Zorya set the book down gently, its spine creaking softly as if sighing in protest. The scent of paper and ink clung to her sleeves, a quiet ghost of the library's timeless world. With a final nod to Mara Hollomere, she gathered her skirts and stepped back into the bright, bustling day.
The market had awakened fully now, and the air hummed with a hundred voices, each carrying their own little stories—bargains struck, gossip exchanged, laughter shared. Stalls lined the cobbled street like crooked teeth, vibrant fabrics fluttering in the sea breeze, crates of fruit glinting in the sun, and the scent of fried pastries, roasting chestnuts, and the metallic tang of machine oil mingling into a chaotic perfume.
The clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang sharp in the distance, punctuated by the low whir of gears and pulleys from nearby workshops. Children darted between the stalls, chasing each other with shrieks of delight. A merchant in a patchwork vest hawked miniature clockwork birds that flapped their brass wings with a mechanical whir, while a woman with silver-streaked hair offered painted glass beads in exchange for copper coins.
Zorya's dark blue hair rippled behind her, catching flecks of sunlight, and her scarlet eyes glimmered like dying embers—yet no one seemed to notice the quiet, distant beauty in their midst. She walked with a grace she didn't realize she possessed, her steps light but certain, her face as serene as the dawn.
She paused at a stall selling spools of dyed thread—golds, crimsons, deep blues like the night. Her fingers brushed over them absently, mind adrift.
Across the market, she caught a glimpse of someone familiar—her brother Vair, tall and lean, haggling with a merchant over a box of metal cogs and gears. His laughter rang out, warm and easy, and for a fleeting moment, the world felt solid, real, like the weight of a coin in her palm.
But as Zorya turned, her eyes drifted beyond the crowd, toward the edge of the square.
There, in the shadow of a crumbling clocktower, stood the boy. The one she had seen in flashes—like an unfinished sketch in the margins of her story.
He was watching her, or perhaps watching the world, dark hair falling messily over his pale forehead, eyes shadowed and unreadable. His hands moved in the air as if drawing something invisible, lips moving in words she couldn't hear.
The moment she blinked—he was gone.
The market roared on, oblivious.
Zorya exhaled, a thread of unease coiling beneath her ribs. She tucked a stray lock of midnight hair behind her ear and turned back toward the merchant, forcing herself to focus on the world as it was—the clink of coins, the scent of bread, the soft hum of gears.
For now.
Zorya lingered near a stall selling small, glass-blown figurines—tiny sea creatures caught in glass waves, delicate flowers frozen in bloom. She lifted a fragile jellyfish, its tendrils swirling like spun sugar, and the merchant smiled hopefully.
Before she could decide, a voice—smooth as oil and just as slippery—cut through the air.
"Well, if it isn't the star of the port herself. Zorya Cinderfall, gracing us common folk with her presence."
She flinched inwardly. Kieran Darrow.
He leaned on the stall's edge like he owned the entire market square. His golden hair fell in lazy waves over his forehead, and his grin—too wide, too practiced—made her fingers twitch toward the dagger she wished she carried. His coat, embroidered with flashy silver thread, fluttered slightly as he tilted his head, green eyes sparkling with a self-satisfied glint.
"Looking for something pretty?" he drawled, tapping the glass jellyfish she held. "Though I must say, nothing here quite matches your… elegance."
Zorya's grip on the jellyfish tightened. Her scarlet eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing, tucking a lock of her dark hair behind her ear and turning her attention deliberately back to the merchant.
Kieran, of course, was not discouraged.
"Come now, Zorya, don't be so cold. I heard you'll be joining the Academy soon. The halls will be much brighter with you there—though I might have to warn the other lads to keep their distance. A gem like you? Dangerous to leave unguarded."
That was when a shadow fell across Kieran's face.
"Is that so?"
Vair's voice, warm but edged like a well-honed blade.
Kieran's smirk faltered as Vair stepped between him and Zorya, arms crossed over his chest, his presence radiating quiet steel. His hair—dark as molten iron—was tousled from the sea breeze, and his eyes, sharp as flint, locked onto Kieran's with the weight of a smith's hammer about to strike.
Zorya's breath caught—he always seemed to arrive just in time.
Kieran laughed, but it sounded thinner now. "Ah, Vair. I was just—"
"Bothering my sister?" Vair's smile was polite, but his eyes didn't soften.
Kieran's gaze flickered between them, weighing his options. Zorya swore she could see the gears grinding behind his smug expression. But in the end, he lifted his hands in mock surrender.
"Just making conversation. Always a pleasure, Zorya."
With a wink and a tip of his hat, he slunk off into the market crowd, his charm trailing behind him like an oil slick.
Vair turned to her, his brow arching slightly. "You okay?"
Zorya sighed, setting the jellyfish back on the stall. The tension in her shoulders eased as the market noise swelled again around them.
"I'm fine," she murmured.
"Let me guess," Vair said with a grin, his voice teasing now as he slung an arm lightly over her shoulder. "You're going to tell the sea all about it later?"
A small smile tugged at her lips, despite herself.
"Maybe," she said softly, and they walked on, the market weaving around them like a river of sound and color.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden haze over the cobbled streets. The market's bustle softened behind them as Vair and Zorya walked side by side, the scent of spiced breads and sea salt lingering in the air.
Vair held a small bag of cogs in one hand, the weight of it clinking softly with each step. His free hand tucked lazily into his pocket, he glanced sideways at Zorya, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"So," he said casually, "are you ever going to tell me why Kieran keeps buzzing around you like a moth to a flame?"
