Chapter 2
August liked change about as much as he’d like a dagger to the cornea.
He preferred life to be steady, with the comfort of predictability. His existence may have been miserable, but it was a familiar, monotonous misery. The arrival of anything new introduced the risk of a fresh, raw kind of suffering.
So, August stuck to his routine. He dealt with the tedious lessons, his thoughts always far removed from the ramblings of tutors and their lectures on diplomacy and manners and whatever other grueling thing they decided was crucial for him to learn.
He enjoyed his meals with Lottie in an empty dining room, where she’d tell him all about whatever novel she was reading or whichever friend she’d had tea with that day. Dinners with his mother were rare, marked by uncomfortable silences and icy disinterest.
When there were official events or formal receptions, he would find any excuse to avoid them, retreating to the solitude of his room.
Since his father’s death, his mother never pushed the issue, content to let him have his privacy.
Grateful as he was, he knew it was about image preservation, not anything resembling compassion.
The same reason she no longer let him leave the castle grounds, even when Lottie went out with their tutor.
Of course, it helped that Lottie drew enough attention at the events to make up for his absence.
Despite being twins, their differences far outnumbered their similarities.
Where August was unsociable and unapologetically unambitious, Lottie was everything someone born into royalty should be. Gregarious and driven and kind.
And persuasive, apparently, because she’d somehow convinced him to break his comfortable routine to sneak out for a stupid festival.
With a confident stride, Lottie led the way down the street, the sounds from the market square growing louder with every step. She wore a lilac dress with a high collar, her black hair pinned at the base of her neck.
August glanced down at his brown frock coat. It was a casual outfit, nothing that would make him stand out. But he was still acutely aware of the fact that he didn’t belong.
Then again, that was how he usually felt, regardless of the setting.
Lottie slowed to match his pace. “Stop making that face. It’s a celebration.”
He gave her a tilted look. “What face?”
“Your grumpy old man face.”
“This is just my face, Lottie,” he said, throwing out his hands.
She laughed and gave him a playful shove. “Just smile, dear brother.”
“I’d rather not.”
Music greeted them as they reached the square; the rhythmic, energetic lilt of a fiddle, and the fluttering trills of a flute.
August had learned to play a variety of instruments, taught by renowned musicians from across Atheran, but the songs he knew were heavy and slow.
This was buoyant and wild, with the pulse of a racing heart.
He followed Lottie to a spot at the edge of the crowd.
Fallowmoor was a walled city built out from the massive castle. It was composed of short brownstone buildings, iron fences, and narrow, twisting streets, but the sprawling market square at its centre, ringed by shops with decorative facades, was its best feature.
Gaslamps burned with the pale pink of wielder fire, and the cobblestones disappeared beneath the sea of grey and brown jackets and muted bustled dresses.
Even at this late hour, the square hummed with life and too much noise, its energy effervescent.
Market stalls sat crammed together like sardines in a tin, the vibrant colours faded from summers spent in the sunlight and winters spent in sleet and snow.
Although winter’s chill remained stubbornly present, the handful of trees in the city center were already bursting with tiny green buds.
August hadn’t expected his city to smell so delicious up close.
From his balcony, he’d occasionally pick up the foul odor of the Copperhill tanneries or the Torlaeth ironworks, and sometimes the pungent smell of animals carried in on the wind from the farms outside the walls.
But down here, the air was thick with the scents of spiced food and warm mulled wine.
It had been four years since he’d been immersed in the city rather than observing as a distant bystander. Now, Fallowmoor felt like an estranged friend, someone once loved but now unfamiliar.
Back then, when he visited the city, it was with his father or a tutor and always with at least two members of the royal guard. Being out here among wielders without protection was terrifying.
He eyed a woman perched on an old wooden crate, her green dress frayed and blackened with soot.
With a graceful flourish of her hand, she coaxed a thin sprout from the pot of dirt at her feet.
August tensed as the sprout grew and budded, wrapping up around the woman’s hand, then her arm.
All at once, the buds bloomed into an explosion of vivid yellow flowers, the sweet scent hitting him like a blast.
With a gasp, he jumped back, heart pounding in his chest.
The woman gave a gentle smile and bowed as passersby tossed a handful of caern into the bowl at the base of the crate.
August wasn’t accustomed to being this close to wielders, since they weren’t allowed inside the castle.
The massive gardens were tended by hand, and the gaslamps lit with plain orange fire.
Wielders were too dangerous, too volatile.
He’d witnessed firsthand the sort of destruction they were capable of.
Fear prickled in his fingertips, but Lottie seemed unbothered, her face alight with unbridled excitement as she watched the crowds flow like rivers beneath the colourful banners.
“What do you think, Auggie?” she asked over the noise.
His brow cinched. “It’s loud.”
“It’s a celebration,” she said with a smile. “It’s meant to be loud.”
“There are too many people.”
“You should feel honored. It’s for you, after all.”
The frown deepened. “We were born twenty minutes apart. It’s your birthday, too.”
“Perhaps, but I’m not the heir aesling. You are.”
