The market was a cacophony of life, a stark contrast to the tense silence they'd left behind in the guild hall. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking their wares, and the air was thick with the clatter of coins and the smell of spices and roasting meat. But Ardyn's gaze wasn't on the vibrant bolts of cloth or the glistening fruits. His eyes were fixed on the countless transactions happening around him—the quick flashes of copper, bronze, and silver changing hands. Each exchange was a small, frustrating mystery. He clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles whitening. A low, hot wave of frustration welled up inside him. Why… why can't I remember something as simple as this?
The coins in the pouch Seres carried felt no different to him than the smooth, cold stones from the riverbed. They were just heavy, round, metallic objects. Their value was an abstract concept, a language everyone else seemed to speak fluently while he fumbled in the dark. He gritted his teeth, a sharp anger directed inward. "I… should know this," he muttered under his breath, the words rough and tangled with confusion and self-reproach.
Seres, walking quietly at his side, her presence a steady anchor, caught the troubled shadow that crossed his face. She didn't need to ask what was wrong; his focus on the currency was a telltale sign.
"You don't understand their worth, do you?" she asked, her voice soft, devoid of any judgment.
He shook his head, a barely perceptible motion, his eyes still glued to a man paying for a loaf of bread with two copper coins.
Seres stopped walking and reached into the small leather pouch at her belt. She drew out three coins, holding them flat on her palm for him to see. "This," she said, lifting the dull, reddish copper coin between her thumb and forefinger, "can buy a loaf of bread. Or a cup of broth." She then pointed to the darker, thicker bronze coin. "This is for small things. A basket of fruit. A handful of nails." Finally, she tapped the brightest, silvery coin. "This one is heavier. It can pay for a night at a common inn. Or a good meal."
As they resumed walking, they passed a spice stall overflowing with burlap sacks. Seres deliberately stepped up. "A palm's worth of salt, please," she said to the vendor. She counted out ten bronze bits from her pouch and handed them over, receiving a small paper twist in return. She let Ardyn watch the entire exchange.
"See?" she said, turning back to him, holding up the salt. "Ten bronze for this much. People measure the world with these. They build their lives on them." She glanced at his still-tense expression, her pale eyes gentle. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. You'll learn."
But her kindness only made the knot in Ardyn's chest tighten further. He looked from the salt in her hand to the bustling, coin-driven world around him. What kind of life did I live… to forget even this? The question was a hollow ache, deeper and more isolating than any physical wound.
The boy's golden hair caught the afternoon sunlight like spun fire, a beacon in the crowded market. Every passing glance, every sidelong stare, was a fresh reminder of it. Whispers trailed after him like ghosts, and eyes lingered on the sharp lines of his face a moment too long. He felt their collective gaze press down on him like a physical weight, a sensation of being constantly dissected by strangers with a single, curious look. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering along its edge. This face… he knew with a cold, sinking certainty, would only ever bring him trouble.
A flicker of movement caught his eye—a polished metal mirror hanging outside a cloth shop, used to attract customers. Ardyn froze, staring at the reflection staring back. A beautiful stranger with sharp, elegant features, pale skin, and eyes of a gold so vivid it seemed unnatural. So that's it, he thought, the realization a bitter taste in his mouth. This is what they see. This is why they stare. This face wasn't his; it was a mask, a curse. His hand lifted unconsciously, fingers reaching not for his own reflection, but toward a scarred, weathered leather hood on display just beside the mirror.
"You should cover up," Seres said, her voice quiet but clear. She had followed his gaze to the hood. "Cloaks, hoods, robes—it's normal here. Adventurers, travelers, even merchants wear them against the sun and dust." She paused, her pale eyes steady on him, understanding the unspoken reason behind his interest. "For you, it's… safer." Her tone was calm but firm, leaving no room for argument. Ardyn nodded slowly, the motion tight with resignation. Yes. Hiding his face might not solve everything, but it was a start. It was a necessary shield.
The little brass bell above the door chimed softly as Seres led Ardyn into the cloth shop. After the chaotic noise and smells of the market, the interior was an oasis of quiet. The air was still and scented with lavender oil and the faint, sharp tang of dye. Dresses and cloaks in rich, vibrant colors lined the polished wooden racks, every fabric looking far too clean, too fine, too untouched by the hard realities of the world he was starting to remember. Ardyn's shoulders stiffened immediately, his posture closing off.
