A few days wore themselves out like old cloth. Training still hummed in the mornings; Objective Board runs filled the afternoons and Devon's commands threaded through the routine. For a few hours that afternoon, Solis and Ada decided to let the world go soft around the edges.
Ada led the way through a side lane that cut like a secret from the armory quarter into Caldemount's market ring. The lane opened suddenly into noise: merchants shouting, braziers hissing, a tangle of stalls selling spices, bolts of cloth, iron tools, trinkets that sang when you shook them. It smelled of roasted meat and citrus peel and something floral that made Solis think of summers at Mailie.
"You'll love this part," Ada said. "This is where I learned to haggle and lie without blinking."
Solis smiled and let his eyes drink it all in. He moved slower than usual, hands tucked in pockets, watching a boy practice balancing knives near his mother's stall and an old puppeteer draw a small crowd with a dragon made of twine.
"You grew up here, right?" he asked.
"In the middle ring. This square was practically my playground," Ada said. "I know where every street cat naps and which baker burns the first batch every morning. That baker will give you a free roll if you compliment his moustache." She nudged him. "Just go on."
Solis ambled to the stall with the baker and said, loud and with all the sincerity he could muster, "Nice moustache."
The baker laughed, slapped him on the shoulder, and handed over a warm roll. Ada clapped once, pleased.
"See? Local hacks," she said. "Eat this before I make you get a job pulling a cart."
They walked. Ada pointed out the silver-forging alley, the lamp-lighter's tiny workshop, the dock where paper lanterns were made. She bought him a honey pastry, then, with the kind of brusque tenderness she reserved for people she liked, filched a ribbon from a ribbon-seller's pile and braided it into her own hair.
Solis found himself explaining what things were to her as much as she explained them to him. For him, every brass wheel or pulley had a story; for her, it was the furniture of life.
They drifted toward the central square, where a fountain threw glittering water and a small stage hosted dancers and a lute player. People were watching it; children tried to mimic the steps. Flags with the kingdom crest flapped — a reminder of the order and rule beneath the chaos.
Ada's expression softened as she watched a child dart barefoot between the crowd. "It was all like this when I was small. I knew enough corners to hide from my father when I ran off to see the puppets. I knew which alley had the best chestnuts in winter. I knew which bookseller would trade a tale for a favor."
"You ran away from your father to watch... puppets?" Solis asked, grinning.
"He's an accountant, remember? For me papers smell like sleep. Puppets though smelled like adventure." She elbowed him. "You would've hated my father's ledger. It's a love story between ink and boredom."
Solis laughed. Then the three of them — boy, girl, and the square — ambled closer to the stage.
Across the crowd, a figure moved differently than others. She wore a low hood and kept her head bowed, but there was a carriage-born grace to the way she wound through people — small, measured steps, the posture of someone taught not to turn heads. She carried herself like someone who had learned every courtly angle and hid it when needed.
Solis noticed her because his eyes were almosr taking in everything. Ada noticed her because the city was hers and any new face drew her attention. The girl collided with a fruit seller's cart, scattering apples like red coins. She bent to gather them, tucking her face behind her cloak; the seam of a finely made sleeve flashed under the dirtied hood.
Solis and Ada were passing at that moment. A stray apple rolled past Solis's boot; he stooped to pick it up and saw the girl crouched on one knee, one hand on the ground, the other pressing a small locket to her breast.
She stood quickly, cheeks flushed, and hurtled a murmured apology over her lowered shoulder — words muffled by the cloak. Her eyes glanced at them, and she lifted the hood an inch. A wisp of bright hair slipped free. She smiled, breathless and embarrassed, and in a voice as soft as a bell said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
Ada waved a hand as if the apology were the most natural thing in the world. "No harm done. Need help? Those carts move as if they have a grudge against balance or something, remember that." She reached down to help gather the apples that had rolled near.
Solis offered the girl the apple he'd picked. "Here. On the house."
She accepted it with a hand that trembled just a little. Her fingers brushed his, and in that moment he felt the faintest tremor of an old thing — something like curiosity and something else he couldn't name. He smiled, simple and open.
"Thanks," she said, voice small. "I've just… been practicing being invisible."
Ada snorted. "You're not very good to be honest... no offence."
The girl laughed — there was a tremor of genuine amusement — and for the space of a heartbeat she allowed herself to look unguarded. Solis and Ada saw only a young woman roaming on this world, not the crown she hid beneath her cloak.
Then, like a shadow, a hand flashed.