Chapter 4
It had been a terrible day, Felix’s foul mood set from the moment he woke to Marlow’s heavy expression. Another wielder had gone without a word. No warning, no goodbye.
Felix had truly believed the reassurances he’d given Marlow, that the handful of wielders disappearing from the shelter were simply moving on. Finding work and alternate housing. Hatha House was meant to be temporary, after all.
Marlow had always been a worrier. Compassionate to a fault.
It was in her nature as a healer, he figured.
But as the number of missing wielders steadily grew, his explanations wore thinner.
His first instinct was to tell her to stay clear of it, to come stay with him.
He couldn’t lose her. But Marlow wasn’t the type to turn away when people needed help.
Worry had clung to Felix like a dark cloud all day, heavy and smothering, making it impossible to focus on anything else.
Until he bumped into a fascinating stranger with silver rings in his eyes.
Felix drew in a breath of crisp night air as he watched the boy tear into a greasy venison pastry with grand enthusiasm, the weight of the day momentarily forgotten.
The distraction was welcome. He’d hate to waste a festival night sulking.
Every evening, the sleepy city of Fallowmoor stirred awake for the night markets.
But on festival nights, it transformed entirely.
This particular festival marked the birthday of the twin aeslings.
A celebration for two guests who would never actually attend.
The heir aesling hadn’t been seen in so long that rumors had spread like a plague.
He was deathly ill in some stories, long-dead in others.
One even claimed he’d been locked away in Fallowmoor’s asylum since the aesveran’s death.
The subject was common gossip among the nobility.
However, for Felix, who couldn’t care less about the royal family, this festival marked the beginning of spring.
He tipped back his head, reveling in the fantastic buzz of it all—the familiar tug of the Market Square and all its comforting scents and sounds.
Felix was in his element here. He knew these streets, these shops; he had grown up among them.
He and Marlow had sold newspapers at the market as kids and were nearly arrested for stealing food more than once.
Flawed as it was, Fallowmoor was his home. And on nights like this, the city seemed to celebrate with every ounce of energy it could summon.
“This is incredible,” Henry mumbled around a full bite as he lifted the pastry and examined it like a treasure. “Where have you been all my life?” He shoved the last piece into his mouth, and a flake clung to his bottom lip.
Felix’s gaze followed the slow sweep of his tongue as he caught it.
“Do they not feed you where you’re from, Henry?”
The boy’s eyes widened in surprise, like he’d completely forgotten Felix was beside him. He muttered something, but the words were lost behind the mouthful.
Felix let his eyes linger on Henry’s lips, tracing the shape of his mouth, admiring the soft curve of his bottom lip. Then he smiled. “Come on.”
He skirted the edge of the square, passing a line of people clutching hand-written signs. He cast them a pitying glance.
Life was hard for wielders. Distrust, disrespect, and the sharper edge of fear from nonwielders, made finding work nearly impossible.
Still, some jobs benefited from magic, and in those cases, the convenience and efficiency outweighed the risks for employers: flamewielders as streetlamp lighters, growers as gardeners, menders as tailors.
Those possessing greater powers had slightly better prospects. A few fortunate conjurers found work in theatre, empaths assisted surgeons by calming patients, and healers, of course, practiced medicine alongside doctors. Yet even those lucky enough to land such positions were poorly compensated.
Because of this, many wielders relied on the night markets and the festivals, offering their services or staging performances.
Nonwielders, drawn by both fear and morbid fascination, seemed to love these shows.
They’d marvel at the magic, toss some spare change, and then return to their lives, unbothered by the way those same people were treated in the daylight.
Felix hated to see his people struggle. But he’d change things someday.
Wielders might have been forbidden from holding any positions of power—a stupid, backwards law—but Felix had spent most of his life hiding his abilities to ensure he’d end up in one.
He was lucky enough to have been born without rings.
Whether it was the mixture of powers or pure chance, it gave him an opportunity that other wielders didn’t have.
And he intended to use it to make a difference.
He’d be a legend, just like his da.
