no one’s supposed to see. Shadows when there’s no sun.
Footsteps when no one is walking.” She reaches for a jar, stops halfway, then presses her hand flat against the counter instead.
“I know the stories. Most people do. But this is different. These aren’t spirits, and they aren’t beasts. These are men with orders.”
Shadeborne. She doesn’t say the name, but I hear it anyway.
Her gaze catches on the faint scar along my forearm, the one I forgot my sleeve didn’t fully cover. Something uneasy flickers in her expression.
“They’ve been coming closer,” she whispers. “Three nights ago, someone spotted one standing at the ridge above Anvaris. A tall thing. Still as winter. Watching the roads like he was waiting for someone.”
A pulse kicks behind my ribs.
Blue eyes.
The thought is irrational, impossible, even, but it coils through me before I can stop it.
“Did anyone approach him?” I ask.
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Approach? Child, no one with a beating heart would go near a creature like that. You feel it before you see them, cold crawling up your spine, your breath catching in your throat. They’re not meant for the likes of us.
They come only when something is being hunted. ”
Her words settle with the weight of prophecy.
The vendors around us keep chattering, tossing herbs, laughing with customers, bartering over prices. But none of it dulls the thin string of dread weaving itself through my spine. The world has tilted, and somehow only she and I are aware of it.
“Some say they’re searching,” the woman continues, lowering her voice even further, “for someone who broke the natural order. Someone with too much in them. A witch born wrong, or born… powerful.”
Her eyes linger on me. Not accusing. Not condemning. Just aware.
I force my fingers to uncurl from their tense grip on my cloak. “Rumors,” I say quietly.
“Most begin as such.” She lifts a tin cup, filling it with a tea so dark it’s nearly black. “Take this. On the house.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“No,” she says, pressing the warm cup into my hands, “but you look like someone who needs something to hold.”
The simple gesture hits harder than I expect. My hands wrap around the cup, letting the warmth seep into my chilled skin.
“Whatever you’re mixed up in,” she says softly, eyes flicking briefly to the woods beyond the last row of stalls, “be careful. Autumn is a thin season. The veil is restless. And so are those who walk in its shadows.”
A gust of wind rushes through the market, rattling the strings of dried herbs overhead and sending a scatter of red leaves tumbling across the ground. The vendor tenses as if expecting something to emerge from that wind, something with height and weight and purpose.
Her hand closes around my wrist before I can pull away.
“If you see one,” she whispers sharply, “don’t run.”
My breath catches. “Why not?”
“Running tells a predator two things.” Her grip tightens. “That you’re prey and that you’re worth chasing.”
Slowly, she releases me.
The market noise swells again, bright and oblivious.
But I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, in the spaces between sound and shadow, something is listening.
From the corner of my eye, something shifts, a hand, reaching lazily for a bag of tea at the vendor’s counter. I wouldn’t have looked twice, except the sleeves of his coat slide back with the movement, revealing a mark that punches the air from my lungs.
A serpent.
Ink curling up his forearm like it’s alive.
A Viper crest.
My heart stumbles. Everything in me goes still, because Shadeborne scouts bear brands of obedience. But this, this is a mark of rank. Authority.
Slowly, against every shred of instinct screaming at me, I force my gaze upward.
And I meet his eyes.
Not just the eyes this time, not the safe distance of a mask and shadows.
His full face is exposed to me under the dim glow of the vendor lanterns.
Striking blue, rimmed with gold. Raven-dark curls brushing the sharp lines of his jaw.
A mouth that curves into a cruel, impossible smirk.
Broad shoulders, relaxed posture, hands steady and sure.
A man built for war wearing the face of temptation.
My breath cuts short. The tea slips from my fingers, hitting the ground with a muted splash. I don’t even register the warmth soaking into my boots. I’m pinned by him, caught in a stare that feels too familiar, too knowing.
And then he steps closer.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hide. His presence is deliberate, a quiet art form, a predator’s patience dressed in casual attire and a long winter coat concealing weapons I can’t count.
A whisper of pressure touches the small of my back.
Not fingers.
Steel.
A knife slides against me with terrifying precision, tracing an idle line through the fabric of my robe as if he’s considering where to cut first.
The vendor notices my flinch. “You all right, dear?”
His answer comes faster than mine ever could.
“Clumsy thing she is,” he murmurs, voice deep, velvety, threaded with amusement. He doesn’t even look at the vendor, his eyes stay locked on me, like I’m the only person in the entire market worth acknowledging. “Harper,” he says softly, too gently, too intentionally, “why don’t you come with me.”
It isn’t a question.
It’s ownership disguised as suggestion.
He nudges the blade lower, enough to remind me he holds the advantage. My hands shake, fingertips trembling against the urge to summon a spell, but my mind can’t focus, can’t breathe, can’t form the shape of magic with him this close. His presence floods everything: sound, air, thought.
“R-Right,” I manage, my voice barely a breath.
He takes that as permission.
His hand clamps around my hip, unyielding, and he steers me away from the safety of the vendor stalls. Away from Sebastian. Away from Liam and Theo’s wandering eyes. Each step presses the blade deeper into my back, guiding, warning, claiming.
We cross the open lane of the market, our footsteps blending with the murmur of shoppers too distracted by autumn lanterns to notice a kidnapping in plain sight.
My heart thunders painfully. My palms burn with restrained power I can’t risk unleashing.
He leans in, his breath grazing the shell of my ear as he angles us toward the narrow alleyway between two shuttered shops.
“Good girl,” he murmurs softly.
The moment we cross into the shadows, he strikes.