Zorya sighed, the sound caught between exasperation and resignation. Her long, dark blue hair shimmered as the wind caught it, drifting behind her like a silken ribbon. The last rays of sun seemed to tangle in her strands, turning them almost black with streaks of twilight. Her scarlet eyes, glinting with a hidden storm, stared ahead as if she could outwalk the very thought of Kieran.
"I don't know why he's so persistent," she muttered, voice soft but edged. "I've told him I'm not interested. Repeatedly."
Vair chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Maybe he just enjoys rejection. Some people do."
Zorya gave him a sidelong glance, the corner of her mouth twitching upward, but her thoughts drifted, her expression falling into something distant.
They passed the old fountain near the center square, water trickling over worn stone figures—mermaids with moss-stained tails, dolphins frozen mid-leap. Children splashed nearby, their laughter ringing in the air, and an old woman sold flower crowns woven from white clover and violet bells.
As they crossed the bridge over the canal, Zorya paused for a moment, leaning on the railing to watch the sun melt into the horizon. The water below shimmered like a pool of liquid amber, rippling gently as seagulls called overhead.
Vair stopped beside her, his gaze following hers. The soft light caught on her features—her delicate face framed by the inky waterfall of her hair, her skin pale and luminous, her lips curved in a subtle, melancholy line. To him, she looked like a painting half-finished, poised between shadow and light.
"You think too much, little star," he said quietly, nudging her shoulder with a gentle bump.
She blinked, looking up at him, and the corners of her lips softened, but the heaviness in her eyes didn't lift.
"Five months," she whispered.
"Hmm?"
"Five months until I go to the Academy. What if... I never awaken my power?" Her voice was barely a breath against the wind. "What if I'm... just nothing?"
Vair's gaze sharpened. He straightened, turning to her fully, his tone firm.
"Zorya," he said, voice steady like the forge's anvil, "you're not nothing. Power or no power, you've carried this family on your back for years. You've held us together."
She didn't look at him, but her throat tightened, her hands curling into the fabric of her skirt.
"Even if you never awaken," he added, his voice softening again, "you'll always be the strongest one among us."
A gust of wind swept through, lifting her hair in wild tendrils, brushing her face with the sea's salt-kissed breath. For a heartbeat, the weight in her chest lightened.
They walked on, the sound of their footsteps blending with the distant cries of gulls and the creak of ships in the harbor. The market's noise faded behind them, replaced by the quiet lull of the port city settling into evening.
Zorya's home—a weathered but sturdy house of stone and driftwood, with flowering vines trailing down its sides—came into view as the sky turned a dusky lavender. The scent of Thalassa's flowers drifted in the air, mingling with the distant tang of the sea.
As they reached the gate, Zorya paused, looking up at the sky as if searching for something—an answer, perhaps, or a sign hidden in the stars.
Vair opened the gate with a playful grin, motioning for her to go ahead.
"Come on, little star," he said. "Let's get inside before Thalassa talks Dad's ear off again about her third plant."
Zorya smiled faintly, the weight of the day lingering in her chest but softened, just a little, by the presence of her brother beside her.
That night, in the quiet hush of her room, Zorya lay on her side, eyes wide open, the moonlight silvering the edges of her dark blue hair as it spilled across her pillow like an inky river. The soft whisper of the wind slipped through the window's cracked pane, stirring the curtains like ghostly hands.
Her room smelled faintly of salt and lavender, the scent of Thalassa's flowers drifting in from the hallway. The small wooden clock on her nightstand ticked softly, a rhythm that seemed to echo the beating of her heart—slow, steady, yet laced with something restless.
Her thoughts wandered, unbidden, to the boy.
That boy.
A strange child, no older than eight or nine, his face pale as moonlight, eyes a dark, endless shade she could never quite name—neither black nor blue, but something in between, like the sea at night, when the stars have hidden away.
She remembered the first time she saw him—on a quiet evening, much like this one. It had been nearly two years ago, in the alley behind the old bakery, the scent of warm bread still lingering in the air.
She had gone to fetch a loaf Thalassa had begged for—something with cinnamon and honey, if she recalled correctly. As she turned the corner, there he was—sitting quietly in the shadows, knees tucked to his chest, watching the world with a gaze too ancient for a boy so young.
His clothes had been strange—simple, but not worn like the other street children. His hair, pale as starlight, caught the faintest glow from a nearby lantern, and when their eyes met—hers wide with surprise, his steady and almost... expectant—she had felt an odd pull in her chest, as if something invisible had tied them together for a fleeting moment.
She had opened her mouth to speak, but in the blink of an eye, he was gone—vanished as though he had never been there.
Since then, she had seen him a handful of times, always when she least expected it—by the docks, in the market, once even by the big mythical tree with the blue and purple petals in the neighbor's yard.
Each time, he would look at her, silently, as if he knew her, as if he were waiting for something.
She never spoke of him—not to Vair, not to Thalassa, not even to herself in whispered thoughts. The memory of him hovered like a half-forgotten dream, slipping through her fingers when she tried to grasp it.
Lying there, staring at the ceiling, she wondered—who was he? Why did he keep appearing to her?
The moonlight shifted, casting strange patterns on the wall. The wind outside picked up, rattling the windowpane. A soft shiver ran down her spine.
Somewhere deep inside her, a thought stirred—half-formed, barely a whisper:
Maybe he's waiting for something.
She closed her eyes, but sleep would not come easily that night. The boy's dark gaze lingered in her mind, his presence a quiet echo in the spaces between her thoughts.