The morning air in Theros shimmered with light and sound as we stepped into the marketplace. Stalls stretched in every direction—silks and spices from the coast, baskets of bright fruit, perfumes heavy enough to make the air taste sweet. Laughter spilled from a nearby fountain where children played, and the bells of the clock tower chimed high above, cutting through the hum of voices.
It should have been beautiful. It was beautiful. But even the loveliest cage is still a cage when you know you can’t leave it.
Dorian walked beside me with easy confidence, his gloved hand resting lightly over mine as if to anchor me in place. He smiled to everyone who greeted him—the merchant offering gold-threaded scarves, the noblewoman pretending not to stare. Each time, his voice was smooth and practiced, threaded with the kind of charm that had probably won him half the city’s favor already.
I tried to match his pace, to seem calm, but my heart was a restless thing. I’d forgotten what it was like to walk among people, to hear the pulse of a city alive.
When we passed a stall stacked high with books, my steps slowed. The scent of old paper and leather bindings drifted out like a whisper from another life. I hadn’t seen a proper bookseller in years—not since I was a child, before Father had locked my world behind walls and watchful eyes.
Dorian noticed my gaze. “You read?”
“I used to,” I said softly.
“Then by all means,” he gestured toward the doorway, “indulge yourself.”
It sounded kind. Almost gentle. But there was a lilt in his voice, something amused—as though he were humoring me. Still, I stepped inside.
The shop was small and quiet, shadowed by towering shelves that reached nearly to the ceiling. Dust motes spun lazily through the sunlight slanting in from the front windows. It smelled of ink, cedar, and time—like a secret well kept.
An elderly bookseller nodded as we entered. He wore spectacles that magnified his eyes, making him look faintly owl-like. “Good day, my lord, my lady,” he greeted.
Dorian inclined his head politely, but it was clear he was bored already. He drifted toward a case of maps while I lingered near the shelves that lined the back wall, fingertips brushing over cracked spines and faded titles.
Poetry. Histories. Myths of the old gods. My heart caught on that last one. The spine was bound in blue leather, the gold lettering half worn away: The Tears of the Goddess.
I pulled it down, opening to a random page. The script was delicate, the ink faded but still legible: And from her grief, the world was remade. Her tears became the silver sea, her sorrow the tide that moves all things.
The words felt like a pulse against my skin. Familiar in a way that made no sense. I traced one fingertip down the faded letters, and the faintest warmth flared beneath the fabric of my gown where the Moonbrand rested, hidden from view.
“An interesting choice,” a voice said softly beside me.
I turned, expecting Dorian—but it wasn’t him.
A man stood a few feet away, half-shadowed by the shelves. His hair was the color of snow that caught hints of gold in the light, and his violet eyes watched me with quiet intensity. He wasn’t dressed like a merchant, nor quite like a noble. There was something between the two in his manner: poised but unguarded, refined yet somehow restless.
“I’m told that book is more legend than truth,” he said, his tone careful, polite.
“Most truths begin as legends,” I replied before I could stop myself.
His mouth curved, a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then perhaps you have the better faith.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The stillness between us felt heavy, not awkward but charged—like the air before a storm.
Dorian’s voice broke it. “Ah, there you are.”
I startled slightly, closing the book. He crossed the floor toward us, his smile pleasant but his eyes sharp, assessing the stranger in a heartbeat.
The other man straightened, dipping his head in a courtly bow that was too practiced to be common. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Dorian’s answering laugh was light, but it rang false. “Hardly an intrusion. The lady was simply browsing.” He slid a hand possessively to the small of my back, guiding me toward the counter. “Come, Alora. We’ve taken enough of this kind man’s time.”
The stranger’s gaze lingered on me as Dorian steered me away. I meant to look away first, but couldn’t. Something in his eyes—something distant, sorrowful, familiar—held me fast.
As we stepped back into the sunlight, the market noise rushed in again, overwhelming.
“Who was he?” I asked quietly once we’d moved down the street.
“No one important,” Dorian said, his tone smooth, almost lazy. “Some scholar, perhaps. You shouldn’t speak to men who forget their manners.”
I frowned. “He didn’t seem ill-mannered.”
Dorian stopped walking, turning to face me. The smile he’d worn so easily earlier was gone, replaced by something tighter, colder. “You forget yourself,” he said softly. “You’re here to be seen, not to invite curiosity.”
The words stung more than they should have. “I was only speaking—”
He cut me off. “Enough.”
We stood there for a long moment in the middle of the street, silence stretching between us. People passed, pretending not to look.
Then, just as suddenly, Dorian’s smile returned—warm, perfect, practiced. He offered me his arm again. “Shall we continue? The carriage will be ready soon.”
