The main town in Armonía is nothing like I thought it’d be.
From the stories I’ve heard at court, I imagined scattered markets of old wares. Not the endless stalls of thick chocolate cake and freshly caught fish in front of us.
They stretch into the far reaches of the sun, each filled with a different brightly colored fruit, or loaves of freshly baked bread. The smell of garlic and cream from the pots of simmering soup soak the air, and between the masses of marketgoers there are wildflowers that spring up from the street. Their petals are unfettered by the treading crowds, ever bright and swaying in the wind.
I take it all in, my heart pounding with every new discovery.
A new world, beyond my castle and beyond Vasiliádes.
Beyond my tower.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
From the thatched dome buildings, striped in brown wood, to the floors that are a mosaic of cobblestone in a rainbow of colors that look like shattered glass. When we step on them, they illuminate. The sound our boots make against them is like rain falling through tree leaves. The cobbles shimmer and ripple in response, as though they’re absorbing the sound and becoming fluid.
This isn’t some quaint and unassuming town on the edge of the Six Isles, like the court snobs made it out to be. Perhaps it’s not refined and glamorous, but it’s grand and brimming to the teeth with traders and the throngs of people who barter with them.
I’m in awe of it.
“Don’t you think it’s pretty?” I ask, looking back over my shoulder to Nox.
He blinks at me, frowning a shade, as if he’s noticing something for the first time.
Then he swallows, gripping tighter on to the balloon bag.
“Your hood” is all he says.
For a moment I’m confused, but then I realize the problem. I’d thought we were almost unnoticeable in the crowds, but with the summer green of my hair, people are stopping to stare and whisper as we walk by.
A witch in Armonía.
A Somniatis woman, outside of the Floating Mountain.
They look at us with such hatred that we may as well have a target on our backs.
I swallow and bring my hood quickly up to hide my face from this bustling town.
Then something curious happens.
A woman passes by, her hair the same shade as mine.
We stop to stare. For a moment I think the king and Theola have found us. I see the panic in Nox’s eyes too, as he mistakes the stranger for my mother.
Then another woman crosses the market square, hair a darker gray green.
Then another.
Armonía is full of them—women with green hair cut short above their ears or swaying by their collarbones.
“They look just like you,” Irenya says, blinking as if her eyes could be deceiving her.
With a smile, I realize it must be the fashion in Armonía to emulate the Somniatis witches. I wonder why Nox didn’t mention it, but then I see how surprised he looks.
I’m not the only one who didn’t expect this.
In Vasiliádes, it’s common to wear green masks to show allegiance to the crown, but that’s nothing like this. The people in Vasiliádes fear us, and their masks pander to the king, but on these streets it’s not about him at all. They’ve colored their hair to be like us.
Like me.
I tuck my hair behind my ears.
They don’t think I’m some kind of evil creature. For the first time, I’m one of them.
I pause as a few of the townspeople stop again to cast disgruntled looks at us. I see now that their focus isn’t actually on me at all, but on Nox and Micah, dressed in their Last Army uniforms.
Nox sets the bag down and fixes his collar, taking in a breath as he realizes it too.
He’s the outsider here and I blend right in. The thought makes me grin.
Emboldened, I hurry farther into the town, unable to take my eyes off the wonders it holds.
“How much Chrim do you have?” I ask Nox as he trails after me, staggering with Micah at the balloon bag’s weight.
Nox ushers me farther into the markets, away from the people who might have already seen him.
“Out of the two of us, which one is royalty?” he asks. “Shouldn’t you be supplying the gold, princess?”
I ignore him and point to a nearby market stall. “I’ve never seen that kind of fruit before.” I gesture to a large round piece the same color as my hair, veined in pink. “Buy it, won’t you? Oh, and that bread over there!”
I point to another stall. It’s filled with sweet rolls, sprinkled in sugar, and long crusty loaves with sprigs of rosemary and coarse sea salt.
“I wasn’t aware I was your royal Chrim keeper,” Nox says.
I roll my eyes and walk toward the stall, only to hear Nox sigh before he eventually follows.
“Two of those, please,” I say to the trader, pointing at the large sweet buns. “And three of those!” I gesture to a square loaf with sun-soaked tomatoes.
