Chapter 10
The city of Vellesmere peeled back around her in layers.
First, the marble castle shining above the rooftops, further down, the merchant quarter clung to its dignity.
Subsequently the layers rotted along with each wall.
Cobblestones gave way to mud. Dogs nosed through gutters.
A child bawled from behind a thin wall; a man laughed too hard at nothing.
The houses hunched closer together, their roofs patched with whatever the owners had found.
A smear of red marred the wall near the bakery. Jagged, raw, a crooked symbol daubed in haste. The paint had been partially scrubbed away, but not well. Someone had risked everything to paint it. Someone else, just as desperate, had tried to erase it.
Then she saw them.
A young man, maybe seventeen, stood slumped between two Eclipsants in white robes and threads blackening their mouths, his body limp. His eyes were wide and unblinking, his mouth parted as if he’d screamed and never stopped. His fingers spasmed every few seconds.
At his feet, a woman—his mother, maybe—was on her knees, clutching at his bare feet with both hands, her voice rising in useless pleas. “He’s just a boy. He didn’t do anything, he’s never—please, don’t take him—”
Another woman stood behind her, frozen, covering the mouth of a wailing child. The girl’s eyes were wild with panic, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks.
The Eclipsants did not look at them. Not even a glance of pity as they began to lead the boy away. He shuffled, his lips twitched once, and a small line of saliva slipped down his chin.
Thessa swallowed hard. Her own limbs felt locked in place. Neighbors covered their windows. It wasn’t a rare sight anymore. Not lately.
She couldn't afford to stare.
She forced herself to keep walking. One foot, then the other. Eyes down. She adjusted her grip on the basket, wincing as her foot slid in her shoe.
The shoes weren’t hers.
They had never been hers. The right one was cracked at the sole and sucked up water like a sponge; the left pinched her toes so tight that by the end of every shift she swore she could feel the bones grinding.
The basket on her arm was heavier than it looked.
Scraps from the castle kitchens weren’t meant to feed a family, just insult them into being grateful.
A few ends of bread, some bruised apples, a rind of cheese with more wax than anything edible.
She’d managed to save a small pot of jam from the royal breakfast—what was left after the nobles had their fill—and tucked it aside for Sera.
She carried it carefully, because the mistake of dropping even one crust was the sort of mistake you didn’t live down at home.
And the home was squatted between two larger buildings, smoke curled lazily from the chimney, though it smelled more of damp kindling than meat.
The door groaned when she pushed it open.
Inside, the hearth smoldered, giving the single-room home its stubborn pocket of warmth.
The walls were patched in places with boards that didn’t match, and the roof sagged low enough that Thessa had to duck with her basket.
She was tall, nearly as tall as a soldier’s spear, and the ceiling had never forgiven her for it.
“Thessa,” her mother said, turning from the table where she was kneading the last of the dough into something bread-shaped.
Her hands were dusted white, her sleeves rolled high, her blond hair was as always in a long braid.
Lines of fatigue etched her face, but her smile was ready. “How was your day, dear?”
“Long,” Thessa mumbled, slipping the basket onto the bench and pulling off her pinching shoes. “Hot ovens, cold nobles, same as always.”
Her brother barked a laugh, leaning back in his chair.
Joren was sixteen, tall in the way that still looked unfinished, like his limbs hadn’t quite decided where to stop.
His hair was dark, curling stubbornly over his brow, and his grin came quick and crooked.
His eyes, unmistakably, were the same green as hers.
“Didn’t burn the soup this time, then?”
Aerenne shook her head but her lips twitched. “That’s enough from both of you. Let your sister breathe.”
Thessa moved to help automatically, rolling up her sleeves and noticed Sera peeking from the blanket. She beamed at Thessa, then looked down. Nine years old, too pale, freckles scattered like stars across her skin, and blond curls always ruffled. Too clever for her own good, but lately too quiet.
“She had a poor day,” her mother said gently, taking the knife to slice the stale loaf into thinner pieces, stretching it as far as possible.
Thessa hesitated, then remarked, as lightly as she could, “I saw the princess today.”
Joren snorted, pushing past the cloth that served as the pantry door. “In the kitchens? Helping peel turnips, was she?”
“No,” Thessa responded, swatting him with cloth. “In the courtyard. I passed near enough.”
She didn’t miss how Sera’s head lifted from the bed. Her green eyes were wide now.
“Really?” Sera whispered.
“Really,” Thessa quipped, turning toward her. “She looked like someone who belonged to the stories.” She winked. “Like the one mom is telling you before you go to sleep.”
That coaxed a small smile from her sister, and it was enough.
Their mother dusted her hands on her apron and sighed. “I stopped by Neralie’s today,” she remarked, changing the subject gently. “The baby’s strong. Still red as a beet, but he grips a finger like he means to win a war.”
Thessa’s lips curved. “That’s good. Neralie deserves a fighter.”
“She deserves rest,” Aerenne corrected, though her eyes softened. “And a sister—when will you visit her?”
