11. Chapter 11
AMARIA
I turned from him, needing air—or at least a target that wasn't smirking at me. I found one near the exit arch. Serenya and Maxx crossing the corridor, heads bent together, the dog trotting at their heels with its cape somehow still intact.
Perfect.
"Serenya." I jogged to catch up. "Wait."
She turned. "Everything alright? The fight—"
"He's fine. Bruised ego, mostly." I fell into step beside her. "Come to the market with me?"
Her eyebrows rose. "The market?"
"I saw signs on the way here. Stalls. People selling things." I shrugged. "I need to get out of these corridors before I start climbing the walls. Or stabbing people in the eye."
Serenya studied my face. Whatever she saw there made her smile—small, knowing.
"Lead the way."
The market spilled down the mountainside in terraces, and for a moment I just... stopped. Stared like a child who'd never seen colors before.
It wasn’t like the cramped, desperate stalls of Velmyra's southern quarter.
This was something else entirely. Stone platforms carved into the cliff face, connected by sweeping stairs and bridges that arced over empty air.
Lanterns hung from iron posts, caging spheres of soft blue-white light that cast everything in a cool, ethereal glow.
Some of the stalls themselves were built into the rock. Archways and alcoves, draped with fabric that shimmered like dragon scales. Deep purples. Midnight blues. Blacks shot through with threads of silver and gold.
The first stall sold weapons. Not the brutal, functional blades of the proving grounds—these were art.
Daggers with handles carved from dragon bone, etched with enhancing runes.
Swords with dark, non-reflective edges. My fingers itched.
I shoved my hands in my pockets before I did something stupid like pick one up and refuse to put it down.
A fae with metal threaded through her hair watched us pass.
"Don't touch unless you intend to buy," she said. Not unfriendly. Just fact.
I nodded and pulled my hand back from a dagger I didn’t remember reaching for. "Serenya, drag me away before I commit a crime."
"You can't afford it anyway."
"That's never stopped me before."
The next terrace opened into a wider plaza. A fountain carved from black stone dominated the center—water streaming from the open mouths of dragon statues, the splash mingling with the low hum of conversation and the shriek of children darting between legs.
The cold still bit at my skin, but braziers burned at intervals, throwing pockets of warmth across the stone. The air smelled of smoke and spices tinged with sugar—baked goods, maybe, or the crystallized dragon breath I'd read about in Serenya's notes.
"This is beautiful." Serenya had stopped beside a stall hung with fabrics. Her fingers brushed a length of scales-cloth dyed deep violet. "I didn't expect..."
"Warmth?"
"Life." She looked around. At the vendors calling to customers.
At a pair of bonded dragons curled together on a platform overhead, their tails intertwined.
At an old man teaching a child to play some kind of flute, the notes drifting across the plaza like smoke.
"After everything they said about Dragonborn warriors and their trials and death... I didn't expect this."
Neither had I. I'd pictured Skal'Varin as all stone and steel and grim-faced warriors sharpening blades in the dark. Not this—children laughing, Dragonborn teaching music in the streets, bonded dragons curled together like overgrown cats.
We drifted farther into the market, toward a stall that made the Crown’s gaudy gold look cheap. Delicate chains of volcanic glass and truth-stones hung from its frame, drinking in the lantern light before throwing it back in fractured rainbows.
Another vendor turned skewers over an open flame, the dark glaze hissing against the coals, while the smoke drifted over trays of pastries dusted with sugar that caught the light like crushed gemstones.
Further down, a table groaned under the weight of actual books—thick, leather-bound tomes with spines etched in symbols that looked too harsh to be a fae language.
Serenya drifted toward the books like a moth to flame. Of course she did. Put that girl in a war zone and she'd still find the one stall selling dusty manuscripts.
"Go," I said, before she could pretend she wasn't desperate. "I'll survive without you for five minutes."
"You sure?" She was already moving. "You won't start any diplomatic incidents?"
"I make no promises."
I let her go. Stood in the center of the plaza and let myself breathe for the first time in... gods. Weeks? Months?
The cold bit at my cheeks. The lanterns cast everything in that strange blue-white glow. And then the seductive scent of frying dough and sugar filled the air.
My stomach growled and my head snapped toward the tantalizing aroma.
The war could wait. The prophecy could rot. That pastry could not.
Behind the counter stood a female with arms thick enough to strangle a wyvern and a scar that bisected her lip, ruining her perfect Dragonborn symmetry. She looked like she’d seen enough battlefield horror to be completely unimpressed by a customer wanting a snack.
Balls of fried dough sat glistening in a clay dish, still crackling from the oil. Coated in crystallized sugar.
I bought three. Shoved the first one in my mouth before I'd finished paying. The sugar melted and my knees actually buckled.
Oh gods.
Crisp outside. Soft and warm inside. The crystals hit my tongue and I rolled my eyes back in ecstasy. I made a sound that probably should've embarrassed me. It didn't.
The vendor snorted. "First time in Skal'Varin?"
"Mmhmm." The second one was already shoved into my mouth.
