Harper

Malva’s pie, if I had to choose one word for it, it would be heavenly No, surreal would be a better choice. Every bite is an experience, not just a taste. The flakiness of the crust, the sweetness of the fruit, the warmth that spreads through me as it melts in my mouth, it's like stepping into a dream I never want to wake up from. I’ve tasted fancy pastries on Earth, but nothing could hold a candle to this moment. Right here, right now, sitting by this window in this strange little bakery, I’m lost in bliss, completely consumed by this treat. I half expect to shrink away as I devour it, like some cartoon character who indulges too much and just vanishes into nothing.

Outside, the market hums with life, voices calling out, the clink of coins changing hands, children running past in bursts of energy. It’s all so normal, so alive. A stark contrast to everything I’ve experienced since stepping into this bizarre world. Once I joined this experiment, I found everything here to be strange and dangerous. This moment of normalcy feels like an anchor, something to hold onto in the midst of the chaos. The rhythm of everyday life outside feels like a warm, reassuring hug, the kind you never thought you needed until it was right there in front of you.

And then, just like that, my mind drifts to Ethan. My chest tightens as I think of him, his goofy grin, his laugh that always makes me feel like I’m home. How I wish he were here, beside me, sharing this pie. But then again, knowing him, he’d probably turn up his nose at the pie and just grumble about how he didn’t ask for dessert in the first place. Typical Ethan. I imagine him whining about the oddities of this place, Malva would have to magically pop in with different pies every hour until he found one he liked. The thought of him makes the ache inside me grow stronger, and before I can stop it, tears slip down my cheeks.

I’ve been so focused on surviving, on trying to understand what’s happening, that I haven’t had a moment to think about missing someone. Letting that emotion flood me now is like a punch to the gut, raw and unexpected. My throat tightens as I blink away the tears, but they keep coming, trickling down my face in a steady stream.

Then, suddenly, a warm hand brushes against my cheek, wiping away my tears. I look up, startled, to find Thorin standing there, his eyes soft with understanding. “Malva’s treats are good, but are they so good that they move you to tears, my lady?” he teases, a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

I meet his gaze and feel a surprising comfort in his presence, even though I barely know him. He doesn’t ask for explanations. Doesn’t question my emotions. I touch his hand, grateful for the gentle kindness he’s offering me without demanding anything in return. “I guess they must be,” I manage, offering him a weak smile.

His eyes flicker, reading me like a book, sensing the sadness I’m trying to hide behind this moment of lightness. But he doesn’t pry, doesn’t push. “So, am I part of the gang now?” I  ask. “Am I allowed to meet the head honcho?”

Thorin give me an odd look and I can’t help but let out a soft laugh, despite the heaviness still lingering in my chest. “Well, should I get ready for my initiation?” I quip, trying to shake off the emotional weight, if only for a moment.

Thorin feigns a sour face, though it doesn’t last long. The corners of his mouth twitch back into a grin. “Let’s go, lass,” he says, guiding me out of the bakery.

The door creaks shut behind us as we step out into the street. The sweet aroma of the bakery lingers in the air, but it’s quickly replaced by the musty scent when we enter a narrow alley. We approach an old door and Thorin knocks four times, the sound echoing through the quieter back street.

A voice calls from behind the door. “And why should I let you in?”

“Because you’d be sad if you couldn’t gaze upon my handsome beard,” Thorin replies, his voice laced with mock sincerity.

The voice on the other side huffs. “That’s not what I want to hear.” A pause, then “But I know it’s you, Thorin.”

The door creaks open, revealing a striking woman with grey eyes and a no-nonsense air about her. She takes one look at me and doesn’t waste a second. “You brought someone?” she’s asks sharply.

Thorin’s laughter rings out, full of amusement. “Morag, this is Harper,” he says, as if introducing a long-lost friend. I lift my hand in a hesitant wave, feeling more flustered than I care to admit.

The woman’s gaze is unwavering as she replies, “I’m Maisie.” She doesn’t smile, but there’s something about the way she says it that makes me feel like I’ve just passed some kind of test, though I don’t know what kind.

Thorin chuckles, clearly enjoying the tension, and gestures for me to follow him. “I knew who you were!” he says with a wink.

“ Come on, Harper, let’s go upstairs.”

We ascend a narrow staircase, and as we reach the top, I’m greeted by a large table dominating the center of the room. At its far end sits the same woman from before in a different outfit than the one I saw downstairs.

“You must be Morag,” I say, piecing it together. The familiarity between the two women is undeniable, they’re twins. The realization makes me smile.

Morag grins back at me, her expression softening for a brief moment. “You must have just met Maisie,” she says, and I can’t help but chuckle at the way she says it. Their camaraderie is something I can’t help but admire.

As we settle around the table, the door across the room creaks open once more. Two men step inside, their presence commanding immediate attention. The first one is tall, dark, and brooding, his serious expression making it clear that he doesn’t take kindly to distractions. The second one, however, has a quiet charisma, tall, and undeniably handsome, with a confidence that practically oozes from him. He’s the kind of person who seems like he belongs in a romance novel, and I can’t help but notice how his eyes linger on me for just a second longer than is strictly necessary.

He’s the leader. I can tell.

They approach the table, and I instinctively stand, extending my hand toward the man who I assume is their leader. “I’m Harper,” I say, trying to sound confident, though my nerves are getting the best of me.

The two men exchange a brief, puzzled glance before the leader speaks, his voice low and commanding. “Are you requiring me to give you something?” he asks, as if he’s used to being asked for things, but not in this manner.

I flush, mortified. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is just how my kind greet each other,” I stammer. “You reach out your hand, we join hands and then we shake.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. “What a weird custom,” he mutters before sitting down, completely ignoring the hand I’ve extended.

I lower my hand, trying to hide the flush creeping up my neck as I sit back down. God this guy is an ass. The weight of the moment settles over me like a thick blanket, and I can feel the tension left hanging in the air.

The man regards me carefully, his piercing eyes seeming to weigh my every word. “My name is Rhylen, and this is Arandur,” he says, gesturing to the other man who remains silent, his gaze steely. “I see you’ve met the others. Thorin tells me you owe him a debt of service.”

I nod, swallowing hard as I gather my thoughts. “I arrived outside a village two days ago and was labeled as something I am not… a witch. After facing harassment from some men at a tavern, Thorin rescued me. After that, one of those villagers followed us and tried to kill me in my sleep…”

The memory rushes back to me, and for a moment, the room seems to close in around me. I hesitate, the weight of what I’m about to say almost too much to bear.

Thorin picks up the story, his voice steady. “I buried my axe in his chest.”

Rhylen’s eye shoot to Thorin. He did not seem surprised by his comment.

“You say you arrived two days ago,” he says, his voice cold and probing. “Where did you come from?”

I hesitate, my mind racing. The truth feels like a ticking bomb. I’ve already been honest with Thorin, but this man just gets under my skin. I have this strong urge to not want to tell him. If I don’t at least match what I told him then I would seem not trustworthy and could find myself out on the streets with no money or companions.

“Um, well,” I begin, carefully choosing my words. “It’s a bit complicated.”