The familiar blue and green mosaics of the bathhouse caught her eye, and she hesitated. Solmaz’s face flashed in her mind, along with the warm offer of friendship. Perhaps she could stop by for a quick visit? Invite the woman for tea? The caravan was in Zohara only for a short time, but the thought of furthering a connection with the enigmatic Omega held appeal.
Tucking her purchases securely into her basket, she drifted toward an open square, where vendors were packing up their stalls and stray dogs nosed through discarded scraps. At one end stood the public message board, its surface layered with curling notices and faded proclamations. A small crowd clustered there, men murmuring among themselves, their heads angled toward a fresh posting.
A prickle of unease traced down Reiya’s spine.
Just a merchant’s tax notice, she told herself. A new list of travel restrictions. A trade announcement.
And yet, she stepped closer, drawn by the hush in the crowd.
Rising onto her toes, she peered over a man’s shoulder. The parchment was crisp, freshly tacked onto the board.
A pencil sketch of a young woman stared back at her, and her heart turned to ice.
The artist had been generous—delicate lines, softened features, almost romanticized. A heart-shaped face, full lips, and wide eyes framed by wavy light hair.
She barely took in the words before they burned into her vision.
Missing noblewoman. Caste: Omega. One hundred and fifty thousand solaris reward.
The blood drained from her fingers. Even as a princess with little grasp of living costs, she knew—one hundred and fifty thousand solaris wasn’t just wealth.
It was a staggering, life-alteringfortune.
A hush had settled over the crowd, followed by murmurs rippling outward.
“That’s an Omega’s bounty. Serious coin.”
“With that price, half of Zohara will be hunting her.”
A man chortled. “Who runs when they’re worth that much?”
The market, which only moments ago had felt almost familiar, tilted around her. Voices blurred, their edges sharp, prickling her nape.
Her heartbeat pounded, each pulse a drumbeat of panic against her ribs.
Had anyone looked at her yet? Had anyone noticed?
Reiya stepped back, slow, careful. The bottles in her basket clinked with every nervous move. Fingers trembling, she adjusted her hair, smoothing back every strand of black hair.
A group of men stood near the board, their gazes sharp. One of them—broad-shouldered, clad in travel-worn leather—gestured toward the sketch, speaking in low tones to the board keeper.
Mercenaries.
Reiya forced herself to turn and walk at a sedate pace.
Don’t run. Don’t draw attention.
She slipped into the throng, weaving through the stalls with measured steps, each one an effort to keep from breaking into a sprint. Her pulse hammered, the scents of dried citrus and dried chillies thick in the air, but she barely registered them, the urge to get away overrode any other sensations.
Then—a hand closed around her wrist.
She barely stopped herself from yanking free, a sharp gasp catching in her throat as she spun around.
Golden eyes met hers.
Kaelen.
His grip was firm, his expression unreadable.