Chapter One Hundred Nineteen: Making Friends

  The streets of the Merchant Circle pulsed with color and motion, a dreamscape of shifting silks, glimmering lanterns, and masked revelers wrapped in enchantments that made their costumes shimmer and shift. A woman drifted past in a gown of living moonlight, her form flickering between the shape of a celestial goddess and a cascade of stars. A pair of masked performers twirled ribbons that wove illusions midair—dragons that coiled and snapped before dissolving into smoke.

  Children with painted faces darted between stalls, giggling as they cast harmless charms at one another, their tiny fingers sparking with bursts of color. Overhead, enchanted paper birds folded and unfolded themselves in a hypnotic dance, trailing iridescent light as they flitted through the celebration.

  Dex broke ahead, his nose leading him to a stall where pastries were stacked precariously high and skewered meats sizzled over an open flame. The cart owner, a rotund man with a wild, wiry beard and a missing front tooth, was busy yelling at a pigeon perched atop his canopy.

  “You freeloading sack of feathers!” he bellowed, waving a ladle like it was a broadsword. “Go steal from someone who can afford it! I’m running a business here!” The pigeon cocked its head, unimpressed, and flapped lazily to a nearby rooftop. The man grumbled under his breath, muttering something about birds needing to learn respect, then turned with a dramatic flourish, his apron stained with grease and flour.

  The cart owner spotted them and immediately sprang into action, his booming voice carrying the energy of a seasoned showman. “Ah, customers! Step right up! Today’s special: satisfaction on a stick and bliss wrapped in pastry. Finest cuisine in these parts, I promise!” He gestured grandly, as if unveiling a royal feast, his apron flapping with the movement.

  “You seem to have plenty of food here. And all the carts I see around are overflowing. I got the impression there might be some shortage,” Ell said, probing.

  The man froze for a split second, his smile tightening. Straightening his apron, he adjusted his tone, adopting an air of practiced politeness. “Well, yes,” he said, glancing sideways. “Food has been a bit on the scarce side, and the farms, well, they ain’t what they used to be, that’s true enough.” His tone grew overly bright, though a flicker of worry lingered in his eyes. “But of course, you needn’t worry, m’lord. We reserve only the best for distinguished visitors such as yourselves.”

  Dex’s amused grin widened. “Oh, no nobility here,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Just Travelers from Mount Olympus.”

  The man’s shoulders slumped in visible relief, his formal demeanor evaporating like steam off a hot skewer. “Ah, Travelers! Thank the gods,” he said, dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Can’t be too careful these days. Mistaking a noble for a Traveler? Might as well dig me own grave and lie down in it.” He chuckled, the sound deep and warm, like a fire crackling on a cold night.

  “What is happening with the farms?” Ell pressed.

  “Well, not really something that would interest you, I’m sure,” the man replied, shifting his weight as his gaze slipped sideways, restless.

  “Oh, it definitely does,” Dex leaned in with a smile.

  “It really isn’t something to worry about,” he said, looking around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation.

  Jace could tell the man wanted to speak, but something held him back. The tension in his posture, the way his gaze flickered as if searching for an unseen threat—it was clear. Jace searched his eyes, and in that moment, a faint shimmer sparked in his vision. A gossamer thread of light drifted from the man’s lips, faint stitches of ethereal lines weaving together with each word he spoke, the threads stretching outward and dissolving into the void like smoke dissipating in a breeze.

  “I really can’t say,“ the man murmured, his voice tight with unspoken words. And Jace knew he meant it.

  Dex glanced at Jace, catching the faint shake of his head. Reading the cue, Dex turned back to the man with a grin that masked his unease. “Well, I’m famished. What’s the damage for this so-called satisfaction and bliss?”

  The man noticeably relaxed, a pressure removed from his shoulders.

  “Five coppers for a skewer, seven for a pastry. Ten for both,” the man rattled off, his tone suddenly all business. “And before you start whining, food’s scarce. Fields ain’t what they used to be, but we make do.”

  “Ten it is,” Dex said with a sigh, fishing out the coins. He handed them over with a mock salute.

  The cart owner’s grin returned, revealing a missing tooth that somehow added to his roguish charm. “Oh, it will be,” he said confidently. “Best food this side of the Merchant Circle. You’ll see.”

  Dex bit into a skewer under the cart owner’s watchful eye, his face betraying nothing—at first. The moment the charred flavor hit his tongue, his expression wavered, lips twitching into a grimace that he hastily reshaped into a strained smile.

  “Mmm, absolutely delicious,” Dex said, nodding vigorously. The cart owner beamed, clearly pleased, as he turned his attention elsewhere.

  Dex leaned toward the others and muttered under his breath, “Tastes like burnt disappointment,” forcing the bite down with a grim determination.

  The cart owner smiled, utterly unrepentant. “Told you it’s the finest. Crops might be cursed, but not the cook.”

  As the words left him, he stiffened, his expression shifting from casual indifference to stark realization. His face paled, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Then, in an unnerving instant, his features went blank, like a puppet with its strings momentarily cut. Moments later, a practiced smile slid back into place, bright and cheerful, as though nothing had happened.

