CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The bathroom door swung open, and Aran appeared, grinning like a maniac. He wore a white robe and slippers, a bottle of wine held aloft like a grand prize. “My friends,” he announced, spreading his arms wide, “tonight we live as kings.”
I pressed my palms to my face. “Could you not.”
Will laughed. “Where the hel did you get that?”
“They left a whole stack,” Aran said proudly, lifting one slippered foot and wiggling it. “You have to try these. It’s like walking on clouds. Actual clouds.”
We followed him into one of the bedrooms just in time to see him hurl himself backward onto the bed.
“Gods,” he groaned. “You have to try this. I’m never leaving. Bury me here. Don’t even try to stop me.”
He rolled onto his side, then his stomach, and finally swaddled himself in the throw blanket like a baby.
I just stared at him.
Then he unwrapped himself, reached into his pack, and pulled out the familiar small glass vial. Moon drops.
I got the hint.
He held it out toward me. “Here,” he said. “For tonight. Please, Kera. I really like this place. Don’t burn it down.”
I took the vial from his hand. The robe and slippers actually looked… nice. Maybe a bath was exactly what I needed. So I slipped away and locked the bathroom door behind me.
The bathroom was just as grand as the rest. A porcelain tub sat in the center, already filled, steam curling into the air.
The scent of roses drifted soft and clean.
I undressed slowly because everything still felt heavy.
My arms. My chest. Even my breath. The mirror caught me in pieces.
Mud streaked down my calves. Hair tangled, unwashed.
Dirt smudged under my eyes. Weeks of travel clinging like a second skin.
I stepped into the bath, and warmth wrapped around me instantly.
I sank lower, letting it cradle me, letting it pull the ache from my muscles.
My head tipped back until my hair floated on the surface.
I found the soap and scrubbed every inch of my body.
Washed my hair twice, dragging the knots loose with my fingers. Rinsed until the water ran clear.
Then I just sat, letting the heat sink into places nothing else had touched in days, as candlelight flickered softly across the tile. I stayed until the water cooled, until my skin was raw and my mind finally quieted.
I padded across the suite in silence, still wrapped in the towel. My room wasn’t far. I dressed quickly, took a sip of the moon drops, then slipped beneath the covers, clean, warm, and exhausted.
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I slept better than I had in months that night.
And the next morning, as sunlight poured through the tall windows of the breakfast lounge, it didn’t burn through my skull.
It turns out, when you don’t have a constant headache, the world feels a little less overwhelming.
And that was fortunate, because the place gleamed.
I had never seen so much food in one place.
Pastries were piled high on silver trays, some flaky, others dusted with sugar or drizzled with glaze.
Mountains of fruit were stacked like centerpieces, melons carved into spirals, berries overflowing, slices of orange gleaming in the sunlight.
In the far corners stood cakes, tall and decadent, dripping with syrup.
Aran gave a low whistle and wandered forward, already licking his lips.
“This is it,” he said. “I’ve died and gone to paradise.”
He started loading his plate like he’d been starved his whole life, never mind the fact that he’d stuffed himself the night before and ordered room service more than once.
Will followed at a slower pace, picking things carefully, murmuring soft observations like, “This looks good,” and “You should try that one,” as he examined the trays.
The smell of bread reminded me of the bakery back home, of early mornings spent kneading dough before the sun rose, the quiet clatter of bowls, the soft sound of the oven creaking open, and that burst of warm air against my face as the first loaves went in.
I hadn’t thought about baking in a long time.
I hadn’t let myself. It felt more like a memory from someone else’s life than my own.
Sometimes I still wonder what happened to Mrs. Holt.
I like to imagine she fought them off, that when the soldiers came, she didn’t run or hide, but stood in the doorway of the bakery, rolling pin in hand and chin high, daring them to try.
In my head, she’s wearing her long, flour-stained apron tied tight around her waist, a carving knife tucked into her boot.
The soldiers thought she’d be an easy target, but they didn’t know she’d trained with an ancient sword hidden beneath the floorboards.
I picture her leaping onto the counter, slicing through smoke with wild, fearless eyes, kicking flour bags into their faces, swinging a glowing blade in a perfect arc to cut down the first man who stepped too close.
Then I see her charging into the square on a stolen warhorse, one she knocked the rider off herself, her hair flying, cheeks flushed, and a scream tearing from her throat like thunder.
I think, in some strange way, I’m glad I don’t know what really happened to her. I get to remember her like that, feisty and fearless, protective and sharp-tongued, with nothing staining the memory.
After filling my plate, I sat down at a white marble table.
The food in front of me looked almost too perfect to touch.
Bright colors, soft textures, delicate scents.
And it tasted even better than I expected.
Much better than salty dried meat or canned soup and beans.
The fresh fruit was juicy, each bite sweet and ripe in a way that almost made my teeth ache.
The bread was still warm, soft in the center with a golden crust. I tasted the strawberry jam and wondered if it had come from Vestance, but maybe they had strawberries in Alevé too.