His eyes scanned the shelves—silks that shimmered, velvets deep as night, wool coats lined with fur. Clothes for nobles, for people with soft hands and easy lives. Not for people like him. Not for someone who slept in ruins. His jaw tensed. "We don't belong here," he muttered under his breath, the words low and thick with discomfort. He was already half-turned to leave, his hand hovering near the door handle, when a sudden, synchronized chorus of soft gasps broke the respectful silence of the shop.
The female clerks, dressed in neat, matching grey uniforms, had noticed him. Their eyes widened, and one young woman even let out a small, startled squeak. "A prince?" another whispered, then reconsidered. "No… perhaps a knight in disguise?" They offered awkward, flustered bows, dreamy smiles lighting their faces.
Ardyn caught fragments of their chatter, the words tumbling past in a language he was still struggling to grasp. But thanks to Nico's playful lessons and the children's constant chatter, a few key words stuck—prince, knight. Their dazzled, romantic expressions made the meaning clear enough. But then their eyes flicked to Seres, taking in her simple, worn dress and herb-stained hands. The dreamy illusions shattered. He wasn't royalty, not some hidden knight—just a strange boy they could fuss over and perhaps dress up like a mannequin for their amusement. The attention curdled from flattering to deeply uncomfortable.
The shopgirls returned in a flurry of motion and rustling fabric, their arms stacked high with cloaks of every imaginable color, cut, and material. "For you, sir!" they sang out in unnerving unison, laying the garments out across polished tables with theatrical flourishes. The fabrics seemed to drink the lantern light and glow from within: velvets dyed in deep crimsons and royal blues, silk-lined coats adorned with intricately embroidered crests of mythical beasts, and even a dramatically heavy traveling cloak edged with a delicate seam of tiny, shimmering jewels. It was a display meant for a noble's court, not a refugee from the ruins.
Ardyn's throat tightened. Each cloak looked more extravagant and expensive than the last, the kind of garment that screamed wealth and status. If the prices of these don't kill me, he thought grimly, the clerks' enthusiasm certainly will. His eyes darted desperately over the gaudy display until they finally caught on a duller, simpler shape hanging forgotten on a plain wooden peg in the corner. It was a rugged, leathery cloak, the color of dried earth, utterly plain and unadorned. It looked cheap. Forgettable. Perfect.
He stepped toward it, a wave of relief washing over his tense features. "This one," he muttered, his voice firm, already reaching out to grab it and make his escape. But before his fingers could even brush the worn hanger, one of the clerks darted in front of him, blocking his path with a scandalized gasp. "Sir, no! That's… that's for stablehands! It's hardly worthy of you!" Another clerk shook her head so violently her carefully pinned curls came loose. "You mustn't! It's so plain!"
Their protests swarmed around him like agitated bees, their high-pitched voices making his temples throb. Why is nothing ever simple? Why can't I just leave with a plain cloak and be done with it? He clenched his jaw, already imagining the exorbitant number of coins he'd be forced to lose just to get out of this gilded trap alive. His frustration peaked as the clerks, having successfully blocked his choice, now turned on each other, beginning to fight over which of their fine cloaks would suit his "noble bearing" the best, completely ignoring his own, clearly stated preference.
Ardyn saw his chance and began to quietly edge backward toward the exit, hoping to melt away before the situation escalated. But before he could take two steps, two of the clerks darted forward with surprising speed, their movements practiced and light. They gently but firmly seized his arms, their grips surprisingly strong. "Wait, sir, please!" one pleaded, her eyes wide with earnest excitement. "Just one outfit—let us dress you properly! It would be our honor!" Another clerk descended upon him with a bolt of deep blue fabric, holding it up to his shoulders with the urgent, focused energy of a battlefield medic assessing a wound. Ardyn's ears burned a brilliant, mortified red.
Trapped and utterly overwhelmed, he shot a desperate, pleading glance over his shoulder toward Seres. His voice was a low, strained whisper, meant only for her. "Seres… help me." The tone carried a raw edge of panic, that of a cornered animal. It was a stark contrast to the cold, controlled predator who had faced down wolves and a guild master's killing intent. Here, against the friendly, overenthusiastic assault of the shopgirls, he was completely and utterly powerless.