It was an awful truth, a cruel blow by fate. If he’d been born second, a lifetime of unwanted responsibility could have belonged to someone else. Someone far better suited for the role.
August wrinkled his nose as he stared at the crowd. None of this was actually for him. Or her. Their birthday was just an excuse for the city to throw a party. They did the same for his mother. And even for his father, who had been dead for four years.
But these people didn’t know them. Not really. They apparently couldn’t even pick them out of a crowd.
Then again, in every painting of his family, the artist would make tiny corrections to his likeness.
They’d thin his face, wrangle the wild curls of his dark hair, plaster the appearance of confidence on his physique that was as fictional as the novels his sister loved so much.
And they’d always leave out the silver that ringed his pupils—a trait his mother attributed to misfortune, not magic.
As far as anyone knew, there were no powers that caused silver rings.
In truth, August and Lottie were relatively plain-looking, with soft, unassuming features.
They had matching raven hair and golden-brown skin, both passed down from their Jivanten father.
There were people in the crowd with similar traits.
But he still felt like they were going to be found out.
It seemed impossible that no one had recognized them yet.
“I’m going to dance,” Lottie said. “Join me?”
This wasn’t her first time out here. Unlike him, she wasn’t confined to the castle.
“I’m good here,” he answered. He may have known how to dance, but that didn’t mean he was willing to do it in public.
He thought she might press him, but she only shrugged. “Fine, I’ll check in with you later. Try to enjoy yourself. It’s our birthday. Celebrate a little.”
“We already did.”
She tilted her head. “Did we though?”
That was a bit of a stretch. They’d all eaten dinner together, but it was hardly a celebration. It was uncomfortable and tedious. The cook had made him his favourite dessert—apple tarts with fluffy cream on top—as he did every year, but his mother insisted that one piece was more than enough.
“Your face will never lose that boyish roundness if you keep eating like a child,” she’d said.
To spite her, August had secretly taken two more on his way to his room, without the cream, unfortunately, devouring one on the way and tucking the other beneath his pillow for later.
As the musicians began a new song, Lottie kissed him on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Auggie.” A graceful twirl sent her skirt billowing around her like a flower. She flashed a quick smile and then vanished into the heart of the boisterous crowd.
“Happy birthday, Lottie,” he said after she was gone.
How in the hells had she convinced him to come here? He usually had no trouble telling people no.
August stayed put for a few minutes until his curiosity got the better of him, then he traced the border of the market square, surveying the items for sale at each stand.
A short woman with half-moon glasses peeked up over the counter of a structure that looked more like a tiny house than a stall.
Behind her, shelves displayed an array of lamps, lanterns, and chandeliers, their pink flames casting a soft halo around her.
He lingered for a moment before the enticing scent of spiced meat dragged him away, sending him weaving through the browsing customers, pace quickening as he searched for the source.
He rounded a stall and crashed into someone with enough force to send him stumbling backward.
“Look where you’re going, ya taesan!” a voice snapped.
“Sorry,” August muttered as he caught his balance. A subtle vibration, like a silent hum, drew his gaze up.
The boy stood a head taller than August. He was lean, with light hair and fair skin, his face twisted in an irritated scowl. When his storm-blue eyes met August’s, something flickered across his expression, and the hardness melted into a warm smile that set August’s insides on fire.
“No harm done,” the boy responded.
August swallowed hard. “I-There’s—” He blinked, then turned and hurried away, heart in his throat as he edged around the square. He followed the market stalls, pretending to peruse until he was sure he’d broken the line of sight.
Real smooth, August. Not suspicious at all.
At least he seemed to have lost—
“Hey, hold on!”
Or not.
He needed to leave. Needed to get back home. He’d had enough celebrating for one day. As he pushed past the edge of the crowd, the boy slipped in front of him, forcing him to stop.
“You’re a skittish one, aren’t you?” he mused, gaze sliding from August’s eyes down to his mouth and back again.
August frowned. “What do you want?”
“To apologise.”
“It’s fine.”
“It is absolutely not,” the boy argued. “I tend to pick fights on my bad days. You’re clearly new to Fallowmoor, and that was a terrible first impression.”
“What makes you think I’m new to Fallowmoor?”
“Nobody who grew up here looks at it the way you do,” the boy said, then added, “I’m Felix.”
“Henry,” August answered. A version of his middle name and his chosen identity for the evening.
“Henry,” Felix echoed thoughtfully, as if testing it.
“I was just leaving,” August said, but before he could move, Felix reached out, fingers grazing the back of his hand, sparking every nerve in his body.
“Please. My manners were unacceptable. Allow me to make it up to you.”
August’s eyes flicked briefly to the point of contact. “It’s fine. Honestly.”
“At least let me buy you a pastry. There’s a stall with these meat crescents. The spices are just…” Felix closed his eyes and sighed. “You haven’t truly experienced this city until you try one.”
Go home, August urged himself, but his traitorous feet stayed rooted to the spot.
This was a terrible idea, and he knew it.
Yet when he opened his mouth to respond, the word that escaped was, “Alright.”