Sandra Lynn and I walked side by side, our mothers’ footsteps steady behind us. And though the day’s plans still lay ahead—markets, tea, and the promise of supper—I felt the prickle of anticipation. For with Sandy beside me, nothing was ever simple. As the sound of the market finally ringed in our ears.

  The main market of Melrose sat almost at the city’s heart, a pulsing wheel of life and trade. By the time we arrived, it was already alive with noise and color.

  Vendors crowded every corner, their stalls spilling with wares, their cries echoing in the warm air. Wherever you looked, there seemed to be more hidden just behind—rows upon rows, a maze of voices and colors. There was no true order to it, but the whole place moved in a circle, like spokes around a wheel. At the edges stood the permanent shops—the old familiars, the staples of the community. Closer in came the sturdy stalls, the locals selling goods by hand or harvest. And in the very middle, the smallest carts clustered together: the domain of traveling merchants, flashing their oddities and treasures from far-off lands.

  The offerings were as varied as the people. Tables groaned under pyramids of bright fruit and green vegetables, still wet with morning dew. Butchers called out over displays of cuts and sausages. Fishmongers lifted silver-scaled catches from iced barrels, their voices competing with the laughter of children tugging their mothers toward the candy stalls. Even amateur bakers tried their hand at trade, peddling loaves and pastries that my father often dismissed as poor imitations of his own craft.

  Beyond food there were bolts of fabric, dresses strung from lines, boots and belts stacked high. Adventurers had their corner too: racks of minor potions glowing faintly in glass, bundles of dried rations, and simple steel blades polished for show. Another cluster boasted paintings and pottery, clay and color spilling into the square.

  And then there were the schemers—my mother’s word for them. Smooth-tongued men and women hawking trinkets of polished junk, swearing each was an artifact blessed by the Avatars themselves. Their tables glimmered with fake rings, cracked stones, and tarnished relics, all priced higher than a month’s rent.

  I took it all in, eyes darting from stall to stall, the smells of roasting meat and spiced fruit mixing in the air. Sandra Lynn’s head turned almost as much as mine, her boots tapping with energy as if she wanted to sprint in twelve directions at once.

  But there was one place I longed to go most of all. I knew it was near the clothing section, and so—whether she realized it or not—my mother would get us there eventually.

  “Girls, let’s start with a clean-up,” my mother said, her tone matter-of-fact.

  “Like… a shower?” Sandra Lynn asked, nose wrinkling.

  “No,” Mother replied with a small shake of her head. “A proper freshen-up.”

  She guided us down one of the narrower alleys of the market, the noise of merchants pressing in from all sides. To our left, a stout man hammered a glowing rod against a small anvil, each clang ringing out sharp as a bell. To our right, a wiry fellow waved rolled parchments over his head, calling out, “Poison protection, curse protection, fireblasts, iceblasts—we’ve got it all!”

  Mother’s stride didn’t falter until we reached a particular stall tucked neatly into the adventurers’ section. At first glance, it looked unremarkable—racks of helmets, headbands, and bandanas hung from pegs, nothing colorful or ornate. All of it was functional, designed for use, not beauty. For a fleeting second, I thought perhaps my mother had gone mad, bringing us here to shop for headgear.

  But then she greeted the man behind the stall like an old friend.

  “Hello, Tonta,” she said warmly.

  The man was enormous. Hulking was too small a word. Later I would learn he was Goliath—half-giant, born of mortal and mountain blood. Standing two feet taller than my father, he made even Mr. Thatcher look child-sized. His broad frame strained beneath a leather vest, and both arms were sleeved with tattoos of twisted vines and heavy branches, curling like living forests etched into his skin.

  His stern face softened the moment he saw my mother. His eyes lit with surprise. “Martha,” he boomed, “looking as lavish as ever.” Then his gaze fell upon Sandra Lynn and me, and he smiled wide. “And you’ve brought allies as well, I see.”

  “Yes,” Mother said, resting her hand briefly over each of our heads as she introduced us. “This is my daughter, Benethasia, and her best friend, Sandra Lynn.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, lassies,” Tonta rumbled. Then, lowering his deep voice to something gentler, he asked, “Are you here for the same as Martha… or are you here to prepare for battle?”

  “For battle!” Sandra Lynn answered immediately, her voice fierce with conviction.

  Tonta roared with laughter, the sound booming like a dozen drums. “Ha! With fire like that, little one, I’d join you on the battlefield any day.”

