Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Three Bubbles and a Truth
Lyssena
Lyssena walked beside Rolam, careful to keep a respectful distance between them, though not so much that it would appear rude, her hands resting lightly at her sides as she tried to steady the fluttering unease in her chest.
She did not fully understand why she had chosen to trust him.
Perhaps it was the way he spoke—not like the others who moved in near silence between the stalls, but with an ease that resembled human conversation.
Perhaps it was the laughter he had offered her earlier, so startlingly familiar that it had disrupted her fear.
Or perhaps it was simply that she had already stepped too far into this world to retreat now, and trust, however fragile, was easier than admitting how vulnerable she truly was.
They walked between the towering dark stalls of The Void market, where all the other demons seemed to pay no attention to them at all.
“Did Erevos give you the tear-bubbles,” Rolam asked so casually, as though inquiring about the weather, “or did you create them yourself?”
Lyssena’s breath caught. Her hand moved instinctively toward her hip, toward the pocket where the small spheres rested securely against her thigh, and she looked up at him in open surprise.
“How did you know what I carry?” she asked.
Rolam’s mouth curved. “You are walking through a market of demons,” he replied. “You think we cannot sense grief when it brushes against us?”
Lyssena swallowed, “I made them,” she admitted quietly. “I wished to buy something for Erevos . . . for our home.”
At that, Rolam’s gaze shifted slightly, studying her. “And what were you thinking of purchasing?”
She hesitated, because now that she stood here, surrounded by towering beings of shadow exchanging objects she barely understood, her ideas felt embarrassingly small.
As they continued walking, Lyssena allowed her gaze to drift across the stalls, trying to gather some understanding of what this market offered.
There were not many demons present—perhaps ten or a few more in total—they were positioned far away from one another.
The demons exchanged small containers and narrow boxes, all crafted from condensed shadow.
The exchanges were nearly silent.
No loud bargaining, no raised voices, no laughter echoing across the square. Only the faintest murmur now and then.
She noticed that the containers varied in shape, some tall and slender like sealed vials, others broad and square, their surfaces matte and lightless, and though she could not see inside them, she felt certain that whatever they held was not physical in the way honey and cinnamon were.
The realization made her feel even more conspicuous. What could she possibly offer in a place like this?
As if sensing her growing unease, the two-tailed creature slipped between her and Rolam once more, its soft body brushing against her ankle before gliding toward his side.
Lyssena looked down at it, then up at Rolam.
“Is this your cat?” she asked.
Rolam’s grin widened, and for a moment it resembled Erevos’s own, though not quite as expansive, not quite as sharp, but similar enough to make her chest tighten.
“This,” he said, glancing down at the creature as it circled his leg, “is not a cat as you understand them in the human realm. It is a herta.”
“A herta,” Lyssena repeated, testing the unfamiliar word on her tongue. “Does the herta have a name?”
“No,” Rolam replied without hesitation.
She blinked at him. “Why not?”
As she asked the question, her gaze drifted once more across the market, and it was then that she noticed that there were no decorations.
No fabrics meant purely for beauty, no carvings, no trinkets or ornaments designed to delight the eye. Every stall held containers, sealed vessels, shadow-bound items, but nothing frivolous, nothing crafted solely for admiration.
No color beyond black and violet. No excess.
And suddenly the idea of buying something “nice” for their home felt impossibly human.
“You are disappointed,” Rolam said.
Lyssena hesitated because denying it would have been pointless, and there was something strangely exhausting about pretending in a place where even sealed grief could be sensed through fabric and shadow.
“There is . . . nothing for me to buy,” she admitted at last, her gaze drifting once more over the dark stalls and their purposeful wares.
“I thought there might be cushions, perhaps, or plush pillows, or something soft to place near our seating area. Or decorations. Or—” she faltered, realizing how trivial her ideas must sound here, “—anything, really.”
She could almost see the image in her mind: a corner of their cavern softened with fabric, something inviting and warm against the endless dark stone, a space that felt less like a realm of ancient power and more like a home.
Rolam regarded her in silence for a moment before replying, “Demons do not sell such things.”
The statement was simple. And for the first time since he had begun speaking to her, he did not sound particularly human.