I hesitated, then nodded, placing my hand in his. But my thoughts weren’t on him anymore. They were back inside the quiet shop, on the stranger with the violet eyes who had looked at me not like a curiosity, not like a display, but as if he knew me.
As if he’d been waiting.
—-
Silence lingered long after the nobleman and his companion left. The door shut softly behind them, the chime above it swaying once, then stilling. Dust motes drifted in the slanted light, slow and suspended, and for the first time in what felt like years, Caelen noticed their beauty.
He did not move at once. The world outside was a chaos of sound—market bells, clattering wheels, laughter too loud to be sincere—but here, within these narrow walls, there was quiet. The kind of quiet he understood.
And yet, something had shifted in it.
He turned slightly toward the aisle she had stood in, his gaze drawn to the faint impression her presence had left—the whisper of a skirt brushing the floor, the lingering scent of something soft, like lilies touched by rain. His hand came to rest on the edge of the nearest shelf, fingers brushing over the smooth grain of the wood. It was still faintly warm.
He did not know why that unsettled him.
Varin, his attendant, cleared his throat quietly behind him. The man’s posture was rigid, as always—back straight, hands clasped neatly at his sides. “We should return to the palace, my—” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “—my lord. The council will notice your absence.”
Caelen didn’t answer immediately. His gaze caught on the book she had held—the blue leather spine gleaming faintly in the half-light. The Tears of the Goddess.
It shouldn’t have interested him. It was the sort of trinket his scholars studied endlessly, filling reports with theories and reverence for myths that no longer mattered. But the moment he brushed the cover with his fingers, something faint and electric passed through his skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him that he could feel.
He stared down at his hand as though it had betrayed him.
“Leave us,” he said quietly.
Varin blinked, startled. “My lord?”
“Outside.” Caelen’s voice was calm, flat, but it carried the kind of command that brooked no discussion. “Wait by the horses.”
Varin hesitated, bowed sharply, and obeyed. The door chimed again as he stepped out, leaving Caelen alone in the hush.
He turned the book over slowly, studying it as though its weight might reveal its meaning. A faint thumbprint smudged the edge of the gilt—hers, perhaps. The thought should have meant nothing. He didn’t believe in meaning.
And yet—he could still hear her voice. Low, clear, threaded with an honesty he wasn’t used to. Most truths begin as legends.
It echoed in him long after the sound had faded, stirring something uncomfortably alive.
The shopkeeper, who had been watching quietly from behind the counter, finally spoke. “A fine volume, my lord. One of the oldest editions I’ve had the honor to keep. Would you like to purchase it?”
Caelen looked up slowly. “Yes.”
The word came out quieter than he expected, but it was absolute.
The bookseller’s expression softened, though he clearly didn’t recognize the man before him. “A good choice. That one has power in it, they say. The story of the goddess who gave everything for love.”
Caelen’s jaw tightened. “Power,” he repeated, testing the word. “Or folly?”
“Perhaps both.”
The old man smiled faintly, wrapping the book in soft parchment before offering it to him. “Either way, it tends to find those who need it most.”
Caelen hesitated, then reached for it. The moment the book touched his palm, the faint pulse returned—gentle, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. It startled him so sharply that he nearly dropped it.
He’d never felt such warmth before. Not since childhood, before the curse had hollowed him out.
His fingers tightened around the parcel, hiding the tremor that betrayed him. “Keep the change,” he murmured.
Outside, Varin straightened immediately as Caelen stepped into the sunlight. The brightness was almost painful after the shop’s shadowed calm.
“You’re pale,” Varin said carefully, falling into step beside him. “Is something amiss?”
“No.”
Caelen’s gaze remained on the street ahead—the glittering stalls, the noise, the blur of strangers passing by. Somewhere among them, she was gone, swallowed by the crowd. He shouldn’t have cared. He didn’t care.
But as he walked, the faint warmth of the book seeped through the wrapping and into his hand again, like the ghost of something long buried.
Varin spoke softly, perhaps more to himself than to his master. “You haven’t bought a book in years.”
“I hadn’t needed one,” Caelen replied. His tone was distant, thoughtful in a way that unsettled even him.
When they reached the horses, Varin turned to hold the reins. “Shall I have it delivered to your chambers, Your Highness?”
Caelen’s head tilted slightly, but he did not rebuke the title. He merely looked at the horizon—gray clouds stirring above the palace spires—and spoke in a voice that barely rose above the wind.
“No,” he said. “I’ll keep it with me.”
And with that, he mounted his horse and rode into the lengthening afternoon, the book held close against his chest.