The sun cast its golden rays over the red tile roofs of Silvender, the capital of the Kingdom of Odalin, while the air filled with the scent of fresh bread and wild roses adorning the windows of stone houses.
Tuesday morning had arrived, and the weekly market was in full swing. Harven Square, the beating heart of the city, had its wide plaza filled with vendors and buyers.
Colorful stalls spread in every direction, from sellers of silk fabrics from the distant east to spice merchants displaying mountains of saffron, cardamom, and cinnamon in open burlap sacks.
Among the rows, women examined fresh fruits—gleaming red apples, purple grapes hanging in large clusters, and ripe peaches emanating the fragrance of summer.
"Come on, children! Stay away from the pottery cart!" shouted one of the women in a tender voice as she watched a group of children playing hide-and-seek among the stalls, their clear laughter ringing in the air like bells on a holiday.
"Ma'am, has the honey shipment from the valley apiaries arrived?" asked a bearded man wearing a leather apron, while weighing a sack of barley on an old brass scale.
"It arrived yesterday, Mr. Thomas. The finest honey in the kingdom, like liquid gold!"
In the other corner, a group of elderly men gathered around a leather goods stall, their faces grim and voices low:
"Three consecutive weeks, and we're still losing to the damned Montfort clan," whispered one of them while shaking his head sadly.
"I heard that fifteen soldiers of our men were all killed near Silver Valley," replied another, his eyes filled with worry.
"Ask God to protect our sons there. These barbarians know no mercy."
Amid the market's clamor and the bustle of passersby, melodious tunes suddenly rang out like a gentle breeze in the scorching heat. On the trunk of a massive oak tree, a group of traveling musicians had positioned themselves, sitting on the ground, playing with devotion.
The first, a thin young man with wavy blonde hair, was touching the strings of his wooden lute with delicate fingers, producing graceful melodies that brought joy to the listeners' faces.
Beside him, a small girl with blue eyes blew into a long flute carved from birch wood, from which echoed a tune like a bird singing before sunrise. As for their third member, an old man with a white beard, he beat his leather drum with his palms, his strikes producing "boom... bam... boom" in a steady rhythm.
The children stopped playing and began dancing around the musicians, their small hands raised toward the sky, and even the adults found themselves smiling as they shopped, as if the music had erased all their worries.
"Ten gold dinars for this fabric? Are you joking with me, merchant?"
The voice was clear and firm, belonging to an elegant woman standing in front of a small shop selling silk fabrics. She wore a dark blue dress embroidered with silver threads, with a white lace covering on her head. Her beautiful face carried an expression of polite displeasure, while her delicate fingers felt a piece of crimson red silk.
"Dear lady, this silk came from the far east, via the long Silk Road. It's the finest in the entire kingdom!" defended the merchant, a fat man with a thick black mustache, while sweat dripped from his forehead.
"Eastern silk?" The woman raised one eyebrow skeptically.
"This fabric is locally made, from the port city factories. I can smell the local dye in it."
The merchant swallowed with difficulty. "Well... well, ma'am. Perhaps... perhaps eight dinars?"
"Four. And that's a generous price."
"Four?! Ma'am, I'll lose money!"
"Then sell it to someone else for ten dinars." The woman turned as if about to leave.
"Wait! Wait!" the merchant screamed in despair. "Five dinars. This is my final offer."
"Four and a half, and I'll buy that blue piece with it too."
The merchant looked up to the sky as if seeking God's help, then let out a deep sigh full of surrender:
"Ahhh... who would have imagined that a nobleman's wife like you, Lady Matilda, would negotiate with me as if she were poor trying to save every coin?"
"I've been managing my husband's estates for some time, merchant. I didn't learn to spend money without accounting." Lady Matilda replied in a firm but polite tone. "Now, do we agree on the price or not?"
"I agree, I agree... dear lady."
A servant appeared from the side of the shop, a young girl in her twenties wearing a simple gray dress and a white apron. She was carrying several bags and boxes, and exhaustion was clearly visible on her pale face.
"Martha, carry these fabrics too," Lady Matilda ordered without turning to her servant.
"Yes, ma'am," the servant repeated in a low voice, struggling to carry the additional bags. Her hands were trembling from the weight, but she didn't dare complain.
Lady Matilda walked away with confident steps, while Martha followed with difficulty, sometimes stumbling under the burden of loads, her tightly tied blonde hair beginning to fall around her tired face.
Some children passed in front of her. "Look! Look!" screamed a small child with curly hair, pointing at a vendor juggling colored balls in the air, catching them with high skill that amazed them.
