Chapter 11 #2
He says it so matter-of-factly. Fenric doesn’t miss a beat. He gestures to himself with both hands—his perfectly tousled hair, his striking features, his warrior-toned body.
“Of course she does.”
And to that, we all laugh—too loud, too suddenly, drawing a few glances from nearby tables.
I feel it before I see it—that prickle at the back of my neck, the unmistakable sense of being watched. My laughter falters as I glance up, heart already racing. Because I know.
Thane is watching me.
He’s leaning back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back of Jarek’s, the other cradling a pint. His eyes meet mine across the room, steady and unreadable—but there’s something in them. Something quiet. Intense.
Slowly, he lifts his glass in a silent toast, offering a smile—real, soft around the edges in a way I’ve never seen from him.
I blink, caught. Breathless. Then quickly look back down, hoping no one noticed the way my pulse just jumped.
Gods. What am I doing?
Just smile back, Amara. It’s not that hard.
I raise my eyes, ready to meet his gaze again, to return that rare, quiet smile. But when I do, he’s no longer looking at me.
He’s speaking to someone now—a woman. Sergeant Auren Quenvale.
Her blue eyes sparkle with whatever story she’s telling, her corn silk-colored hair braided and pinned into a perfect crown around her head.
She’s nearly as tall as Thane, with the kind of quiet poise that makes people lean in when she speaks.
She’s gesturing with her hands, animated and confident, and he—he looks fully engrossed. His body angled toward her, his mouth curled into something dangerously close to a real smile. For someone else.
Something twists low in my stomach. I force myself to look away.
It was just polite. That’s all it was. My friends are clearly getting into my head.
As we step out of the pub to visit the shops, the cool spring air hits my face, carrying the scent of wildflowers and woodsmoke. The sun has shifted just enough to cast long shadows across the cobbled street.
I steal a glance back through the open door. Thane is still speaking to Sergeant Quenvale. She’s leaning closer, one hand mid-gesture. Thane listens intently, that same small smile playing at his lips. He doesn’t look over.
I don’t know why I expected him to. Or hoped he would. But I feel a twinge of disappointment anyway.
“Alright,” Lyra says beside me, clapping her hands together, “where to first?”
I turn my eyes back to the street, plastering a smile on my face, and follow my friends.
The village is alive with motion, the sun breaking through a patchwork of clouds, casting shifting light over the cobbled streets.
We split up naturally—Taila heads toward the bookshop with Lyra, already debating whether they’ll buy anything or just spend an hour reading on the floor.
Darius and Fenric fall into step beside.
Fenric slings an arm around my shoulders, grinning like this is some grand expedition. “For the record,” he says, “I love Darius. Both deeply and passionately. But I have to know if the apothecary girl really wants a roll in bed with me.”
Darius snorts. “She probably just wants you to buy more overpriced salves.”
“Jealousy,” Fenric says, gesturing to himself. “A very natural response to my devastating charm.”
I roll my eyes. “You two are insufferable.”
Fenric beams. “Thank you.”
We pass stalls tucked into the narrow spaces between buildings, colorful canopies fluttering in the breeze.
Vendors call out their wares—fresh fruit, roasted nuts, fire-glazed pottery, woven scarves dyed in wind-touched hues.
Children chase one another between carts, laughing, while a bard strums a cheerful tune on the corner, his case open for coin.
A wind chime tinkles softly overhead as we pass beneath a wooden awning strung with herbs; rosemary, sage, lavender. The smells mingle with the scent of baked bread and woodsmoke from neighboring shops. It’s the kind of village that reminds me of home.
The apothecary comes into view at the edge of the market—a narrow shop nestled between a weaver’s stall and a florist, its pale blue shutters open to the breeze. A small bell above the door jingles as we step inside.
Warmth envelops us, thick with the scent of mint, lavender, and something earthy. Shelves line the walls, filled with vials, tinctures, and jars labeled in neat, curling script. Sunlight hits a cluster of crystals near the front window, throwing small rainbows across the floor.
The shopkeeper stands behind the counter—young, pretty, her honey-colored hair swept into a loose braid over one shoulder.
The second she sees Fenric, she blushes.
Darius leans toward me, voice low and amused. “Oh no. She absolutely wants a roll with him.”
Fenric grins like he’s just confirmed a theory hotly debated by scholars. “I knew it!”
“Be nice, Fen.” I shake my head, trying—and failing—not to smile as I wander toward the aisle with the salves.
Fenric wastes no time.
The moment she greets us, he steps forward with that practiced charm, leaning just a little closer than necessary.
“You know,” he says, voice like honey over steel, “I’ve heard your salves work miracles.
But I have to wonder—” His smile deepens. “Is it the herbs . . . or the hands that make them?”
She blushes deeper—gods, she’s practically glowing—and starts fumbling over a response, clearly flustered.
Darius groans softly behind me. “Here we go.”
I laugh and wave them off, turning away from the performance before Fenric can dial up the theatrics.
I make my way toward the far wall, where the salves are lined up in tidy rows—soothing balm, bruise poultice, fire-tinged muscle cream.
The wooden shelf creaks slightly as I run my fingers along the jars.
The apothecary is cluttered in that charming, vaguely chaotic way most herbalist spaces are, with bundles of dried sprigs hanging upside-down from the rafters.
Shelves overflow with jars of powdered roots, glowing tinctures, and vials sealed with wax stamped by the Clan Healers’ sigil.
A faint hum of Elemental energy lingers in the air—not magics exactly, but something old and attentive, like the herbs themselves are listening.
I’ve been so sore lately.
Thane reduced the level of protective enchantments during training—said it was time I started feeling the real impact of combat.
It was meant to sharpen my instincts, force me to react faster, but gods .
. . I’ve felt every hit since: the sting of wooden swords; the ache of bruised ribs; the throb in my shoulder from yesterday’s roundhouse kick that landed harder than expected.
I sigh and pick up a small jar marked Regenleaf a lost sister; a father’s healing; a dream someone had of a woman glowing like she’d stepped out of the stars. They all want to believe in something.
And while I’m still trying to figure out what being the Spiritborn means . . . I don’t mind. It warms my heart, in a way I can’t quite explain, to see these people hold onto hope.
Even if I’m still learning how to carry it.
“Please,” I say gently, offering a warm smile. “Call me Amara.” Like I’ve said a number of times, I think, though not unkindly.