A human, she thought, would have elaborated. A human would have added something, an explanation, a suggestion, perhaps even a shrug and a redirection toward some other stall or merchant who might offer what she sought. A human conversation filled the spaces between answers.
Rolam left the space empty.
Just like he did not answer her question about naming the herta.
It was not cruel, nor dismissive, but final in a way that felt distinctly inhuman, as though the matter required no further examination because, to him, it simply did not exist.
Lyssena pressed her lips together, unwilling to surrender her idea so easily. She also wanted to scratch her nose, but then remembered she had a beak.
Well, if such things were not displayed here, that did not necessarily mean they were not available at all.
“Then, do you sell such things?” she ventured, lifting her gaze to him once more. “You said you sold Erevos honey and spices, which are not of The Void, so I could assume you might sell other goods as well?”
She had almost said human goods.
The phrase hovered dangerously close to her tongue, but something about it unsettled her. She was not trembling as before, and she was not consumed by fear, but she was also not foolish enough to forget where she stood.
Rolam studied her for a long moment; those endless violet eyes were unreadable, and then he inclined his head in a slow nod.
“I do,” he said simply.
The herta brushed once more against his leg, its many eyes blinking.
“Come,” Rolam added, turning, his long legs already beginning to move between the shadowed stalls. “Follow me.”
And though Lyssena knew she should hesitate—knew she was placing a great deal of trust into a being she had met only moments ago—she found herself walking after him anyway.
“This is amazing!” Lyssena exclaimed as she stepped fully into the deeper cavern Rolam had led her to.
The shop was set within a smaller offshoot of the market, a cave tucked farther into the dark stone, where the shadows seemed thicker but somehow more curated, as though shaped specifically to frame what lay within.
Shelves carved directly from the cavern walls stretched upward in arching rows, holding objects both familiar and unsettling.
There were bolts of fabric in muted, rich tones—deep burgundy, dusky gold, soft ash-gray—their textures ranging from silken sheen to heavy, plush weave.
There were glass vessels filled with preserved herbs and powders, their contents layered in gradients of color, and beside them stood tall, narrow jars containing what appeared to be dried animal organs, shriveled and darkened with age.
Small shadow-crafted boxes sat in neat arrangements across long stone tables, their lids slightly ajar to reveal glimpses of jewels, polished bones, carved trinkets, and things Lyssena could not immediately name.
Rolam had everything.
Anything she could possibly imagine, and several things she could not.
She moved forward as though pulled by an invisible rope and stopped beside a small open case lined with dark velvet, inside of which rested a collection of luminous pearls, catching the faint violet glow of the cavern in a way that made them appear even prettier.
Her mouth parted in astonishment.
“How much would something like this cost?” she asked, reaching down to lift the box.
“Three bubbles,” Rolam replied, “and a truth.”
Lyssena turned toward him at once, the small case cradled in her gloved hands.
He was leaning casually against a broad stone table behind him, the surface beside him strewn with folded fabrics and several tall glasses containing those same dried organs she had noticed earlier.
They were unsettling. But the pearls . . . The pearls were exquisite.
“What truth?” she asked, already reaching into her pocket to retrieve three of the tear-bubbles.
Her mind was racing ahead of her even as she spoke.
She could sew the pearls into her crown so that they rested like soft constellations against the shadowed metal, or stitch them along the neckline of her gown, letting them catch the dim glow of the cavern when she moved.
She could even craft two matching bracelets—one for herself and one for Erevos—something pretty and intimate that tied them together.
“Have you chosen to stay here?” Rolam asked.
The question slipped between her thoughts and stilled them entirely.
“Chosen?” she repeated.
She had chosen to follow Erevos. She had chosen to leave the human world behind.
And over time, she had come to like him—more than like him, if she were honest—though the full shape of that feeling still felt too delicate to examine directly.
Romance had always lived vividly in her imagination, and what she shared with Erevos had grown into something beautiful.
She was still too shy to name it fully, but she knew it was there.
And yet, Rolam’s question lodged somewhere deeper than she expected.
When she had first been intimate with Erevos, she now remembered, he had said that eternity was forever.
That word had slipped past her then.
Now it had settled heavily in her mind.
“Why do you ask?” she replied at last.
Rolam’s expression did not change much, but something in his gaze darkened.
“My human,” he said, “never chose me back.”