As for Matilda, she had stopped at an ornate silk tent, examining some silver bracelets, until she heard a familiar voice:
"Matilda! My God, how elegant you look today!"
Matilda turned to find her close friend Lady Seraphine approaching her with graceful steps.
Seraphine was a woman in her mid-thirties, with shiny chestnut hair raised in a complex hairstyle adorned with pearl pins. She wore an emerald green dress embroidered with golden threads and decorated with silver ostrich feathers, and around her neck was a green emerald necklace glittering under the sunlight.
Walking beside her was a servant carrying a silk parasol to protect her from the sun.
"Seraphine! Finally!" Matilda embraced her friend warmly. "I thought you wouldn't come today."
"How could I miss Tuesday's market? Especially since the new merchant from the north arrived yesterday with a shipment of wonderful woolen fabrics." Seraphine laughed, her green eyes sparkling with joy. "And you? I see you're carrying many bags today."
"You know. The castle needs to renew the curtains and bed linens." Matilda answered while gesturing to her servant weighed down with bags.
"By the way, I must tell you about the new merchant at the spice corner. He sells saffron of exceptional quality."
"Really? Let's go to him together then. And I want to ask you about something important." Seraphine lowered her voice while holding her friend's arm. "I heard there's a party at Mr. Levan's house next week. Did you receive the invitation?"
"No, I didn't receive anything." Matilda stopped walking. "And you?"
"It arrived yesterday." Seraphine couldn't hide a slight smile. "Perhaps... perhaps your message was delayed."
But Matilda ignored the topic with a quick wave of her hand. "It doesn't matter. Where did you say the new merchant was?"
They moved through the crowded passages, Martha walking behind them beside the other servant, beginning to pant...
Melissa's fingers played with strands of her husband Julian's brown hair as he leaned against her shoulder.
"Funny that we feel luxury here." Julian gazed at the worn tent ceiling. "The soldier who gave us his tent... I saw how his face lit up when he was told it was for Commander Melissa."
"You mean when he learned it was for my husband."
He kissed her palm.
"No. When he learned it was you."
She laughed quietly. Her breath caressed his hair.
He turned his head to look at her:
"I didn't expect to feel safe in a place like this... the smell of old leather and smoke... it should have reminded me of war."
"But it doesn't?"
"No. It reminds me of home."
His hand slipped to her swollen belly, drawing small circles over the fabric.
"Four months. How did time pass so quickly like this?"
"I can't believe we're going to become mother and father!"
But worry soon returned to Julian's features as he watched the gleam in her eyes:
"You know I'm afraid for you... for our child's safety."
He was silent for a moment, then continued:
"That mission, you know..."
She moved quickly, pushed his hands aside, and got up.
She bent down to pick up her green linen robe from the ground and began putting it on.
"No."
She said while pulling the robe over her head, tightening it around her waist with slight nervousness.
"We won't have this discussion again."
Then she stepped toward the tent opening without turning back, and left.
"Melissa, wait..."
Julian stumbled while putting on his shirt. "Damn her and her speed."
On the threshold, the morning sun's rays glowed over rows of gray tents, and steam columns rose from pots set up over small fires.
Silver Valley camp pulsed with life—sounds of swords striking metal, soldiers' shouts, boots pounding on packed earth.
Melissa breathed deeply, smelling the fragrance of earth moistened by a new morning's dew, and soldiers stopping their training to greet her. She greeted back, then walked away.
"Raise your sword, Robin!... Your wife won't be impressed with this performance!"
Julian commented sarcastically when he saw one of the two soldiers fighting with wooden swords misjudge the distance and fall on his back.
But all this faded when he saw Melissa standing under the only birch tree in the camp. Her hand on her belly, the wind playing with the edges of her linen shirt.
"Look at them." She pointed to the camp, then continued:
"Men training to die..."
"Melissa...", Julian caught up with her.
"Do you know what I saw last night?" She finally turned to him.
She began tapping her fingers on the tree bark nervously.
"The dream came back to me again... Last night, and the night before, and before that too. Almost every night for more than a week."
The tapping stopped. Her hand settled on the trunk.
"I can no longer sleep peacefully."
Julian thought to himself: "Really... could that dream have returned to her?"
He knew that distant look in her eyes meant the nightmare was haunting her again. He moved silently and wrapped his arms around her from behind, his hand resting on her swollen belly.
His nose found its way to the soft curve under her ear, where the skin was thinner and warmer. He inhaled the fragrance of her body there—the scent of wild lemon she washed her hair with, mixed with her natural skin scent that reminded him of honey. Her white hair scattered across his face, intertwining with his breath and mixing with it, as if she surrounded him with her inescapable aura.
