Page 4 of Unseen Eye
However, the harmony has begun to fray. Lately, Alaric has grown more distant, as he rarely leaves the castle. The southern tribes, uneasy with Providence’s growing power, have become bolder, their skirmishes escalating into devastating raids that scar the once-thriving borderlands—just like the ones twenty-three years ago.
By the time I reach the village, the afternoon sun bathes the streets, causing heat to radiate off the charcoal gray stone. Flowers bloom in well-tended gardens, their vibrant colors contrasting with the lush greenery of vegetable patches. The scent of freshly baked bread wafts through the air, blending with the fresh, natural scent of the forest.
I walk past familiar landmarks: the blacksmith’s forge, where the clanging of metal rings in the air; the tailor, with its window displays full of the latest fashions, and the bustling marketplace, where vendors are setting up their stalls for tomorrow’s market.
Further down the street, the cobbler’s workshop emits a comforting scent of leather and polish. Old Mr. Ferris was always busy repairing boots and shoes, and pretty much anything that even thinks about being made of leather.
The village square buzzes with life. At its center stands an ancient pine tree, the namesake of the city, its sprawling branches casting a wide shadow. Pine cones have begun to form, a sure sign that fall is approaching. Nearby, a stone fountain trickles steadily. Across the square sits the local tavern, The Boar’s Head, famous for its hearty meals and boisterous evenings. The scent of roasting meat drifts through the open door, mingling with the lively chatter of patrons inside.
The bookstore, my destination, sits at the far edge of Pinebrook like a hidden treasure waiting to be discovered. Its ivy-covered stone walls and wide, welcoming doorway give it the charm of an old friend. The sign above the entrance, “Whitfield’s Books & Curiosities,” always makes me smile—mostly because of how many ‘curiosities’ Mr. Whitfield manages to hoard in there.
It all started a few years ago when Mr. Whitfield discovered my scribblings while I was browsing his shop. He’d glimpsed a few snippets of tales in my notebook and insisted on reading more, his curiosity almost as relentless as my reluctance to share. But finally, I gave him a few pages, and his reaction was so much more than I’d expected.
“You’ve got a real talent, Eva,” he’d said, his eyes twinkling with the kind of enthusiasm only reserved for rare first editions. “I’d love to sell these stories in the shop. People would be thrilled to read them. Oh, and while you’re at it, how about you come help me out too? I could use an assistant who doesn’t file the cookbooks under ‘myths and legends.’”
The bookstore was never meant to be a career—just a job to tide me over until something bigger came along. Yet somehow, it had turned into my second home, a quirky refuge filled with mismatched shelves and a constant stream of people searching for something they couldn’t quite name. Then it became the dream—the place where sharing stories and losing myself in them every day felt like more than enough.
At first, the thought of strangers reading my stories made me want to dive headfirst into the nearest fountain. But as the stories sold, and customers asked for more, I began to feel something unexpected—a sense of purpose.
Any other time, I feel like such an outsider. My strange purple eyes and being an orphan always setting me apart. My dreams only add to the sense that I don’t quite belong here. But here, in Mr. Whitfield’s shop, among the books and the scents of leather and parchment, there’s a rare comfort—something that feels like home.
The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, the familiar scent of old parchment and ink wrapping around me like a warm blanket. This place is paradise. The tall shelves are stuffed with books, from ancient, leather-bound tomes to the latest novels. Sunlight streams through the windows, bathing the cozy reading nooks in a golden glow. If paradise exists, it probably looks a lot like this.
Mr. Whitfield looks up from behind the counter, his bespectacled eyes lighting up with a warm smile. “Good afternoon, Eva!”
I grin and hold up my manuscript. “I’ve finished the story about Eldorin. Thought I’d get here early before my shift.”
His eyes twinkle with excitement as he takes the manuscript from me. “Ah, Eldorin! I’ve been eagerly waiting for this one. You always manage to bring such an exciting twist to these beloved tales.”
I blush a little. “I hope you like it. This one’s a personal favorite.”
He nods enthusiastically. “I’m sure I will. You have a gift. I will start running it through the press soon. Now, go stow your things—we’ve got a busy day ahead.”
With a grin, I slip into the back room to stash my bag before rejoining him at the counter.
“Can you help me with these new arrivals?” Mr. Whitfield asks, already eyeing a stack of books that seem to be reproducing when we aren’t looking.
“Of course,” I reply, diving in to help sort through the latest batch. We arrange them on the shelves—carefully this time, no cookbooks in the mythology section—just as the bell above the door jingles again.
I glance up to see Mrs. Elwyn, the village tailor, entering with her usual warm smile. She heads straight for the shelves of historical novels, her sharp eye already scanning for her next read.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Elwyn,” I greet her. “Looking for something specific today?”
“Good morning,” she replies, still peering at the titles. “I’m in the mood for a mystery. Any good recommendations?”
I guide her to the section full of them, pulling a few favorites off the shelf. “This one’s a page-turner,” I say, handing her a well-worn copy. “And if you like that, this one’s got twists that’ll keep you guessing until the last line.”
Mrs. Elwyn accepts the books with a grateful nod. “Thank you, dear. You always know exactly what I need.”
I shrug, trying not to look too smug. “It’s a gift.”
The morning flows with its usual rhythm, customers coming and going in a steady stream.
“Eva,” Mr. Whitfield says suddenly, his tone a bit more serious than usual. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
I glance up from the counter. “What is it?”
He pauses, looking as though he’s weighing his words carefully. “I’ve been thinking... it might be time for me to start stepping back a little. Let you take on more of the day-to-day responsibilities.”
