Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
It was the only place that didn’t shine.
I nearly wept when the noise dulled.
The alley curved behind a row of closed shutters, and suddenly the world softened. No shouting, no bright silk, no clinking coin or perfume. Muted light and the hush of worn stone underfoot.
I followed the scent until I saw the stall.
They tucked it beneath an old wooden overhang, shaded with fronds of woven sea grass.
Petals dusted the floor in soft confetti, not the kind that glittered, but the kind that fell.
Natural, wilted, authentic. Bowls of flowers lined a long table: some still vibrant, some drying for preservation, all unfamiliar to me.
A small woman stood behind the display, her hair tied up in coils of pale rope cord. Her skin was wind-darkened, her hands stained green at the fingertips. She wore no gold, no silk. Just a pale blue tunic and a wreath of dried tidebloom flowers woven around her wrist.
As I approached, she merely tilted her head slightly, lips tightly sealed.
She smiled, as though she’d known I was coming.
My steps slowed. The ache in my ribs eased a little.
I let my eyes wander across the display.
There were petals like stars. Buds like sea glass. Vines that curled like a sign of doubt.
And then I saw them.
Long, white-stemmed flowers with soft blue and violet centers, their edges dipped in a watery pink hue like a sunset trapped in ice. Someone arranged the flowers in a shallow bowl filled with pale sand, with tiny drops of moisture clinging to their roots.
“Sea lilies,” the woman smiled softly. “They only bloom during mourning tides.”
I blinked. “Mourning…tides?”
She nodded once. “It’s what we call the third moon cycle after a death, when the water pulls harder, when grief weighs more than breath, these only open then. When someone somewhere is still waiting to be loved again.”
A dryness gripped my throat, preventing any sound from escaping for a brief moment.
“They’re beautiful,” I whispered.
“They’re stubborn,” she corrected. “They bloom when they shouldn’t. When the world says stay closed, they reach anyway.”
“I’ll take one,” I said, swallowing hard. “Please.”
She nodded, gently selecting one and wrapping it in soft linen. As she handed me the flower, I left the coin on her stall, and she looked at me as if she could see right through me.
“Your soul is louder than your footsteps,” she said. “Be careful who you let hear it.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So, I tucked the flower close to my chest and stepped back into the quiet shade of the alley.
For the first time since we’d arrived in this glittering place, I breathed without pressure. Without bracing.
The scent of dried herbs and salt lingered on my skin.
My fingers clutched the delicate sea lily, a desperate attempt to find purchase in a world that felt adrift.
I didn’t know what I was mourning. Myself, maybe.
My freedom. The quiet life I thought I’d lead.
Or perhaps the idea that I could go anywhere without being looked at.
But here, in the hush and bloom, I could be invisible.
And it felt like mercy.
The sun had dipped behind the tallest building, casting amber light across the blue-tiled roofs. The breeze had shifted again, gentler now, cool with the scent of tide and stone.
I held the sea lily safely against my chest.
I wasn’t sure I was ready to go back into the crowd.
Then I heard the footsteps—measured, slow, and familiar in their quiet weight.
I didn’t look until he spoke.
“You disappeared,” Erindor said simply, but the quiet tension in his voice revealed a deeper unease.
I kept my eyes on the flower. “So did everyone else.”
He didn’t answer that. Merley stood beside me for a moment, hands resting loosely at his sides. I glanced sideways. Dust from travel covered his cloak. There was a new bruise across the bridge of his nose, faint and blooming.
“Sorry,” I said softly. “I needed to breathe.”
He gave a slight nod. “I thought you might.”
I blinked at that. “You did?”
“Yes,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I couldn’t find you. And it’s busy here. Loud.”
He glanced down, noticing the sea lily in my hands. His expression shifted slightly.
“Oh, it’s a sea lily. Only bloom during mourning tides and all that,” I said, holding out the lily for him to look at.
“That suits you, Princess.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m sad and stubborn?”
His lips almost twitched. “Because it’s…it’s tougher than it looks. Kind of like someone else I know.”
The air grew heavy and silent, and my gaze was fixed upon him.
He stepped closer and offered his arm. The gesture was quiet, steady, without expectation.
I accepted, slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow, my fingers brushing the fabric of his sleeve. The tension in my chest eased just enough to let me breathe again. Together, we started toward the quieter paths that wound along the edge of the town, where the stone met the sea cliffs.
We didn’t speak for a long time.
The streets thinned, and eventually we walked side by side through a narrow corridor of wind and water. The sea stretched out before us in endless blue, the horizon bleeding gold and violet where the sun kissed the waves. Gulls circled overhead.
I didn’t ask where the others were. I didn’t want to know.
Here, it was just us—silent and still.
After a while, Erindor said, “I don’t like this place.”
I glanced at him, surprised. “You don’t?”
“Too loud. Too many people pretending to be what they aren’t.”
I laughed softly before I could stop it. “Since when do you share your thoughts so freely?”
He gave me a look, faintly amused. “Don’t get used to it.”
We paused at the edge of the stone path, where a small overlook jutted out over the sea. We both sat down on a bench carved from driftwood.
“I felt invisible in the market,” I blurted. “And yet, too seen at the same time.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s because they saw your face, but not your heart.”
I looked at him.
He didn’t meet my gaze. He didn’t need to.
He was here.
“I don’t know where I fit anymore,” I whispered. “Not with the people I’m supposed to rule, not with these strangers, not with—” I almost said you, but I caught the word just in time.
“You don’t have to fit,” he said. “You just have to keep walking.”
I leaned my shoulder against his.
For a moment, the silence held us in its grip.
A slow, deliberate breath escaped, the sound heavy in the quiet. In a voice barely above a whisper, “I used to run with Riven. A long time ago,” he confessed.
I went still.
“I was a boy. Fifteen, maybe. Angry. Alone. He found me like that.” His voice wasn’t bitter. “I did things I’m not proud of. Things I’ll never be proud of.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t press. But he must’ve felt the way my breath caught.
“I’m not ready to talk about it,” he added, his voice quieter now. “Not all of it. Not yet.”
I turned my head slightly toward him. “Okay.”
“But I will,” he said. “One day. I’ll tell you everything. I just…need you to let me do it in pieces.”
I nodded. “That’s enough.”
And it was.