  Sandra Lynn’s grin stretched ear to ear, satisfied beyond words.

  “No,” my mother said dryly, rolling her eyes. “All three of us will do the treatment.” She pressed a few coins into his massive hand.

  Still chuckling, Tonta handed two of them back. “For that laugh, you get it half off,” he said, still amused.

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  He began to mutter in a tongue I did not recognize. The tattoos on his arms stirred. Slowly, the vines inked into his skin writhed and glowed with a green hue, the light crawling down to his fingers. His eyes gleamed with the same color as he lifted his hand toward us.

  A soft mist fell, emerald and shimmering, curling around our shoulders like dew-laden fog. It sank into our clothes, our hair, our skin, leaving behind the faint scent of pine and fresh rain.

  Mother looked down at us with a small, satisfied smile.

  The glow faded from Tonta’s eyes, and the tattoos stilled. “The effect should last about a week, as usual, Martha,” he said.

  “Thank you, Tonta. Come, girls,” my mother said, waving politely before turning away.

  Sandra Lynn and I imitated her with awkward little waves of our own. Tonta grinned, placing a massive fist against his chest and pounding it twice in a tribal salute, his eyes lingering on Sandy with fond respect. Then he turned back to his stall, already bending over a new piece of armor with tools in hand.

  “Mother, what did he do to us?” I asked as we followed her through the press of stalls.

  “Tonta is a man of nature,” she said without slowing her stride. “They call him a druid. He cast a minor spell called enhance scent. We’re going to the perfume store next, so we’ll have something pleasant to wear.”

  My mind reeled. A hundred questions bloomed at once, but I bit my tongue. Mother would have only half the answers, and the rest I would save for Grandpa Prosic tonight. He always knew how to make sense of mysteries like these.

  Mother walked with purpose yet with ease, as though the market were her own domain. She had always loved Melrose’s market—its chaos, its mingling of people and goods, its unexpected treasures. She often complained that Sunset had been too segregated, too rigid to ever allow for such mingling. Here, she could wander into strangeness and not be judged for it.

  We were just leaving the adventurers’ quarter when a hush fell over the street.

  The crowd shifted, making way as a group emerged, moving with the kind of gravity that parted air and stilled voices. For a moment it was as if royalty had arrived.

  I felt Sandra Lynn tug sharply on my sleeve. “It’s them!” she whispered, eyes wide. “The Draughts!”

  The name needed no explanation. Everyone knew of them. Melrose was their base of operations, though their relationship with the city—and with the Red Post—was… complicated. Beloved as protectors, distrusted as troublemakers, the Draughts had fought trolls, vampires, and even lieutenants of the Dark Five. Their presence drew safety, yes, but it also drew enemies, and the city lived in their shadow like a hearth lives in firelight.

  Now, at last, I saw them with my own eyes.

  At their front strode a man clad in chainmail, a silver spear resting on his shoulder, a pendant gleaming at his chest—the mark of a Paladin. His hair was clipped short in a soldier’s cut, his face carved with duty, his stride steady with the burden of command. He walked like a leader whose steps weighed more than his boots.

  Behind him loomed a half-ogre draped in animal hides, tribal beads jangling with each step. His scalp was mostly bald, save for a single braid that hung long down his back. An axe slung across his shoulders was stained faintly red, as though memory itself clung to its blade.

  At his side strode a halfling woman, her hair styled to perfection, her face touched with careful makeup that made her grey-blue eyes glimmer. She wore a finely tailored leather blouse and skirt, leggings that hinted at the fashion sweeping Melrose’s wealthier districts. At her hip hung a rapier, delicate but deadly; at her side, a flute polished smooth with use. I knew her name already—Heracy Grilllocket, the bard whose voice filled theaters, whose instrument carried magic itself. My parents had spoken of her often, and even my father—who distrusted most magic—admired her artistry.

  Towering behind them was a moon elf, her skin a dusky violet, her ears reaching as high as the half-ogre’s head. She wore hides and flora like the half-ogre, but wilder, as though the forest itself had clothed her. Her eyes glowed white, pupil-less, her jet-black hair falling like shadow down her back.

  And beside her walked what froze the air itself.

  A beast. Massive, feline yet canine, its head that of a tiger but its gait closer to a wolf’s. Its coat shimmered pale blue, striped in black, its fangs bared lazily as it padded alongside the elf with the casual menace of a storm cloud.

