Chapter 57
Thessa left the castle at dawn, the streets hushed and empty.
Her body ached from hours in the kitchens, dragged from Mera House to help with the pre-wedding frenzy.
Each step felt heavier than the last, cobblestones slick beneath her shoes, her thoughts dulled by exhaustion.
Which was why she didn’t notice the man until she walked straight into him. Hard.
The breath caught in her throat. She stumbled back a step, head ducked, already reaching for an apology. “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t—”
She forced herself to look up.
And stopped.
The man was taller than any she’d seen up close, his hair a fall of black silk that brushed his waist. His jaw was clean-shaven, sharp as cut stone, and his eyes—gold, piercing—met hers with the kind of directness that made her stomach wobble.
His skin was a deep bronze-brown, his shoulders broad beneath a purple cloak that screamed nobility even without the faint embroidery glinting at the hem. Likely a guest for the wedding.
Thessa braced herself for the scolding.
But instead, the man smiled.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he murmured, voice smooth and low, touched with an accent she couldn’t place. “It seems I was in your way.”
Thessa blinked. “In my—? No. No, it was me. I wasn’t looking. I was—” She gestured vaguely to her apron. “Thinking about… soup.”
She winced at her rambling.
He laughed, a sound so rich it almost felt indecent in the thin morning air. “A worthy distraction.”
Before she could think of a reply, a cart rattled past, its driver shouting for her to clear the road. She stepped back, nearly bumping the man again.
He inclined his head, that impossible smile still curving his lips. “May your day be peaceful, Thessa.”
Then, just as easily as he had appeared, he turned and walked away, vanishing into the noise and foot traffic like mist pulled back by the tide.
When she glanced back, he was already gone. Her stomach dropped.
She hadn’t told him her name.
For a moment, she just stood there, rooted to the cobblestones. The world rushed back in all at once—the clatter of hooves, the bark of staff, a door slamming shut somewhere behind her.
Don’t be ridiculous.
She shook her head, as if to scatter the thought, and kept walking home in the pearling light of dawn, the streets still damp with night.
Her palm pressed against her eye until colors bloomed there. Rhyssa, she was exhausted. The days were smearing together, thinning into one long ache.
By the time her street opened ahead, her legs burned, sweat clung cold to her back, and every step felt like falling. She stumbled through her door, slammed it shut and rested her back to them, just long enough to drag in a breath.
Thessa lifted her head. Her mother was watching her from across the room, worry pressed into the fine lines around her eyes. Beside her stood Keeper Halwen, his brown robes smelling faintly of ash and herbs.
What was he doing here?
Sera lay curled on the cot, eyes twitching beneath shut lids, breath shallow and uneven. Sweat dampened her temples. The blankets were tangled around her thin frame like she’d been wrestling invisible hands.
“Thessa?” her mother asked.
“I… I’m fine,” Thessa lied.
She pushed away from the door, bowed slightly toward Halwen. “Keeper. Forgive me, but—why are you here?”
Before he could answer, her mother’s tired face brightened with a fragile kind of joy. “We received a package. From the castle.”
Thessa blinked. Once, twice. “A package?”
Halwen’s voice was gentle, as it always was. “My brothers and sisters have been distributing food and herbs to those who suffered most during the landslide. Your household was among them.”
Thessa’s eyes dropped to the basket set neatly on the table. Full. Dried herbs bundled with string, bread wrapped in cloth, fruits and vegetables.
Thessa narrowed her eyes. Generosity never traveled this far down the quarter. Certainly not before a wedding.
Her mother looked at it like it was a miracle.
“Princess’s orders,” Halwen added.
The princess? Thessa’s chest tightened in an unfamiliar way—surprise, gratitude, suspicion tangling until she wasn’t sure which weighed heavier.
She swallowed and bowed her head anyway. In their situation, motives didn't matter. Only the fact that they could eat a warm meal. “Thank you.”
Halwen’s eyes softened as they moved to Sera. Thessa tensed at first, but her mother trusted him. Trusted the Flame. And Thessa had served at their rites enough times to know he was no stranger.
Slowly, she let herself unclench.
Halwen bent nearer to the cot. His expression gentled further, though shadows lingered in his gaze. He reached into his sleeve and drew out a small vial, pressing it carefully into her mother’s hands.
“One drop beneath her tongue,” he instructed, “three times a day. No more.”
Her mother’s voice broke as she whispered thanks. Tears streaked down her face, her fingers clutched the vial as if it were salvation itself.
Thessa frowned, arms crossed tight across her chest.
Halwen straightened, tracing a sign of blessing in the air over them. “I must return to the castle. The ceremony preparations wait for no one. But all are welcome at the gathering near the willow at sundown.”
Her mother nodded quickly, still pressing the vial to her chest.
Thessa only dipped her chin, lips pressed thin.
Halwen gave a final nod and stepped out, the door closing softly behind him.
Her mother went straight to Sera’s side, uncorking the vial with hands that trembled more from hope than fatigue. She tipped a single drop beneath the girl’s tongue.
“What is it?” Thessa asked.
“It’ll help,” her mother assured quickly, like the words themselves could force the truth into being.
Help. The word rang hollow. Thessa had tried too many remedies to believe in potions anymore. But what else was left to hope?
Her vision swam when she turned too fast, nearly dropping the wooden bowl from the table.
“You should lie down,” her mother remarked. “You worked all night.”
Thessa crouched instead, brushing Sera’s damp hair back from her face. Her fingers shook. The girl’s skin burned against her palm. Perhaps it’ll help, she told herself. Perhaps.
At the washbasin, her mother rinsed her face and straightened with effort. She put a fresh brown robe on her shoulders, and her hair had been braided down her back in the neat style she saved for holy days.
“You’re going out?” Thessa asked, startled.
Her mother nodded, patting her face dry with a threadbare cloth. “You heard Keeper Halwen—there’s a Rhyssa offering near the old willow. The women are gathering. It’s for the royal union.”
Thessa swallowed. “You’re attending?”
“Yes.” Her mother checked the fold of her sleeves. “We’re praying it goes well. A wedding like this—it could change things. A girl from our kingdom, marrying up like that. Maybe she’ll carry some piece of us with her. Maybe she’ll remember.”
Thessa only stared. She didn’t trust her voice.
Her mother turned, eyes softer now. “Please give Sera the drop again at midday, then once more before dawn. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
She reached to touch Thessa’s arm. Her fingers were colder than they should have been. She hesitated, gaze slipping toward Sera laying in her tangle of blankets.
“If anyone asks,” her mother said quietly, “say she’s shy. Say she always was.”
The word left her throat sharp and small. “Mom?”
Their eyes met. “It’s going to be alright. We have food. We have the potion…” Her mother’s voice trailed off. She swallowed the rest.
Thessa’s throat closed tight.
A kiss brushed her temple, and then—almost as if it were an afterthought, though it was anything but—her mother said quietly:
“The Assembly’s been sniffing around the lower district. Banished from the castle, yes. But still slithering through alleys. Yesterday they almost took Lena’s sister’s boy.”
Thessa flinched.
“Close the door,” her mother instructed.
Thessa followed her to the threshold. “Be careful.”
Aerenne paused and angled her head. “I always am.”
Then she stepped into the street, her shoulders square, her good robe catching the light like a flag of surrender. Thessa stood there long after she’d gone. The hearth snapped behind her like it knew a secret she wasn’t meant to.
And next to it, Sera didn’t hum.
She just stared at the ceiling, lips parted, eyes glassy, as if listening for something only she could hear.