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Chapter Two — "Smokes and street RIVEN"
I could smell dinner before I even reached the crooked little house on Ashbend Lane. Not because Aunt Maera was some culinary genius (she once boiled an egg until it exploded), but because the scent of garlic and burnt onions was leaking through the cracked shutters like smoke from a tavern fight. The wooden door sagged on one hinge — much like its owner — and I could hear her voice barking at some poor merchant two houses down.
Aunt Maera, my guardian, self-proclaimed "last sensible woman in the city," and possibly the loudest creature to walk the mortal realm. She was an old lag — not the kind who sits quietly in the corner of a tavern sipping ale, but the sort who makes taverns fall silent when she walks in. Her hearing? A disaster. You had to speak to her twice before it stuck, and even then, she'd twist your words into something entirely different.
I pushed the door open.
"Evening, Aunt Maera!" I called.
She didn't answer, just kept muttering about "price-gouging thieving bastards" in the marketplace.
I repeated, louder this time. "I said, Evening, Aunt Maera!"
Her head popped out of the kitchen doorway, frizzed hair escaping from its knot. "Oh! There you are, girl. Thought you'd been carried off by one of those long-faced shoe polishers you pretend not to look at."
I snorted, dropping my satchel by the bench. "Please, Aunt. I don't date boys who polish their shoes more than their brains."
She cackled, a dry, throaty sound. "And yet they still stare at you like cats watching a pigeon."
Dinner was the usual—thick stew that could double as wall plaster. We sat at the small square table, the only thing in the room that wasn't leaning sideways. Between bites, she launched into her favorite topic: how the world had gone mad.
"Did you hear," she began, "they're planning some ridiculous ritual to find the late king's missing daughter?"
My spoon paused mid-air. "Actually… yes."
Her eyes narrowed, the same way they did when she suspected I'd been eavesdropping in the market again. "And where did you hear it?"
"I… overheard two women," I said, trying to sound casual.
"You mean those mad gossips who think shadows talk back to them? Girl, do not fill your head with that rubbish. Next you'll be telling me the moon speaks to you in your sleep."
"But Aunt—"
"No. No buts." She slapped her palm on the table. "That prophecy nonsense is for idle minds and court fools. You think some magic moon baby is going to save this city? Pah!"
I felt heat creep into my cheeks. "Maybe it's not nonsense."
Her jaw tightened. "I will not have my girl running around with dangerous ideas. You hear me?"
"I hear you," I said, though my voice had gone sharp.
"Then act like it."
The tension snapped. I stood so quickly my chair scraped the floor. "Fine. I'll get some air."
"Go, then! And take your silly thoughts with you!"
The evening air hit my face like cold water. The streets of the lower ward were alive with their usual chaos—smoke from cookfires curling into the dusk, the stink of fish mixed with horse dung. Boys leaned against walls, tossing coins or harassing girls who walked past, their voices oily and smug. The cobblestones were slick from some long-forgotten spill, and the gutters ran with things I didn't want to name.
I walked without purpose, letting the city hum fill the gap where Aunt Maera's voice usually lived. My mind kept circling back to one question: Could my real parents have been the late King and Queen?
"Evening, flamehair."
I turned. Riven Thorne leaned against a fence post, the sinking light catching on his jawline like the gods themselves had chiseled it. His dark hair was tousled in a way that looked accidental but probably wasn't. His shirt—faded linen with rolled sleeves—clung just enough to hint at the strength beneath. The smell of clean hay and leather drifted from him, carrying that warm, earthy scent only a stable worker could wear.
Behind him, a small group of his friends elbowed each other, grinning like idiots.
"Go on, Riven!" one called.
"Bring her over, lover boy!"
They didn't know we already knew each other. Riven worked for Aunt Maera—her ranch hand, the one who mucked the stalls and kept the horses from biting.
"Fancy seeing you out here," he said, falling into step beside me.
"I needed air. Aunt was… being Aunt."
He smirked. "Stubborn as a mule in the rain?"
"Stubborn as three mules," I said, and we both laughed.
We wandered through the crooked lanes, talking about life—his endless work in the stables, my equally endless work at the shop, and of course, the ritual.
"She says it's ridiculous," I told him.
"Of course she does," he said, nudging my shoulder. "If it doesn't involve chickens or gossip about the price of grain, she doesn't believe in it."
The sound of my laugh seemed to please him more than it should have. His eyes lingered just a moment too long, warm and… something else I didn't want to name.
We ended up at the shore, where the sun was melting into the horizon. The water caught the colors like molten gold and deep crimson, the waves sighing as they lapped the sand. We stood there, saying nothing for a while, letting the wind tangle my hair and carry the salt to my lips.
Riven's voice was soft when it finally came. "If the ritual were real… would you want to know?"
I thought about it. About knowing who I really was.
"Yes," I said. "I think I would."
His gaze lingered on me in a way that felt both safe and dangerous.
.
.
.
By the time I got home, the lamps were lit. Aunt Maera was curled in her chair, eyes closed, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging her lips. Pretending to sleep, as usual.
I knelt beside her.
"Aunt," I began softly, "I'm sorry for snapping earlier. I know you think I'm chasing fairytales. But I need you to understand—sometimes I wonder where I come from. And sometimes, I think maybe it matters. Not because I'm ungrateful, but because… you've given me more than anyone ever could. I just… I want to know the rest."
Her eyes stayed closed, but her breathing softened. I rested my head against her knee.
"Still not speaking? Fine. But you should know… I love you. Even when you're impossible."
I went to my room, a little smile playing on my lips despite myself.
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The Plot Twist
Morning came with the sound of gulls. It was Saturday—no work. Aunt Maera shuffled into my room, humming under her breath. She leaned down to kiss my forehead—
And froze.
The bed was empty. The window was open, curtains stirring in the breeze.
She stared for a moment, then smiled.
"Just like your mother," she murmured. "The will of a storm, and the sense to chase it."
She turned from the window, still smiling, as if she knew exactly where I'd gone.
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