The third followed a heartbeat later. I didn't eat them; I demolished them. I stood there licking the sticky evidence from my fingertips, eyeing the rest of the tray with dangerous intent.
Later. Definitely later.
I wandered back to Serenya with sticky fingers and zero regrets.
"Find anything?"
"Three books I need and can't afford, and one that might be a grimoire." She didn't look up. "Also I think that vendor is flirting with me."
I glanced at the stall keeper—a male with hair the color of burnished copper and a smile that was definitely more than professional.
"Want me to threaten him?"
"Absolutely not."
"Want me to encourage him?"
"Amaria."
"What? You deserve a mountain fae who looks at you like you're a rare first edition." I bumped her shoulder. "Live a little. We might die next week."
"Your pep talks need work."
"I said what I said." I snagged a pastry from the stall next door—left coins before the vendor could shout—and split it with her. Still warm. Flaky. Some kind of spiced honey filling that made my eyes close involuntarily.
"Oh gods," I mumbled around the bite. "Serenya. Serenya. We have to steal this recipe before we leave."
"We're not stealing—"
"I've done worse for less."
She cackled—which of course made me snort—and then we both erupted into giggles.
"I missed this," she said quietly. "Just... us. Before everything got so—"
"Apocalyptic?"
"I was going to say complicated, but yes." She licked honey off her thumb. "Apocalyptic works."
We stood there for a moment. Shoulder to shoulder. Watching the market move around us.
Then a stall at the edge of the plaza caught my eye.
Bundles of herbs hung from the awning—dried lavender, sprigs of something silver-green, clusters of dark leaves I didn't recognize.
Baskets lined the counter, overflowing with fresh cuttings.
Roots. Petals. Bark stripped from mountain trees.
The smell hit me from ten feet away—sharp and green and medicinal.
Finally, something I could actually do instead of standing ten feet away like a useless decoration.
I leaned toward Serenya and caught her elbow. “I need your help. And before you ask—no, it’s not illegal. Probably.”
She caught my eye. "With what?"
I pulled her toward the herb stall. "I can't touch him." I gritted out. "But I can make something that can. Something that gets to do what I can't—put hands on him and actually help instead of standing there watching some healer learn the geography of his abs."
Understanding dawned on her face. Then that wicked smile—the one she saved for when I was being obvious about something I thought I was hiding.
"Shut up," I said.
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face said it."
I turned to the stall. Started scanning the bundles. I rummaged through the packages grunting.
"I need something for bruising." I grabbed a bundle of dried leaves. "The cuts and deep tissue damage."
And burn her touch off of him—
"I want it to work better than whatever she used."
Serenya paused. "You want to replace her."
I crushed a leaf between my fingers. Let the bitter smell fill my lungs.
"I want him to feel the difference."
And I wanted her touch gone. Erased. Burned off his skin and replaced with mine.
Possessive. Jealous. Feral about it. I wasn't pretending to be better than that. Not today.
Serenya began shifting through bundles, selecting and discarding with the ease of someone who'd spent years learning which plants healed and which ones killed.
"Arnica for the bruising." She plucked a bundle of yellow flowers and passed them to me. "Comfrey root for the deeper tissue damage." A gnarled root joined the flowers in my hands. "Calendula for the cuts—it'll keep them clean, help them close faster."
She moved down the counter. I followed, clutching the flowers like a fae who definitely had her life together and wasn't at all losing her mind over the fact that she couldn't rub salve on her own—
Stop. Focus.
"We'll need a carrier oil and a binder." She pointed to a row of small glass bottles. "That one. The one that smells like pine."
I uncorked it. Sniffed. Nodded.
"And this." She held up a dark sprig. "Wyrmsroot. It grows near dragon nesting sites. Good for inflammation. And it holds heat—the salve will stay warm against the skin."
The vendor watched us with keen eyes. Her truth-stone pulsed between amber and bruised purple as she tallied our selections.
"Healer?" she asked Serenya.
"Priestess. But I trained with healers."
The vendor's eyes slid to me. "And you?"
"I’m the reason she stays in practice." I held up the arnica. "I specialize in breaking things."
Serenya sniggered.
The vendor grunted. Wrapped our purchases in cloth and named a price. I paid with coins Dreadscale had pressed into my hand that morning—Skal'Varin currency, stamped with dragons instead of crowns. I liked the weight of them. Dragons instead of crowns. Felt like a promise.
We walked back through the market. The bundles sat heavy in my arms, fragrant and full of possibility.
"You'll need to crush the arnica and comfrey together," Serenya said. "Add the oil slowly. The calendula goes in last—it's delicate, loses potency if you overwork it."
"And the wyrmsroot?"
"Steep it separately. Strain the liquid into the mixture at the end." She glanced at me sideways. "You've made salves before?"
"A few. Nothing this complicated."
"It's not complicated. Just precise." Her hand found my arm. Squeezed. "He'll appreciate it. Even if he doesn't say so."
"I don't need him to appreciate it." That was a lie. "I just need—"
To feel useful and close. To feel like I'm still allowed to take care of him even when I can't.
"—something to do with my hands," I finished.
Serenya didn't call me on the lie. That's why I loved her.