Seres, who had been watching the entire spectacle with mild amusement, finally chuckled softly and stepped forward. Her voice was calm but carried an undeniable firmness that cut through the giggling excitement. "He's not here for that," she stated plainly. "We only need a simple, practical cloak. Nothing else." The clerks froze mid-motion, their excited pouts appearing almost comically synchronized. They sighed in unison, their shoulders slumping with disappointment as they reluctantly released their captive "prince." Their disappointed giggles lingered in the air as they finally rushed toward the back room to fetch the requested cloaks.
The moment the shopgirls were gone, Ardyn exhaled a sharp, relieved breath, rubbing his arm where their eager fingers had gripped him as if he'd just escaped a cunningly laid trap. "They're… terrifying," he muttered, the words filled with a genuine, bewildered dread. Seres only offered a faint, knowing smile. "You'll get used to it," she said, her voice holding a thread of amusement but also something sharper, more cautionary—a silent reminder that his face really was going to be a unique form of trouble everywhere they went.
As they waited in the suddenly quiet shop, Seres leaned closer to him, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I usually buy clothes here for myself and the children when they outgrow everything. The owner respects Finel deeply—he owes him a life debt from years ago. Because of that connection, I get a fifty percent discount on any purchase." She tapped the polished edge of a nearby display counter, her expression turning pragmatic. "But even with that," she added with a soft sigh, "it's expensive. I rarely come unless it's necessary."
While the clerks were distracted by their own debate, Seres had quietly slipped away to browse the deeper, more cluttered racks at the back of the shop. She now returned, her hands carrying something entirely different from the gaudy displays. Draped over her arms was a robe of a unique, greying white fabric, soft and thick to the eye. It featured a broad, deep hood and a generous ring of plush, fur-like trim circling the collar. Despite its simpler cut, it held a dignified air and seemed to shimmer with a faint, subtle light of its own, catching the glow from the lanterns in a way the louder velvets did not.
Ardyn blinked, stunned. The garment looked noble, elegant, and impossibly refined—far beyond anything he'd ever dreamed of owning, let alone touching. His heart sank like a stone. Too much. Far too expensive. We can't afford that. We need to eat. But when he turned to protest, to insist on the cheap leather cloak, he found Seres already smiling at the head clerk, her expression serene and decided. "We'll take this one," she declared calmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.
He froze, shock flashing across his face. "Seres…? Are you serious? That'll ruin us." The words nearly slipped out, but she cut him off with a small, knowing laugh. She tapped a small tag sewn into the inner collar. "Look closer," she said, her voice dropping. "It's not real luxury fur—it's rabbit pelt, cleverly stitched and dyed to look like winter fox. A convincing fake. And see here?" Her finger pointed to tiny, stamped letters beside the price. "'Prototype stock.' Failed items from a large order. The dye on the 'fur' wasn't consistent. That's why it's in the discount pile."
Ardyn leaned in, squinting at the label. She was right. The writing clearly marked it as defective, a second-quality item. Yet to his eyes, it looked flawless, far more impressive and dignified than any of the jeweled or embroidered cloaks the clerks had paraded before him. The perceived flaw was invisible to him. "It… suits you," Seres added softly, her gaze thoughtful. "The color doesn't clash with your hair. And more importantly," she said, practicality returning to her tone, "it's thick. It'll keep you warm when the deep winter comes to the ruins."
The coins clinked softly in Seres's palm as she carefully tucked away the thin paper receipt from the cloak purchase. Ardyn, already half-hidden under the deep, broad hood, felt an immediate, profound relief. The constant, sharp stares and trailing whispers of the market dulled with every step they took away from the clothier. The shadow of his striking face was now swallowed by the generous fur-trimmed fabric, making him just another traveler in a cloak. The garment, though its cost had made his stomach clench, proved its worth immediately, buying him a precious commodity he desperately needed: anonymity.
Their steps wound a slow path through the thinning market crowds, pausing here and there for the practicalities of the children's needs. Seres bargained deftly for strips of dried fish, bartered with a farmer for a sack of crisp apples, and snatched up a precious bundle of salt—an absolute essential for preserving food through the coming winter. Ardyn carried the growing sacks without complaint, his arms laden, quietly observing how each trade followed a complex rhythm of offered coins and haggled words he still struggled to grasp fully.
