“Have you forgotten something the other day?”

“No. Yes… I mean…” he rolled his eyes at himself. He really did not do conversations well. “I meant to ask for a bundle of sage.”

Her fingers reached for a bundle, but stopped mid-air.

“What do you want it for?” she asked suddenly, catching him off-guard.

Varek blinked, his mind scrambling to make something up.

“I hear it is good for sleep. Do you interrogate all your clients?” he added jokingly, his smile lightening his words.

She let out a giggle that made his heart skip a beat. “Not all. Only the interesting ones,” she replied with a wink. “You do look washed out. Having trouble sleeping?”

He sighed. Why does she seem to know everything? “Usually, yes,” he admitted as his fingers traced the edge of her stall.

Her fingers hovered over a sage bundle but picked up something else as she bit her lips.

“Try this instead,” she said, handing him a round glass jar.

He sniffed it carefully. “What’s this?”

“It is my own blend. We named it the Velvet Slumber,” she said with a shy laughter. “It should help you rest. Maybe it just makes the air around your head so heavy, your thoughts won’t be able to wander,” she added, laughing.

“You’ll want to apply it on your temples. Just a little. If you really-really cannot sleep, put some on your…” she bit her sentence as her eyes wandered lower from his eyes. “On your chest,” she finished, voice low, a blush coloring her cheeks.

She jumped when someone knocked down a blade at another stall, that fell with a loud clatter. Its fall was followed by intense shouting and swearing. Varek’s head snapped to the sound instinctively, while her gaze fell on his dark skin and his markings running on his hand like molten amethyst.

She smiled at how he brushed his hair out of his face, but the strands didn’t stay back. He eventually turned back to her.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked, already fishing out a couple of coins.

“Arcanum purchase, or personal?”

“Purely personal,” he responded, unable to swallow a laugh.

“Then it is on the house.” Her voice came quiet now, almost shy. Her eyes held his for a fleeting moment longer than necessary, shy and warm.

She wrapped it for him in a thickly woven cloth to keep the jar safe. Her fingers brushed his palm when she handed it over, the small touch sending an unexpected warmth up his arm. He swallowed hard. He wasn’t used to receiving care.

She turned to the next customer, serving the elderly man with kindness and patience. Varek didn’t move.

“I brought you something,” he said eventually once the man left, handing her the little bag of nuts. “Hope you like it.”

Syraa took the pouch with a blush and a shy smile. Arcanites didn’t usually offer gifts. They just took. She stood there for a moment before her eyes met his.

She wrapped a thick burlap cloth over her stall. Her fingers drew a quick sigil on it: the twisting symbol lit up violet before sinking into the fabric with a quiet crackle. She waved for him to follow her and led him onto a small stone bench under the trees. They could still see her stall, but the noise of the market dulled to a lull.

“Isn’t that too strong of a protection?” he asked, referring to the sigil.

“Hmm,” she nodded, “strong perhaps, but necessary. Look.”

She offered him the nuts, and he took some, his eyes locked at the stall. A moment barely passed, when a sly-faced, small and skinny man approached it. His eyes darted left and right before reaching out, his fingers inching towards her wares.

He didn’t reach far before the sigil activated, and the man flew back with a yelp, landing on the opposite side, his head hitting against the edge of a stall.

“Ha! Bastard,” she muttered with a satisfied grin, watching him scurry away.

Varek’s eyebrows lifted, and lips curled into an appreciative smile.

“You’re vicious,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet awe.

“Oh, that is rich, coming from an Arcanum goon.” She mocked him gently, unsure if she was crossing a line, but she took the chance.

He feigned offence. “Oh, we went from Master Marshal to Arcanum goon a bit too fast, wouldn’t you say?”

She tilted her head, biting back a laugh. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, the gold in her eyes shimmered with tease.

“Would the Master Marshal have liked it slower?”

Varek’s eyes widened, nearly choking on a bite. For a moment, he forgot his rank, and the steady tone he mastered over years of command. His dark skin hid the blush but did nothing for heat rising his cheeks. The way he hid his face in his palms, groaning, gave him away. The gesture struck like a spark on dry ember. Her grin widened. Oh, so the Marshal wasn’t that untouchable after all.

Her laugh bubbled out of her as if she was holding it back for ages. She mumbled some apologies, but clearly, she wasn’t truly sorry. She pressed her lips together, trying and failing to smother her grin. 

“Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me.”

Varek’s mouth tugged into the smallest of smiles before he could stop it. He kept his gaze fixed on the stall, as if the scuffed wood there had suddenly become fascinating. A lifetime of training held his voice steady and his expression schooled, but inside he felt the slip, the loosened thread Syraa had tugged free. He said nothing, only exhaled slowly through his nose, the closest thing to laughter he would allow himself.

A yell interrupted their moment of calm.

“Syraa!” The name rang across the market like a thrown stone.

Varek stilled. He hadn’t been sure he remembered her name – but he was right. The sound of it tightened something in his chest before he could stop it.

She groaned, rolling her eyes so hard they nearly had a voice of their own.

“What?” she yelled back, making him flinch. He wasn’t used to people raising their voices so carelessly.

“Come over here!”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes flashing. She asked Varek to wait, and ran off to meet the man shouting after her.

It was a tall, wide shouldered man with a solid belly and arms you wouldn’t want to tangle with. Their voices lowered enough for him to not hear what the exchange was all about. He watched their body language instead. He was towering, threatening, his fingers nearly poking at her. She held her ground, the flicker in her eyes betraying her anger despite the calm on her face.

There was something in the way she carried herself. Hands braced on her waist, a sway in her shoulders, feet planted slightly apart. She stood like a fighter. And dressed like a fighter too, he thought. Soft leather trousers hugged her curves, tucked into worn boots. Today, she wore a short cape over her velvet shirt, giving her extra warmth.

He smiled, until the man’s fingers poked her shoulder. He meant to intervene, but by the time he jumped to his feet, it was too late. She moved fast: a twist, a snap of her wrist, and the man was on his knees with a hiss, his threat crumbling as quickly as it had risen. She muttered something he couldn’t make out before letting him go.

The man ran off, and she stood there, half sitting on her stall, brushing her hair back. When she turned back to him, smiling as though nothing had happened, it unsettled him almost as much as the fight itself.

“Nice technique,” he said, his voice flat, wishing he had thought of something less obvious.

Her cheeks flushed just a little, betraying the hammer of her heartbeat beneath her calm.

“Is he giving you trouble?” he asked, quieter now. “Harassing you?”

She shook her head. “He thinks I owe him, but I don’t. Dumb idiot has me mixed up with someone else. But you can’t get it into that thick head of his…” She paused, catching herself rambling.

“Let me know if he gives you any problem, all right?” His tone came out softer than he intended, softer than he usually allowed himself.