“Now I’m getting hungry,” Micah says. He drops the bag and holds on to his stomach, causing Nox to stumble a little.
“That’s because you threw up everything you ate,” Nox reminds him.
“All the more reason to fill me back up.” He moves to my side. “Can we get some of the butter-fried bread too? With those little crispy onions?”
“Don’t forget the cheese sticks,” Irenya says. She clasps my gloved arm, suddenly intensely serious. “We must have cheese sticks.”
Nox looks at us all in disbelief.
“Anyone would think we’d been starving on that balloon,” he says. “I packed food.”
Micah waves off the incredulous look on his face.
“Nobody wants your sand crackers and canned cheese, Nox,” he says. “Pay the man, won’t you?”
Reluctantly, Nox reaches for the pouch of Chrim coins hidden in the lining of his jacket. I can tell by the way he glares that it costs a good chunk of what we have to satisfy the trader. It’s worth it. I’ve never smelled such delicious food in my life. Even the castle cooks can’t compare to the freshness of these stalls.
The trader takes a handful of Nox’s silver Chrim, and with it he takes in our disheveled appearances. My muddied gloves and Nox’s torn shirt. Then my eyes.
I notice his stare immediately and it sends a wave of panic through me. I’ve been enjoying my anonymity far too much to let it end so soon.
“It’s dye,” I say quickly. “This color is very fashionable right now.”
“Honestly, you lot are unbelievable,” the trader says, shaking his head.
He accepts the lie easily enough. It must be a common practice in Armonía, just as it is back in Vasiliádes. Though the women there prefer browns and bright-set blues to yellow.
“Everyone’s so desperate to look like a witch these days,” the trader says. “You should embrace who you really are.”
“You’re right,” I say, pressing my lips together to hide a smile. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
I take a mouthful of fresh bread as we move away from the stall. I can’t help but moan as I bite into it, not caring when the people beside us stop to cast me funny looks.
Nox gawks at me. “Do you and that bread need some alone time?” he asks. “We could give you a minute.”
“A minute would never be enough.” I take a larger bite and grin at him as the crusts tumble to the ground.
Nox shakes his head, but I can hear his stomach growling. Though he’s hungry too, I know he’s far too stubborn to take a piece of the butter loaf Micah holds out to him.
“Where do we go now?” I ask.
“We need to find a fabric weaver to help us fix the tears in the balloon,” Nox says. “One that won’t ask questions.”
We turn onto a second street and the light darkens a little. A group of people dressed all in black huddle on the cobblestones beside a small gray door, filled with scribbles. They sob, and the cries bounce from the street windows and across the lamps, dampening the flames.
One of them steps forward and dips a feather tip in a pot of ink. He writes something onto the door face in tiny letters I can’t make out from this far away.
“What is this?” I ask, swallowing down the last gulp of bread.
The street is empty save for us, and though it’s only early afternoon, something eerie coats the street, usually reserved for night.
“It’s a mourning street,” Nox says, voice low and tight. His hands clench at the sides of the balloon bag. “It’s where people who have lost someone to the king’s bargain come to pray for their souls. They inscribe the names of their loved ones across the doors.”
I watch as the man dips the feather into the ink again and begins writing something else. Another name.
My heart fills with dread as I think about how many he might list. There are at least a dozen mourners surrounding him, and if each of them has lost someone to the bargain, then that door will be overtaken by their names.
“What about the people who live in those houses?” I ask, lowering my voice to a gentle whisper. “Don’t they mind?”
“They’re empty,” Nox explains. “To house the dead, should they be unable to find the River of Memory.”
It breaks my heart to hear it.
Entire streets devoted to the dead and the souls my family have stolen. Despite what these people may want to believe, those souls aren’t struggling to find the River of Memory, but are feeding the king and his immortality.
They only wanted a better life—to escape death for long enough to reap the magical reward of a healing potion or enough Chrim to feed their families.
Instead, they’ve been cursed to an eternity of nothingness.
It’s such a contrast to the thrumming market just around the corner, and I realize this is what’s hidden behind the curtain of every smile and summer’s day. Endless mourning and grief, overtaking half the streets.