  The group exchanged glances, but didn’t press it further. Something told them it wouldn’t be a very good idea for the man’s health.

  Despite the lingering taste of ash, Dex’s good humor returned. He glanced over at Jace. “Care to try your luck?”

  “Let’s see if I can help,” Jace said, stepping forward with an air of quiet determination.

  The cart owner’s sharp eyes followed Dex’s movements, narrowing as Jace pulled a small vial from his inventory before giving it a little shake. A single drop shimmered as it touched the pastry’s surface, soaking in and vanishing almost instantly. The change was immediate. Wisps of rich steam unfurled, carrying a scent that was warm and tantalizing. Dex took another bite, his eyes closing in delight. The flavors unfolded: layers of toasted grain and crushed nuts, with a mellow sweetness like roasted chestnuts at the edges.

  “Better?” Jace asked, hiding a small grin.

  Dex nodded, his expression softening as he savored the transformed pastry. “Much better.”

  A scrape of boot leather against stone drew their attention. A young man strode into the square, his black cloak trailing in the breeze, snuffing out the festival’s glow wherever it passed. A violet sash slung over one shoulder in an almost lazy fashion, but the silver sigil at his collar—Pluto’s mark, sharp and gleaming—was anything but casual. Shadows clung to its edges, dimming the light wherever it touched.

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  He moved like someone who expected the world to make room for him. Shoulders loose, chin up, the kind of confidence that wasn’t loud because it never needed to be. His cheeks were flushed—not from effort, but from something easier. Wine, luxury, a life that had never known hunger.

  His entourage followed a step behind, cutting through the revelry like a blade through silk. No masks, no illusions flickering in the lanternlight—just crisp, measured steps and sharp eyes that missed nothing. Watching. Waiting.

  Laughter thinned. Steps slowed. Cloaks swayed as people edged away without quite realizing why.

  “What,” he drawled, each syllable sliding into a whine, “did you put on that food?”

  Dex took the bottle and held it up, letting the sun catch its faint gleam. “Flavor Saver,” he replied. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t sneer, just stated the truth as plainly as he’d name the color of the sky.

  The young man’s posture straightened, shoulders squaring with the quiet arrogance of someone expecting the world to yield and bow before him. Overhead, a ruby crystal hummed softly, warming the air, while behind them the streets echoed with merchants’ calls. Unacknowledged by the arrogant stranger, the cart owner shrank a bit, shoulders folding inward. The hush that followed felt weighted, as though the scent of spice and bread might curdle into something bitter.

  The goon stepped forward, his boots hitting the cobblestones with the weight of a man who liked being looked at. Thick-necked, with shoulders too broad for his ill-fitted armor, he carried a sneer that barely found room under his helm. His voice matched the clanking steel he wore—grating and harsh. “You will refer to Lord Caspen of House Incantein as Lord when you speak to him.”

  Jace tilted his head slightly, sizing the man up. He didn’t look particularly quick or smart, but the way his hands hovered near the hilt of his blade suggested he was eager to be dangerous.

  Caspen stepped forward, lifting a gloved hand as if the world revolved around him. His face wrinkled in disdain, his nose twitching like a cat near spoiled milk. “Travelers,” he spat the word, letting it hang in the air like an insult. “No manners. No taste.”

  Behind the cart, the vendor stirred nervously, his hands working over a dishcloth that had seen better days. “It’s fine, my lord,” he stammered. “No offense taken, truly.”

  Caspen rounded on him, the syrupy warmth in his tone masking sharp edges. “Silence, peasant. I’ll have your tongue if you speak again.” He leaned forward, smiling with teeth too white for the venom they hid. “I am offended on your behalf, whether you have the sense to feel it or not.”

  The vendor shrank back, his shoulders curling as though trying to make himself smaller, less visible. He cast a nervous glance at Jace, a plea hidden in the quick flick of his eyes.

  Caspen’s expression turned soft, almost kind, as he addressed no one in particular, like he was performing for an audience only he could see. “These poor, defenseless peasants need someone noble to stand up for them. Someone who knows their worth. Travelers think they can disrespect anyone, even our lowest, most miserable—nay, pitiful—classes. But even our peasants,“ he paused, a self-satisfied smirk curling his lips, “deserve better than any Traveler.”

  Jace’s shoulders tensed, and his hand drifted unconsciously toward his side. Hades’ warning pressed hard against his pride.

  Don’t make a scene. Not my fight.

  Jace’s hand twitched, shadows licking faintly at his fingertips, but he forced himself to stillness. He set his hand on Dex’s shoulder.

  “Let’s go, guys.”

  Turning on his heel, he walked away, his friends reluctantly falling into step behind him.

  Caspen sputtered, his face contorting in disbelief. “How dare you walk away from me? I am speaking to you!“ The noble’s voice cracked, shrill with outrage. Jace didn’t break stride, though his muscles tensed with the effort of restraint.

  Then he felt it, despite the dulled senses—a ripple in the air, thick and wrong, like stepping into the aftermath of a scream that hadn’t yet faded. Jace’s senses flared in warning, but the reaction came almost too late.