  “A Growl Beast,” I whispered, awe cracking my voice.

  Sandra Lynn’s hand squeezed mine. Her eyes were wide as moons.

  The stories came rushing back—Grandpa Prosic’s tales of the Kenith’la’quil elves. Of the ancient pact between cat and dog, of man’s betrayal in taming their smaller kin, of the elders’ wrath in creating the Growl Beasts: cunning as cats, tireless as hounds, untamable by all but the most patient. Released into the wild, they had built their own packs, their own society. To tame one was no mere feat of strength but the highest badge of respect for a beast master.

  Which meant the moon elf was no mere druid. She was something rarer still: a beast master who had bound one of the untamable.

  We craned to see the rest, but the other members of the Draughts were absent, perhaps at their headquarters. Still, the sight of these few was enough to make the air hum with reverence.

  Mother’s body tensed. She moved instinctively, stepping in front of us as the beast padded near. “Come, girls,” she said quickly, her voice tight. Her pace quickened, pulling us toward the perfume stalls.

  I glanced back once more, my heart hammering.

  “Heroes,” I whispered to myself.

  And in that moment, watching their silhouettes vanish into the market’s noise, a thought rooted itself deep inside me.

  One day.

  I walked close beside my mother, the sight of the Draughts still alive in my thoughts. I tilted my head up toward her.

  “Mother,” I asked, “why don’t you use your magic anymore?”

  I already knew the answer—or thought I did. But something about seeing those heroes made me hope for a new one. Maybe, I thought, the question would spark something in her too.

  She glanced down at me, her expression soft but tinged with that familiar shadow—a face that always seemed to whisper, what could have been.

  “Your Uncle Zain was far more skilled than I,” she said. “He found his abilities right around your age. Brilliant, truly—he could harness the power of conversation itself.” She smiled faintly at the memory. “Your aunt discovered hers before me as well. I was always a step behind.”

  I knew she had grown up close to Aunt Tilda, and I knew about Uncle Zain—how he’d chased her affection endlessly, and how she’d let him chase, never letting him catch her.

  “I felt too far behind,” she continued. “So when my magic came, I kept to my studies instead. And by then I had met your father. My path was already moving in a different direction.”

  Her smile warmed, though her voice cracked at the edges. “And then we found out about you. No riches, no power, no adventure was ever more important than you.”

  For a moment, it looked as though something else was about to spill free—something fragile, something she had never said before. But just as quickly, it was gone. She tucked it away with a practiced grace, leaving only the shadow of it behind.

  “Besides,” she said, forcing a laugh, “your father detests magic. Hells, he even hates card tricks.”

  I giggled. “Did you ever want to be a hero?”

  She gave me a tired smile, deflating slightly, but there was no bitterness in it. “We all dream of being heroes, my dear. I simply changed what kind of hero I wanted to be.” Her voice shifted into its instructive cadence, the one I knew well. “But when I first learned I could evoke, I imagined myself standing before a horde of smelly, nasty monsters—dressed in the prettiest witch’s gown you could imagine.”

  That was the part I had been waiting for, the part that always made me smile. I pictured her younger, robed in white, a wide-brimmed witch’s hat atop her head, summoning fire into her hand as she strode through the market. A contradiction to the tales of haggard witches in storybooks.

  She had told me once how it had begun: the day she discovered her fire. She was not yet twenty, and upon learning Aunt Tilda and Uncle Zain had become a couple, the tangle of anger, joy, and secrecy overcame her. Flames leapt from her hands and caught the curtains ablaze. From there, she had trained—first in fire, later in small evocations. She spoke of others who needed no training at all, for whom magic was as natural as breathing.

  To me, my mother was still that figure of mystery. She had power at her fingertips and yet had chosen to leave it behind, choosing instead the role she valued most: wife, and mother.

  I stored away more questions, saving them for Grandpa Prosic, who always seemed to have the answers my parents withheld.

  By then, we had reached the edge of the square where the perfume shop waited: Pierre’s, a small, perfumed jewel of a store with bottles that glittered like treasure. Mother glanced down at me, smiling brightly.

  And then, suddenly, her smile faltered. Her head snapped up, eyes darting across the crowd. She turned left, then right, her face darkening.

  Finally, her voice broke sharp with fear.

  “Where’s Sandra Lynn?”I