Across from me, Will had already bitten into a pastry, powdered sugar clinging to his fingertips as he licked them clean, and Aran was trying to look casual, but I saw the way he kept sneaking glances at the other guests, checking to see if he was eating the right way, drinking the right way, sitting the right way.
For a moment, I just watched them. Watched how easy it was for them to slip into a new world.
How quickly they laughed and ate and let themselves relax.
I wished I could do the same. I wished I could sit there, eat pastries, and pretend like nothing else mattered.
I wondered if Aran was right. If we’d ended up in paradise.
But it couldn’t be. If we had died and gone to paradise, Einar would be here.
So would my parents. Will’s mother. Selma. And Licia.
No—Licia wasn’t dead.
Just missing. And we were supposed to find her.
“We have to remember why we’re here,” I blurted.
Will blinked, still chewing something. “How are we actually supposed to find her? There’s probably thousands of people in this place.”
“More like millions,” Aran said, reaching for another pastry without looking up.
“We have the clues,” I murmured.
Aran gave a low snort and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. “You mean the clues from the crazy woman who kicked you out of her house?”
My jaw tightened. “Both of you? Really?” I looked between them, waiting for one of them to act like they still remembered what we were doing here. “You’d rather just sit here and eat sweets all day?”
They exchanged a glance—barely a flicker—then shrugged in perfect sync.
“Yeah,” Will said, deadpan. “Sort of.”
I just stared at them. They weren’t even trying to be serious.
Or maybe they thought they were being funny.
I couldn’t tell anymore. Maybe I should’ve been glad they weren’t fighting for once.
That they could agree on something. But did it have to be that?
Did it have to be the one thing that actually mattered?
I needed them on my side.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, turning my face away.
The chair scraped hard against the marble as I stood. A few people turned to look. I didn’t care. I shoved the chair back in harder than necessary, fingers trembling.
“Please,” I said over my shoulder. “Enjoy your feast. I’ll go do the thing we actually came here for.”
I didn’t have a plan, just the need to move, to do something.
The second I stepped outside, the city wrapped around me.
Alevé was already wide awake. People moved in every direction, talking fast, laughing, weaving through stalls with baskets on their hips or children clinging to their hands.
Silk awnings in shades of green and blue stretched above the street, casting shifting shadows across pale stone.
Even as the beauty unfolded around me—sunlight on white buildings, silk rippling like water—I couldn’t shake the weight creeping in behind my ribs.
A presence. Like something unseen was keeping pace just behind me.
Maybe it was nothing. Just nerves. But the last time I’d felt that way, the shadow came.
And I killed it. It was dead, I think. But what if there were more?
Alevé might be safe from Vultures, but nothing was safe from gods and monsters.
A vendor smiled at me from a street corner, holding out a folded piece of parchment.
I hesitated, then took it. The sample was green and flaky, some kind of pastry, with crushed herbs, but it smelled sweet, like toasted honey and something herbal I couldn’t name.
I tasted it carefully, and it melted on my tongue, buttery and strange.
People gave food away there. In the streets.
Just like that. I’d known Alevé was wealthy, heard stories about ships full of fruit and wine and silk, but I’d never imagined the difference would feel like that, when Vestance and Alevé shared a border.
It was like stepping into another world.
I wandered deeper into what looked like a market, though it wasn’t like any I knew.
There weren’t tents or wagons or a town square.
The shops spilled directly from the buildings, doors propped open, windows flung wide.
Goods were set out in tidy crates beneath awnings or arranged in shelves tucked right into the walls.
And what struck me most was the families.
Not just working, but being there. Some had children beside them, painting wooden toys or carving bowls as their parents worked.
A narrow shop tucked beneath a low archway, nearly hidden. Its shelves were cluttered with little objects: bone charms, wooden carvings, trinkets made of glass and metal. And spread across the center shelf, a city in miniature, tiny towers and golden domes, painted gold.
Replicas of Alevé. Golden buildings.
The vendor smiled when he saw me. He looked older, with a patchy green cloak and deep lines etched around his eyes, but his smile was quiet and warm, the kind that didn’t try too hard.
“You like them,” he said.
I nodded. He chuckled softly and adjusted one of the little towers. “They are beautiful, yes?”
I might’ve kept drifting from piece to piece if something on the back wall hadn’t caught my eye. Paintings.
Most were bright and joyful, sunlit streets, domed rooftops, families dancing. The kind of art that made you feel like the world had never known hunger or war. But one painting stopped me. Stopped everything. A chill ran through me so fast it left me breathless.
It was a painting of a girl with golden hair, her body suspended in a sky of fire.
The brushstrokes were wild, almost frantic, yet somehow alive.
I couldn’t look away. Something about it pulled at me.
Like I had seen it before. The world outside—the music, the shouting vendors, the blur of movement—faded beneath the rush of blood in my ears.
Footsteps sounded behind me. I didn’t turn. Will came to stand beside me, quiet. His gaze followed mine, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke.
“Is that...” he began, but I finished it for him.
“It’s me.”