As their baskets filled and the question of fresh bread for the evening meal hung between them, Seres naturally turned toward the familiar brick-walled bakery. The warmth of the massive ovens spilled out into the cold street, a comforting embrace they both remembered from their last visit. Ardyn followed closely, instinctively tugging his hood even lower over his brow, though the rich, sweet scent of sugar and rising yeast tugged something softer, a faint memory of comfort, from a deep place in his chest.
Emily was carefully placing a tray of honey-nut rolls on the counter when she noticed Seres. A warm, familiar smile spread across her flour-dusted face. "Seres! What can I get for you today?" she asked, her tone cheerful and practical. She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving fresh streaks of white. Her expression then turned slightly earnest. "And, could you bring some herbs next time you come? We're nearly out of firra, and Father's back has been aching terribly with the cold."
Ardyn lingered by the doorway, a silent, cloaked figure trying to blend into the warm, flour-dusted shadows of the bakery. When Emily's gaze, bright with friendly curiosity, drifted toward the mysterious customer accompanying Seres, he instinctively pushed the hood back to hear their conversation better. The motion was small, a simple reveal, but the effect was explosive. Emily's cheerful chatter about sourdough starters cut off mid-sentence. Her eyes widened, her hands stilling on the loaf she was holding. She froze, her breath catching audibly. "You—" she gasped, the word torn from her in a shocked whisper. Then, her voice rising in disbelief, she nearly shouted, "Ardyn?!"
The cozy room fell into instant, bewildered confusion. Emily scrambled to make sense of the scene, her head whipping between Seres's calm face and Ardyn's now fully visible, unmistakable features. "You two… know each other?" she asked, her voice pitching higher with confusion. "Wait—don't tell me…" The pieces suddenly clicked together in her mind, and the story blurted out of her in a rushed, embarrassed torrent, her cheeks flushing a deep red. She explained everything about the birthday cake, the wood-chopping and stable-mucking chores, and the bargain she had struck with Ardyn and little Mia. Seres, who had been quiet and observant, now listened with sharp, intently focused eyes, every detail of the tale being filed away and analyzed.
Seres slowly turned her gaze toward Ardyn, her arms folding across her chest as she pieced together Emily's rushed confession. The warmth of the bakery seemed to chill. "So that's how a proper cake appeared on my birthday," she said, her tone deceptively quiet but edged with something that made the air feel thin.
Ardyn scratched the back of his neck, his eyes fixed firmly on the flour-dusted floorboards, utterly unable to meet her piercing stare. Emily seemed to shrink behind the counter, nervously biting her lip as if wishing she could vanish into the sacks of grain.
Seres's expression didn't shift, but her focus grew so sharp, so intensely knowing, that Ardyn silently prayed Ethan hadn't been part of this scheme. If the boy had been here under the weight of that look, he would not have survived it.
The last of the errands were finally done. The fresh bread was wrapped neatly in a clean cloth, a pouch of precious dried herbs was secured, and a few small, honey-drenched sweets were carefully tucked in among the bundles—a rare treat for the children. Emily, still visibly flustered from the earlier exchange, waved them off from the bakery doorway, her cheeks flushed but her smile warm and genuine. Seres thanked her with a gracious nod, her tone warm, while Ardyn offered a quiet dip of his head, a silent communication of gratitude. The golden glow of newly lit lanterns began to stretch long shadows across the cobblestones, and the frantic bustle of the city softened into the calm, steady hum of evening.
As they walked, the streets slowly emptied around them. Shop shutters clattered closed one by one, and the calls of merchants faded into silence. The air grew cooler, carrying the faint, comforting scent of roasted chestnuts and wood smoke drifting from countless hearths. Seres adjusted the weight of the provision bundle under her arm, while Ardyn kept one hand on his cloak's hood, consciously tugging it low over his brow. The stares were fewer now—his face hidden, his presence muted by the gathering dusk and the generous fabric. For the first time since entering the city, he felt a small, tentative measure of peace settle over him amidst the fading crowd.
By the time they reached the main gates, the sky had darkened into a soft, deep violet, and the lanterns mounted along the high walls had been lit, casting pools of wavering light on the stone. The guards exchanged lazy, familiar nods with Seres, already recognizing her from countless trips. The toll was counted out, the clink of coins sharp and clear in the evening stillness, and with a groaning creak of heavy wood and iron, the gate swung open. Together, Seres and Ardyn stepped beyond the safety of the walls, their arms full of provisions for the week, their path a familiar trail stretching back through the darkening woods toward the quiet, waiting ruins they called home.