Does Vasiliádes have mourning streets too?
Do all the Six Isles?
I swallow.
It’s my family who have sentenced these people to such pain. I wish there was a way I could help make it right.
As we pass the mourners and my heart wrenches at their cries, a row of town guards turns onto the street. Their swords rest over the top of their shoulders, hands by their hearts as they clasp them.
“The king wants us to keep an eye out,” one of them says. His voice is hushed as he nears us. “The heir could be on our very streets.”
My eyes widen and Irenya moves closer to my side, ever the protective friend. Nox and Micah drop the bag beside a nearby shadowed doorway.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the other guard says. “What would a Somniatis witch be doing in Armonía?”
“Well, it isn’t by choice, is it? She was kidnapped, I heard! Right before the king’s banquet.”
At their words, I turn to veer from the path, but Nox grabs out for my arm and keeps me pressed close to him.
“Keep walking,” he says with clenched teeth.
“But—”
“We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
I look to Irenya and Micah, who nod and continue moving forward, as if the guards are no bother to them. We’re just four people, out for a walk in the early afternoon.
I stiffen as we near the guards and their eyes cross over us briefly.
They shouldn’t be able to tell me apart from any of the other women here, but I dip my face low to the ground all the same, keeping my eyes from their view. Fooling a trader may be easy, but I can’t gamble with a lie about yellow dye in my eyes when it comes to town guards.
I won’t risk being dragged back to Vasiliádes.
I can’t go back to being locked in that tower.
The guards pause a step before they pass us, eyes drifting over my green hair. I don’t look at them or raise my stare to meet theirs, but I sense them lingering on me. Immediately, I worry that our deception has failed and we’ve been caught.
Should I run?
Punch one of them in the nose and make a getaway?
“Afternoon,” Nox addresses the guards, nodding in greeting. His voice is casual, and if he’s as panicked as I am, he doesn’t show it.
The guards take in his Last Army uniform and any sign of apprehension on their faces relaxes.
“Afternoon,” they reply back in unison.
The vague recognition disappears as they brush past us.
Only a brazen fool would greet the town guards they were on the run from, and so the guards suspect nothing as we walk onward, only stopping once they’ve turned the corner and are out of sight.
I breathe out a loud sigh of relief, my heart practically bursting.
“That was too close,” Micah says.
“I thought for sure they recognized Selestra,” Irenya agrees. “Thank the souls for the witch wannabes in this town.”
I’m grateful too.
If it wasn’t for the fashion sentiments in this town and Nox keeping his uniform, then we would have been caught. I wondered why he didn’t change when we left Vasiliádes, but it’s clear to me now: People respect and fear the Last Army.
The king may have told people that I was kidnapped, but Nox knew he’d never tell them that one of his own soldiers was responsible for my leaving the castle.
It would make him look a fool. As though he was easily lied to and easily betrayed.
He’d much rather spin some kind of story about a rogue assassin or a lone traitor than put the reputation of his whole army on the line.
Nox’s and Micah’s uniforms will allow us to move through the Six Isles without much suspicion.
“Over there,” Nox says. “Let’s lie low for a bit so we don’t run into any more of the Last Army.”
He points to a small tavern at the edge of the marketplace, beyond a crooked row of stalls. The Soul’s Keep. It’s a fitting name for a building that juts out from the side, like a tear in the world. The lantern above is covered in enough cobwebs that it’s clear it’s never been used. The kind of place that thrives on darkness is the perfect place to hide while we pull ourselves together and let the guards tire themselves searching a town of lookalikes.
“What about the bag?” I ask, gesturing back to where we discarded the balloon.
“Leave it,” Nox says. “Nobody would ever steal from a mourning street. Let’s head inside.”
“In there?” Micah asks.
His voice drips with uncertainty and I don’t blame him. It doesn’t exactly look welcoming. Besides, the last time I was in a tavern with Nox, it didn’t work out so well for the two of us.
“We’re going to need a place to be inconspicuous,” Nox explains. “Somewhere we can figure out a strategy.”
“A strategy for what?” I ask.
He wrenches open the door to the Soul’s Keep and the hinges scream in response.
“For saving my life.”