Thessa tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The truth was, she’d been meaning to go—had promised twice, in fact—but between sleepless nights, shrinking bread, and work, she hadn’t found the strength.
Her mother had been a midwife known for helping bring half the quarter into the world. Thessa had even assisted a few times, though the thought still made her queasy.
“Soon,” she said at last, a little too quickly. “I’ll bring her something sweet. If I can find anything sweet.”
Her mother hummed. “You used to be there every week. She misses you. And she worries.”
Outside, someone shouted in the street. Then laughter. Then silence again.
“I know,” Thessa declared finally, voice low. “I’ll try tomorrow.”
Her mother didn’t press. She only nodded, slowly, and turned back to the hearth, where the kettle was starting to hiss.
Dinner that night was thin bread, tougher than it looked, and a pot of broth with more water than flavor along with leftovers from the castle kitchens. Sera sat carefully on the bench, lifting her bowl with both hands and sipping the broth as if each swallow demanded effort.
Joren tore off a piece and chewed theatrically. “Better texture than horsehide,” he said, grinning through the bite.
Thessa rolled her eyes and unbraided her golden waves.
Her mother sat back down, rubbing flour from her hands. “Don’t be crude,” she chided. “Not everything has to be a joke.”
“Everything in this kingdom is,” he countered, tearing another bite of bread. “Else we’d choke on silence.”
Thessa hid a smile, smoothing her thumb over the rough crust in her hand. She liked when they bickered. It made the room feel fuller.
“Anyway,” her mother went on, “the market was near bare today. Not a sack of barley to be seen. And the potatoes—” she shook her head—“priced like jewels.”
“Always the taxes,” Joren muttered. “The king raises his hand and somehow the only thing that rises for us is the cost of supper.”
“You could try earning more,” their mother replied sweetly.
That drew a groan from him. “Gods above, I already shovel more muck than any horse deserves. If I earned coin by the bucket, we’d be rich.”
“By the smell, we are,” Thessa observed dryly.
Sera giggled at that, looking up at her with wide, shining eyes. The sound warmed something in her chest to see her sister laugh, even for a little while. Evenings were always easier. It was the nights and mornings that were hardest.
Joren pointed dramatically at Thessa.
“Traitor.”
“Realist.”
“Fine. Then realism can fetch more kindling tomorrow morning.”
“Only if you don’t fall asleep in the hay first.”
The back-and-forth went on until their mother broke it with a stern cluck of her tongue. “Enough. Both of you. Eat while it’s warm.”
They did. When the bowls were empty, Joren rose, stretching until his joints cracked. He leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to Sera’s forehead, then ruffled Thessa’s hair until she shoved his hand away.
“You’re leaving?” she asked. “Now?”
He grinned crookedly, reaching for his boots. “The castle stables don’t sleep. The Varantian prince has arrived, and apparently his horses demand royal treatment. Fresh straw, polished tack, the works.”
“Lucky animals,” Thessa muttered.
“Luckier than us,” Joren muttered, tugging on his coat. He winked at her as he slipped out into the night.
“Don’t sleep too deep, girls,” her mother muttered as she gathered the bowls. “Dreamers die twice.”
Thessa didn’t argue. She never did when her mother said things like that—it was truth carved too deep into bone. Sera had already trotted back to the bed, curling onto her side, her small hands tucked beneath her cheek as if the world were still kind enough to let her rest.
Later, when the house quieted and the single candle guttered low, Thessa lay listening to Sera’s breathing beside her. Light, even, with the little hum her sister always carried into sleep, like she was holding a tune the world had forgotten.
At first, Thessa almost smiled. But the sound wavered tonight, drifting low and strange, pulling itself into something unfamiliar.
Her sister’s hand twitched against the wall, soot smudging beneath her nails. Curved lines began to take shape, a swirl, a hook.
Thessa pushed up onto an elbow. “Sera?” she whispered.
No answer. Only that hum, breaking into words.
“They’re watching… fire inside, fire below…”
Her sister’s eyes were open. Wide. Reflecting the dim glow of the dying hearth. But she wasn’t looking at Thessa. Wasn’t looking at anything in the room at all.
Her heart lurched against her ribs.
The soot lines on the wall sharpened into circles and lines, a pattern Thessa didn’t understand but knew was wrong.
“Sera, stop!” Thessa hissed, reaching out.
But her mother was already there, quick as if she’d been waiting for it. Aerenne caught her younger daughter’s wrist and wiped the marks away with the hem of her apron.
Sera blinked once, twice—and went slack again, lips parting on another breathless hum.
“Go back to sleep,” Aerenne murmured.
The words landed like an answer to a question Thessa hadn’t asked. But her mother’s jaw was tight, her knuckles pale.
Thessa lay back down slowly, her body trembling in ways she tried to still. Her toes pressed into the too-thin blanket, searching for warmth that wasn’t there.
But warmth wasn’t the problem.
She glanced at the sleeping sister.
Dreamers die twice, her mother had said.
So what in the gods’ names was that?