Page 49 of Marked By the Enemy
The little girl crept closer to the baker woman and held her sleeve.
I leaned forward. “What are they now?”
The old woman’s gaze dropped to her lap. Her fingers clenched tight in her shawl. “Born from the place where realms split—what some call the fissured one.”
Nessa Tidehook, the fisherwoman, stood slowly, joints popping. Her frame was wide and low-set, shaped by years of hauling nets and gutting catch on the river stone. A gray knot secured her hair. She squinted at the elder, one foot braced like the ground might shift.
“Fissured Realm?” Nessa muttered. “Ain’t ever heard of that in a fisher’s tide.”
"Fissured as in cracked,” said the elder. “Nothing to do with fish, Nessa.”
“What are those Bone Seats now, Astrid, Dear? Please tell us. What are they now? Fae or something else?” She shook her head, muttering again. “What are they now…”
Darian echoed her. “What is the Fissured Realm?”
Astrid closed her eyes. Her mouth pinched like the words tasted wrong. She shook her head. “Let’s skip that.”
Nessa dropped back onto the stone with a grunt, knees wide, elbows on them. “Well, I asked it plainly, didn’t I?” She picked at a scar along her forearm and gazed into the flames. “I remember my grandmother used to hum to water. She said it hummed back.”
The elder stirred the coals with a crooked stick. “You asked why we remember and why the bond marks us.”
I nodded.
“We’re all part fae blood here. Our ancestry carries this blend quietly, hidden in our marrow.”
Darian’s voice sharpened. “All of you?”
“And you, Prince Darian.”
“Ridiculous.” Darian slammed both fists into his thighs and stood. His voice had turned to ice, but his expression burned. “You don’t know anything.” He looked at Astrid like her words had stained something sacred.
I didn’t care how confused he was. I didn’t care how many memories the Bone Seat had tampered with. He still thought he was above us. Still spoke down like we were simple, superstitious folk who’d dragged him into something lesser.
A prince playing peasant. Spoiled, but still smug.
I turned my head and caught the blacksmith rising from the shadows across the circle. His arms were thick with work, forearms streaked with soot. His brown skin gleamed with sweat, black hair cropped tight.
His voice remained low and calm. “You speak to her like that again, and I’ll put you in the ground.”
Darian froze. His hand twitched near his belt, out of habit.
I stepped between them before it twisted further. “Enough. We’re not enemies here.”
The blacksmith’s eyes stayed locked on Darian. “He talks like we’re the enemy.”
I glanced at Darian, but his gaze didn’t fall on me. And that silence told me everything. The thought of him shedding his clothes and stepping into the river beside me had seemed so enticing in my daydreams. I had pictured our skinbrushing as we drifted closer. But now I wished I had never let such a fantasy escape my mind.
“Only the oldest still carry the true half-blood line,” said one of the two elders, his voice worn. “The youngest came after the purges. Those of you marked now—you’re only part fae. And Prince Darian of the Moon Court here? He’s only part human. A sliver. But enough.”
“We hid,” said the dark-skinned elder with dreadlocks. “After that, we forgot. The Bone Seats made sure of that.” “But now, with these marks, we are remembering our true pasts.”
“My folks were told to breed it out,” Nessa Tidehook said, tugging her sleeve down over her marked wrist. “Came to me in a dream, they did—last night, clear as the tide. Said it lingers if the bond still remembers you and where you come from.”
I peered at a little boy beside me. “And the children?”
Astrid glanced at the boy’s mark, glowing faintly. “It listens to them because it knows what they came from.”
The baker nodded slowly. “My cousin used to draw three circles on the dough before it rose. Always three. Said her mother taught her. Said it helped the bread hold its shape.”
