Page 14 of Sanctuary and Spices

“Occasionally,” Lyrian said smoothly, his metallic skin rippling with amusement.

Ronhar shrugged, his markings faintly glowing. “When the noodles are worth it.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “And now we feed the new chef, I suppose?”

“Extra spice?” The vendor’s tendrils wove complex patterns as they began preparing bowls.

“No—” Ronhar started.

“Yes,” I said. Both men turned to stare. “What? I like spicy food.”

The vendor cackled, adding an alarming amount of scarlet powder to my bowl. The noodles arrived steaming, the scent making my eyes water. I took a bite—and fire exploded acrossmy tongue, followed by smoky, savory layers of flavor. It was exquisite.

“This is amazing!” I gasped, reaching for another bite.

“Told you.” Lyrian’s perfect posture relaxed slightly as he accepted his own bowl.

Ronhar’s golden eyes watched me intently as I inhaled the noodles. “You really can handle the spice.”

“My grandmother would be ashamed if I couldn’t.” I wiped my streaming eyes. “She always said bland food was a sin.”

“Wise woman,” the vendor said, handing Ronhar his portion. “Now eat, before it gets cold!”

Ronhar’s voice dropped as he bantered with the vendor, the low timbre resonating in a way that sent an unexpected warmth curling through me. I focused intently on my noodles, hoping the spice-induced flush would hide my reaction.

For a moment, the tension between the three of us eased. Just three people enjoying ridiculously spicy noodles in a market full of wonders. Then:

“...another ship delayed on the Caraxis route...” “...something strange in the deep archives...”

Both men stiffened. Lyrian’s skin took on a mirror-bright sheen, and Ronhar’s markings flared faintly brighter. Lyrian set his empty bowl down with deliberate care, dabbing his mouth with a silk-edged cloth that seemed far too elegant for a casual market stroll. His golden eyes flicked to me for a moment, then back to Ronhar, his smile sharpening like a blade.

“You know,” Lyrian began, his tone light but edged with something deeper, “this is the third time I’ve seen you out in the market this cycle. Keeping the café in order is admirable, of course, but don’t you ever miss the field?”

Ronhar’s markings flared faintly, the green light pulsing in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “The field doesn’t miss me.”

“Ah, but I think it does,” Lyrian said, leaning forward slightly, his metallic skin catching the light in a way that made it impossible to ignore him. “Solace could use your...particularexpertise. You’ve been away long enough to forget how chaotic things have become. Or perhaps you’ve just been hiding behind your plants too long?”

I glanced between them, sensing the weight of whatever history lay unspoken beneath Lyrian’s teasing. Ronhar didn’t rise to the bait, his expression steady, but there was a tension in his shoulders I hadn’t seen before.

“Some of us choose to build something lasting,” Ronhar said finally, his tone calm but firm. “Not just chase after the next fight.”

Lyrian tilted his head, his smile widening as though Ronhar had proven some unspoken point. “The Wanderer’s Rest is lucky to have you, then. Though I’d argue thatlastingmight not mean what you think it does.”

His gaze flicked to me, sharp and assessing, before he rose with his usual liquid grace. “A pleasure, as always, Ronhar. Ms. Crayle.”

And just like that, he melted into the crowd, leaving a faint tension in his wake.

Ronhar stood still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the spot where Lyrian had disappeared. I wanted to ask what Lyrian had meant, what history they’d shared, but the rigid line of Ronhar’s jaw and the faint flare of his markings stopped me.

“Well,” I said instead, gathering the bags of supplies. “That was interesting.”

“That’s one word for it,” Ronhar muttered, his voice low. His shoulders relaxed slightly as he adjusted his grip on the bags. “We should head back.”

“After I try more of those mushrooms?”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Tomorrow. There’s already enough change happening today.”

The walk back was quieter, the market’s buzz fading into the background. Ronhar carried the bags effortlessly, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the lingering crowd. I found myself watching the way his markings pulsed like the quiet rhythm of something alive and steady.

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