  A violent lash of dark energy snapped through the space, sharp and cold, nine streaks of violet-black slicing out like living whips. Jace twisted instinctively, the nearest one missing him by inches as it tore through the food cart. The cart exploded in a shower of wood and pastries, the merchant diving for cover with a startled yelp.

  Dex’s skewer flew from his hand, landing in the debris as a half-charred mess. He stared down at it with a look of pure devastation. “My food…” he muttered, almost a whimper.

  The lashes didn’t stop there. They tore through banners, sending them fluttering in tatters, and cracked against the side of a tent, ripping open the fabric and spilling its glowing contents onto the cobblestones. A lantern shattered nearby, sparks raining harmlessly into the damp air. Chaos erupted in the wake of the attack, though miraculously, no one was hurt.

  Jace’s heart pounded as the energy dissipated, leaving the scene in disarray. He cast a quick glance at Dex, who was still staring forlornly at the wreckage of his meal.

  “Seriously?” Dex mumbled, his voice flat with despair.

  A gust of wind stirred the hanging banners, sending gold and crimson fabric rippling like living fire.

  Jace spun, adrenaline surging through him. Before he could process the moment, shadows coiled at his fingertips, twisting into chains that erupted from the ground as he instinctively cast Chains of Oblivion for the first time. They struck Caspen across the face, leaving a red, pulsing mark that glowed faintly with the underworld’s energy. The noble staggered, his hand darting to his cheek in a futile attempt to smother the searing pain. The chains, relentless and unyielding, coiled tighter, dragging his arms down to his sides and locking him in place.

  Jace froze, then released the chains and they faded to black smoke. He hadn’t meant to do it. The magic had come unbidden, like an instinct, a second heartbeat that acted before his mind caught up.

  Caspen recovered quickly, his face twisting into a mask of fury. “Guards!” he bellowed, though the command was barely necessary. The men around him were already in motion, surging forward with deadly intent. The metallic clang of blades rang out as his entourage drew their weapons in unison, the sound slicing through the tension like a warning bell.

  “You’re going to regret ever being born,” he snarled, his lips curling into a vicious sneer. Predatory eyes burned with malice, promising nothing short of destruction.

  Marcus shifted, a crackle of electricity arcing between his fingers. Ell unsheathed her sword, its edge shimmering faintly with runic power. Molly didn’t move; her stance alone radiated calm confidence as the air around her rose gently. Dex raised his fists, his Shard flaring with light. Alice drew a small vial from her belt, her movements precise, her expression cold and unflinching—ready to unleash whatever force it held.

  Then the air changed again, sharper this time but colder, calmer. A woman masked as a silver tigress stepped into the space between them and the guards, her presence commanding. Her emerald eyes glinted with an almost hypnotic light. With a wave of her hand, the guards’ swords vanished, dissolving into motes of golden light that drifted harmlessly to the ground.

  Jace’s breath hitched. His mind scrambled to place her, but the figure before him was something else—something more.

  Her cloak, the color of deep amber, rippled around her, embroidered with black stripes that shifted subtly in the flickering lantern glow. The fabric draped over broad shoulders, flowing like the mane of a great beast, its edges curling as if caught in an unseen breeze. Beneath it, a sleek tunic hugged her frame, cinched with a belt adorned with claw-shaped etchings. Her hood framed her face, the fabric subtly sculpted into feline ears, blending seamlessly with the cascade of thick, silken hair streaked with deep gold and black, wild and untamed.

  Stripes danced across her skin like living ink, vanishing when she moved, only to reappear in new patterns. The magic of her disguise breathed with her, shifting, adjusting, making her something both real and unreal.

  And yet, her eyes.

  Dark emerald, piercing, too sharp, too steady.

  She moved forward, her steps soundless, fluid, like a predator closing in.

  She didn’t shout. She didn’t need to.

  “That,” she said, a velvet growl, edged with something primal, “is quite enough.”

  Caspen’s scoff was sharp, dismissive. “Who the hell do you think you are?” His arms crossed, his stance loose, like he wasn’t even slightly concerned.

  She didn’t answer. Not with words.

  Instead, her fingers brushed the edges of her hood, and with one smooth motion, she pulled it back.

  The illusion unraveled like ink dissolving in water. The shifting stripes faded, the feline features melted away, but the silver-streaked hair remained, catching the lantern light in rippling waves. And those eyes—dark emerald, sharp as glass, ancient and knowing—stayed the same.

  Jace’s breath caught. He knew those eyes. That face.

  Not from the festival, not from the gate. From the hill.

  She had been with the Egyptians.

  When he first arrived in Roandia, when the wind had howled and the sky had been painted in the last streaks of dusk, he had seen her. Watching. Waiting.

  Caspen stumbled back a half-step, the color draining from his face. Then, without hesitation, he dropped to one knee, bowing so fast it was nearly a collapse.

  His voice was nothing like before. No bravado, no arrogance—just raw, unfiltered respect.

  “Your Highness.”