The border town announced itself before it appeared.

  The road widened. Stones replaced mud. Lanterns hung from iron hooks instead of tree limbs. Lysara slowed, pulling her hood lower as voices drifted toward her—laughter, bargaining, a child’s sharp squeal of delight.

  Children.

  They ran barefoot between carts, faces smudged with flour and soot, chasing a hoop down the street. No one dragged them back. No one hissed warnings. A woman scolded half-heartedly, smiling as she did.

  Lysara watched from the shade of a grain shed, heart thudding. In Black Hollow, children were kept close or not at all.

  A pair of guards in Thalorien colors lounged near the gate, spears resting easy. Merchants argued over spice weights. A dog slept belly-up in the sun.

  Curiosity tugged. Caution held.

  By the seventh week on the road, she had learned the rhythm of safety: move when others moved, listen more than speak, leave before questions turned sharp. She traded herbs for few coins and bread, slept where walls met corners, and kept her dagger close.

  The city rose on the horizon at dusk—real stone, layered streets, banners snapping in the wind. This was Brimward, the kingdom’s outer reach—where trade entered, and strangers were measured.

  Lysara slowed and pulled her hood lower.

  People moved differently here. Purposeful. Unhurried. Wealth walked openly—fine boots that never touched mud, cloaks woven tight and warm without being heavy. Conversation flowed without caution. Laughter rang and was answered.

  No one looked at her.

  That, somehow, was worse.

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  Her clothes marked her anyway. Homespun fabric repaired more than once. Dyes muted by age and travel. She kept to the edges, eyes low, counting stalls the way she once counted trees.

  A spice merchant glanced at her jars and wrinkled his nose. Another waved her past without breaking conversation. When she tried to speak, she was spoken over.

  No barter here.

  Only coin.

  Her fingers tightened around her satchel. In Black Hollow, value was measured in usefulness. Here, it was weighed, stamped, and denied without explanation.

  She turned away from the bright stalls and searched for signs painted in glass and brass—for someone who would know the worth of what she carried.

  An apothecary.

  She found one tucked between a glassblower and a cooper’s shop, its sign etched with careful script and a mortar worn smooth by decades of use. Before she reached for the door, Lysara slipped a folded note from her satchel, edges softened from being opened too many times. Names. Quantities. A narrow margin where coin totals had been written and crossed out again.

  She had arrived barely on schedule. There had been no time to gather what the Academy required—only to trade what she already had.

  The bell chimed when she stepped inside.

  The woman behind the counter did not look up.

  “What do you want,” she said without any welcome.

  “I have herbs,” Lysara said, setting her satchel down with deliberate care. “Dried properly. Fog Forest growth.”

  That earned a glance. Then a frown.

  The woman uncorked a jar, barely looked at it, then lifted her eyes — really looked at Lysara this time. The satchel. The stitching on her sleeves. The dirt that hadn’t quite come out of the hem.

  “So you say.”

  She set the jar down without recorking it and slid it back across the counter.

  “I don’t buy stories,” she said flatly.

  Lysara’s fingers closed around the glass.

  “Inner ring doesn’t touch Fog Forest stock,” a voice said lightly behind her.

  Lysara turned.

  “South spillway,” he added. “Second door past the tanner. They know more about plant origin.”

  Lysara paused and turned toward the helpful voice.

  “Thanks,”

  The boy stood half a step back from the exchange, hands loose at his sides, posture easy. He was close to her age—eighteen, nineteen maybe—with a face shaped by sun and wind rather than hardship. Dark hair fell into his eyes without care, and when he smiled, it looked practiced in friendliness.

  He straightened and met her gaze. Up close, his eyes were warm.

  “Try Old Mirella,” he said. “Apothecary on the east lane. She pretends to hate everyone equally. Pays fair.”

  He tilted his head. “You know what… I’ll show you.”

  “I’m Kayden,” he added. “You look like you walked a long way.”

  “I did.”

  “Thought so.” He gestured down the street. “Come on. Let’s get you paid.”

  She followed.