The market smelled of bread and spice, of leather and damp earth, of too many bodies pressed into the square at once. Banners strung between the wooden stalls fluttered in the cool breeze, their colors dulled with age but still bright enough to make children laugh and point.
I shifted the basket higher on my hip, wincing at the weight of the forge scraps I carried. Father insisted the metal could be sold or traded for grain, though I suspected half the farmers would complain it was too heavy to carry and too costly to use.
Still, it was my job, and I refused to shirk it.
"Eria!"
The voice cut through the din. I turned to see Ronan weaving through the crowd, his stride easy despite the throng. He carried a crate balanced on one broad shoulder, as though it weighed nothing, though the muscles flexing under his tunic told a different story.
"Thought I'd find you buried under a pile of iron," he said, grinning as he reached me. "Or maybe hammering the sun itself into a blade."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't help the faint smile tugging at my lips. "Don't tempt me. The sun would make a fine weapon."
He laughed, deep and warm, the kind of sound that drew glances from nearby vendors. Some smiled knowingly; others whispered. I ignored them. The village had always been too eager to gossip.
Ronan shifted the crate easily and glanced at my basket. "Want me to carry that?"
"No," I said quickly. Too quickly. "I can manage."
He smirked. "I know you can. Doesn't mean you have to."
I ignored the heat creeping up my neck and started walking. He fell into step beside me, as he always did, too close for comfort but never close enough for me to shove him away without drawing stares.
The square bustled with the usual rhythm—merchants shouting their wares, children darting between legs, the sharp ring of a bell as someone sold cloth at a bargain. Yet beneath it, a current ran dark. Conversations hushed when the word fae passed lips. Heads turned toward the road more often than toward the stalls. Guards stood straighter, their hands never far from the hilts of their swords.
"You feel it too," Ronan murmured beside me, his smile fading. "Like the air's holding a storm."
I tightened my grip on the basket. "It's nothing."
"Maybe," he said, though doubt clouded his voice.
We reached the grain merchant's stall, and I began bartering, sharp and swift. But even as I haggled over bushels, I felt it—the prickle along the back of my neck, the sense of eyes watching me.
I glanced up.
And froze.
Across the square, a figure stood at the edge of the crowd. Cloaked, hood drawn low. Too still for a common villager. Too intent.
When my gaze caught on him, his head tilted—just slightly. And though the hood shadowed his face, I felt it. The same pull as in my dreams.
My breath hitched. The world narrowed, the voices of the merchants fading to a dull hum.
The figure turned and melted into the crowd. Gone.
"Eria?" Ronan's voice cut through, sharp with concern. His hand brushed my elbow, steadying me. "What is it?"
"Nothing," I said quickly, though my heart raced. "Just… heat."
He didn't believe me, but he didn't press either.
I wasn't sure which unsettled me more—the fact that someone had been watching, or the way part of me wanted them to.