He looked back to confirm Henry was still following. The boy looked utterly lost, his wide eyes bouncing from the banners to the bustling crowd until suddenly, he stopped, his posture rigid.
Felix followed his gaze to a flamewielder juggling three small pink fireballs that crackled with heat. A few onlookers clapped politely. The act was hardly original, and it was surprising the crowd gave him any reaction at all.
And yet, stark terror was etched across Henry’s face.
People rarely surprised Felix anymore. But there was something about Henry—a subtle dissonance, like a new note in a familiar song—that was utterly intriguing.
And then there were those eyes. Slate grey with rings like polished metal.
He prided himself on his vast knowledge of magic, so he was confident that no power bore silver rings. And yet, there they were.
A fierce curiosity gnawed at him. The need to ask, to understand. Felix despised not knowing. But the question felt too personal to pose to someone he’d only just met. He’d have to work his way to it. He was good at getting people to open up.
Felix slowed to match Henry’s pace. “We’ve established that you’re not from here,” he started, dragging Henry’s attention from the flamewielder. “So, where are you from?”
The hesitation was a clear indicator that whatever answer Henry was about to give would be a lie, so Felix didn’t bother to wait for it. He didn’t have the attention span to suffer through made-up stories.
He waved the question away with a flourish of his hand. “Alright, scratch that. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”
Henry’s disgruntled frown turned down the corners of his mouth, and Felix couldn’t help but laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Henry asked, clearly offended.
“You.”
The frown intensified.
“You’ve mastered the cantankerous scowl of an eighty-year-old at, what? Seventeen?”
Henry’s face softened, and a faint smile touched his lips. “Sixteen today, actually.”
“It’s your birthday?”
The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, his expression slamming shut. Clearly, this was a detail Henry hadn’t meant to share, and Felix filed it away as important for that very reason.
“There you are!” A girl appeared beside Henry, taking his arm with an affectionate ease.
The resemblance was impossible to miss. She was every bit as beautiful, and nearly as intriguing.
But her eyes were warm brown, without a trace of rings.
And the moment they met Felix’s, they hardened with suspicion.
“Everything alright, Auggie?” she asked.
Felix quirked an eyebrow. “Yes, Auggie,” he said, emphasizing the name that was very much not a shortened version of Henry. “Is everything alright?”
“Everything is fine,” he answered, eyes wide as he turned to the girl and added, “cousin.”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” said Felix.
“Lottie,” the girl replied with an outstretched hand.
“Felix Connolly.” Taking her fingers in his, he bowed his head slightly, then met her eyes and offered his most radiant smile. A greeting perfected through practice.
His manners were a refined art, every introduction a subtle performance. With plans to climb the political ladder, every interaction with someone of a higher social status held potential significance.
Lottie’s eyes narrowed. Then she freed her hand and pivoted her attention back to Not-Henry. “I’m going to get a drink with some new friends. Join me?”
“You have fun. I’ll meet you at home later.”
“You’re certain?” she asked. “I can take you home before I go.”
“I think I can find it,” he replied impatiently.
Lottie grinned. “Alright. Be safe. And be home before sunrise. Don’t make me come drag you back.”
He nodded once.
After a pointed warning look at Felix, she turned and left.
“Auggie?” Felix asked.
The boy blew out a breath before answering. “August.”
“I think I’ll stick with Auggie. I quite like it.”
August rolled his eyes. “If you must.”
“Fantastic.” Felix threw an arm over August’s shoulders. “Where to now?”
The next couple hours were spent buying and sampling food from various stalls, and he didn’t miss how August never looked at the prices before ordering.
Felix kept the conversation light, attempting to spread out his questions.
He was afraid his new friend would flee like a startled deer if he pushed too hard.
Like Felix, August was an only child. He didn’t get along with his mother, while Felix adored his own.
He’d lost his father when he was younger. Felix had only heard stories of his.
But the places where August became hesitant or standoffish were the ones that drew Felix in like a moth to a flame.
“How long have you been in Fallowmoor?”
It was a simple question, but August seemed to turn it over in his head before finally answering. “A few weeks.”
“And what brings you here?”
Another pause. “I’m visiting my cousin.”