"Your hair still carries the scent of spring." He whispered in her ear, his lips almost touching the sensitive skin. "Even in this place."
She bent her head back, leaning against his chest.
"That nightmare... that black dagger." She said in a low voice. "I see it every night. It passes over my neck, cold as ice. I feel its sting while I'm asleep."
Julian's fingers gently caressed her hair.
"I try to see who holds it, but his face is obscured. Like a shadow. All I see is the dagger descending toward my neck, and I wake up before..."
"Before it reaches you."
"Yes." She closed her eyes. "I wake up terrified, my heart beating as if it will stop. I touch my neck searching for the wound, but I find nothing."
Julian tightened his embrace and kissed the side of her neck gently.
"Do you know what this means?" He said in a theatrical voice. "It means the executioner in your dream is left-handed."
Then he continued:
"Professional executioners strike from the left, but left-handed ones strike from the right. This means he's not a real executioner, just an amateur."
She couldn't suppress a smile. "You're crazy."
"No, I'm practical. If death is inevitable, let it at least be professional death."
She laughed despite herself, turning in his embrace to face him.
"For heaven's sake, Melissa." His voice suddenly became serious.
"Look around you. These men are excited because we arrived. Because we'll fight alongside them." His eyes looked toward the training soldiers.
"And you're the commander. They see hope in you."
He stopped and looked at her deeply.
"Damn everything, Melissa... I'll accompany you to death."
"Damn everyone!"
"Damn that mission, nothing matters to me anymore. I just want to be by your side, no matter the cost. Even in our moment of death."
She looked at him with eager eyes, filled with deep love that almost burned her. It was that look she reserved for him alone, the look of a woman who saw the entire world in the man before her.
"Julian..." she whispered, her fingers touching his cheek.
She didn't finish the sentence. She grasped his head with both hands and pulled him to her, her lips crashing against his in a hungry kiss.
His taste was familiar and warm, the taste of the man she loved, the taste of safety amid all this madness.
Her fingers tangled in his brown hair, pulling him closer to her. She felt his hands slip to her waist, embracing her strongly as if he feared she would evaporate in his arms.
And when their lips finally parted... her forehead remained touching his, their breaths mixing.
She murmured softly:
"Promise me something."
"Anything."
"When all this ends, we'll return to our home. We'll raise our child away from wars and blood. We'll plant a small garden, and we'll teach him the names of flowers instead of the names of weapons."
"I promise."
"And we'll live a quiet life!"
He laughed quietly. "Yes. We'll be the most boring people in the village."
But the smile suddenly left her face. Her eyes widened as if she remembered something important.
"Wait!"
Her voice was loud, full of surprise.
"Where is Dorian?"
"Wasn't he supposed to be with you? Since yesterday, I've only seen you and Meran Hawke."
Her fingers gripped Julian's arm. "Where is that damned Dorian Fogg?"
Before Julian could open his mouth to answer, a voice emerged from somewhere above their heads:
"He refused to stay with us until the last moment. He said he had business in the capital that couldn't be postponed."
Melissa and Julian quickly raised their heads, their eyes searching in the branches.
There, on a wide branch of the ancient birch tree, Meran sat in a strange position. His right leg dangling, while the left was folded under him. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, and his eyes closed in complete calm, as if he was meditating or sleeping.
His back leaned against the trunk, his head tilted slightly to the side. His short black hair was tangled, and his dirty leather clothes looked as if they were part of the tree bark itself.
"Meraaaaan!" Melissa screamed, her voice full of astonishment and annoyance.
Meran opened one eye and looked down at them as if observing two annoying insects.
"How long have you been up there, you monkey?" Julian asked calmly, but there was a mixture of sarcasm and admiration in his voice.
"Since you two started flirting." Meran answered in a sleepy voice. "I thought you'd notice my presence, but it seems you were... busy."
He closed his eye again.
"Honestly, it was an exciting show. Especially the part about the left-handed executioner."
Melissa's face turned red as a tomato. "How much exactly did you hear?"
"Everything. Including the part about planting the garden and teaching the child flower names."
He suddenly opened his eyes and looked at them with a devilish smile.
"I suggest you start by teaching him tree names first. Like this tree I'm sitting on. It's called 'the spy tree'."
Julian burst into laughter despite himself. "Damn you, fool!"
"Fool?" Meran said while yawning. "I'm the only one who found a comfortable place for a nap."
Then he added in an artificially serious voice:
"And also, I'm the only one who didn't say embarrassing things."
Melissa laughed and couldn't resist, hiding her face in her hands.
"You're a disaster, Meran Hawke."
"Thank you. That's the best compliment I've received today."