Chapter Nineteen
I’ve no one to blame but myself.
As a demon, I should have known to be explicit in my request.
Especially when dealing with Cyran’s literal nature.
My request to visit the silversmith did not mean the moment Ryc began his work for the day.
Lesson learned.
Bleary and barely awake, I shield my eyes against the bright, early morning sun as I walk. Two days in a row I’ve been dragged from my bed sooner than I should have been.
The worst part—I can’t be mad at Cyran.
He’s doing as asked.
He walks a few paces ahead, leading the winding way through the Twilight Mire. This, along with the Brightmoss district, has become one of my favorite districts in the city. Here the shops are filled with crystals, herbs, texts, and scrolls—things dedicated to the study of old magic or innate use.
Oddities and potions, plants and stained glass windows—the Twilight Mire speaks to me on a level I cannot adequately explain. Quieter than the South Ward, or even the North Docks, though not as reserved as the Wells.
As we walk, we pass a few merchants working to set up their stalls with their wares for the day.
Brave.
In this cold, I’d refuse.
Merchants here are more of the unusual nature, offering boxes of small bones, ritualistic daggers, and dust-covered tomes bound in questionable leather. Necromancy and blood magic are illegal—yet it would be all too easy to procure materials to perform either among these merchants.
An amplified beam of sunlight bounces off Cyran’s armor blinding me and I smother my yelp. My hand flies to my eyes as they become narrowed slits and Cyran peers over his shoulder.
“Do you have to wear your full regalia all the time?” I mutter, turning my face away from the light. “Is there less ostentatious armor? Perhaps something more like Eve’s?”
“Eve isn’t Royal Guard,” Cyran replies, turning his lavender eyes forward.
Were my eyes not watering, forcing me to blink thirty times per second, the scowl I give Cyran’s back might be more effective.
More people emerge on the street, their cloaks clasped tight, their hoods raised against the wind. It’s less abrasive today, yet just as cold. A bold red catches my attention, a bright red cloak donned by a woman as she walks in the opposite direction.
My eyes linger upon her longer than they should as she passes, and as I turn—else risk running into Cyran—bold, black lettering plastered against gray stops me.
Today’s paper.
With today’s headline.
And for the first time in weeks, it isn’t about the number of undead encountered the night before. Instead, it’s about me.
Erus to Expect a Sovereign Queen?
Below it, there’s an inked image.
Like the portraits of Celesta in the texts—which now sit in several stacks tucked into the corner of a library thanks to the researchers. Following my feet, I wander closer, the headline ignored in favor of discerning the artwork.
It’s… Ryc and me.
The day we were in the South Ward.
For a time I stand. Silent and staring.
It doesn’t feel real—to see a portrait of myself. A demon featured in a mortal paper… and it’s not a scene depicting the demon’s death.
Capturing Ryc I can understand, he’s their king.
But me?
Even with the evidence staring me in the face, I don’t believe it. Some artist’s rendering of us together in the rain. I blink, lifting my gaze from the row of papers with the screaming headline and meet the stare of the man working the stand.
He watches me warily.
As if I’m going to snatch a paper and dash off.
Or he’s waiting for an answer.
“D-did you say something?” I ask.
His brows furrow. “Just in greeting, ma’am,” he replies. “But if you’re interested in today’s news, paper is five gold. Going to sell fast, people are curious to see the female they’ve heard about with King Alaryc.”
“Heard anything interesting about her?” I dare to ask, unable to resist the urge to hear more about the gossip I know exists.
The man shakes his head. “If you call speculation about her being the daughter of a fishmonger interesting,” he offers with a shrug. “Apparently she’s been spotted around the North Docks all summer.”
Netharis the fishmonger.
My lips curl in a wicked grin as I fight the urge to laugh. It’s too easy to imagine my father’s rage at such a suggestion—making it all the more amusing.
The man reaches, severing the twine tied around another stack of folded papers. He shrugs. “If you ask me, I think people are desperate to talk about anything. What better than the first female the king’s been seen with since his engagement ended?”
Distraction.
I nod, understanding the need.
“Lady Ves?” Cyran’s voice has my eyes swinging left.
He steps in beside me, peering at the headline.
Snagging a copy, I unfold it, revealing the lower half containing the full, front page article.
“Cyran, I’m the daughter of a fishmonger,” I laugh, holding the paper for both of us to see.
Reaching over the paper, Cyran hands the now wide-eyed man the gold. His stare bounces between Cyran and I as he clamps his mouth shut.
“This way, Lady Ves,” Cyran says, his hand finding the small of my back as he ushers me away from the stand while I read.
“What I would give to be the daughter of a fishmonger,” I say mostly to myself.
“Do you like to fish?” he asks.
“Never done it.”
“Like open water?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Then why would you want to be the daughter of a fishmonger?” he asks.
“Netharis never treated me like a daughter. Perhaps being the daughter of a fishmonger would be different,” I reply and Cyran heaves a small, regretful sigh.
He continues to steer me through the crowd. “Lady Ves, I spoke without thinking—”
“You’re fine, Cyran,” I say as my eyes continue to scan the page.
“No need to apologize. What I was to my father isn’t a new revelation.
” I say, exposing the long-known fact and swiftly moving past it.
“Ryc’s display has bred some interesting commentary.
” I lower the paper, glancing up at the fae beside me.
“Ollorans are expecting a coronation soon.”
“Are they wrong?” He asks, his hand falling away.
I stammer. “No, but… this makes it sound like they’re expecting it tomorrow. It’s not happening tomorrow.” I fold the paper and tuck it under my arm.
Cyran smiles. “No, certainly not tomorrow. Coronation can’t happen until you’re married.”
Married… light take me.
As I contend with the thought, Cyran swings left, toward a bright red door.
A familiar bright red door.
I peer overhead at the shop sign.
Embers and Ashes.
As he climbs the steps, he says, “Coronation traditionally falls the day after the marriage.”
But my mind is past the minutiae of fae tradition and his words sit largely lost to my confusion. I stop at the bottom of the stairs, ceasing Cyran from opening the door.
“I thought we were visiting a silversmith?”
“We are,” he answers. “He runs this shop.”
“The silversmith you know is Gladir?” I ask and we exchange equally surprised looks.
“You know him?”
“Know is a strong word,” I reply. “I’ve met him once. Came here in search of bloodstone.”
Honestly, the fact I remember his name is more impressive.
I met the old fae once during my initial foray in this realm.
He and his daughter are the first people I met who had no idea who I was. They were not associated with Celesta and her temple, or Ryc and the Witherhorn family—two contending sides expecting me to hide from the other.
Cyran opens the door and the tiny, copper bell overhead chimes. I follow and the instant I cross the threshold, I’m met with the shop’s signature scent. A strange yet not unpleasant concoction of florals, musk, and vanilla.
It’s just strong.
I’ll certainly have to bathe when I return, else the scent will cling to me for the rest of the day. I’d rather Ryc not try to piece together where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing. I don’t want him to know about this search until I’m ready for him to know and have his ring in hand.
I close the door behind me.
“Welcome to Embers and Ashes,” Gladir greets in a practiced but warm tone.
Hunched over the counter, face downturned, he doesn’t lift his eyes from inspecting the dark object in his hands.
Round, gold-rimmed glasses hang low on the bridge of his nose.
Peering around Cyran as he approaches, I follow slowly in his wake.
Blackened metal, curved talons… it’s a demonic gauntlet he inspects.
I scoff a tiny, quiet laugh.
Likely something picked up in the days following the eclipse.
“Feel free to browse at your leisure,” he says with an airy wave about the shop. Again, he doesn’t lift his eyes. The gauntlet has his full attention. “I’m here for any and all questions.”
Cyran stops before the counter, prompting Gladir to finally lift his face.
“Captain Stargarden.” A surprised smile lights up the fae’s features. “Haven’t seen you in quite some time.”
“It’s good to see you well,” Cyran says, the kind and warm note in his tone unexpected.
I stop. Lingering in the shadows a short distance behind Cyran, I wait.
I wouldn’t describe Cyran as welcoming.
Yet he’s welcoming Gladir?
He made it sound like he knew of Gladir. This—this tells me he knows Gladir.
“I’ve heard about your adventures and undertakings through a few at the castle,” Gladir says with a small laugh. “Choosing you is a wise decision on King Alaryc’s part.”
Turning, I venture farther into the shop, not wanting to disturb their conversation.
I leave my hood raised, turning it into a curtain between the counter and me as I steer well away from the light shed by the magelight chandelier hanging above them.
The rest of the shop by comparison lies shrouded in shadow.
Relief washes through me as I slip unnoticed past them. If these two know one another, the least I can do is give them a moment to catch up. Cyran bringing me here is a kindness after all.