Page 43 of Spark of the Everflame

“Diem... whatever it is, I would never judge you.”

I swallowed. He knew me too well. “The red powder I take—have you ever seen it in any of your deliveries?”

“The flameroot?” I nodded, and his eyebrows lifted. “Is this about what happened last night?”

“No.” He gave me a look, and I sighed. “Maybe. I ran out of it, and without my mother, I don’t know how to get more.”

He rolled his eyes, though the slight curl of his mouth told me it was more playful than annoyed. “The wolf last night was real, D. You aren’t having delusions again, I promise.”

“I’d feel better if I knew how to get more. Just in case.”

He paused for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, eyes glazing in thought. “I haven’t ever seen it myself, but I can ask around to some of the other couriers, they may have—”

“No!” I cried out quickly. A handful of patrons glanced at me in alarm.

If word got to the wrong person that Henri knew about the flameroot—worse, that he was trying to obtain some...

I pulled my hand away from his and tucked it into my lap. “There’s no need for that. I’m sure the recipe is in my mother’s records. Forget I said anything.”

I grabbed my utensils and dug into the plate of food in front of me, stuffing my mouth so I couldn’t say more. I might as well have been chewing on soil for all I tasted it, panic having dulled every sense other than the drumbeat of my heart in my ears.

Henri frowned. “Diem, what’s going on?”

The Old Gods must have been looking out for me, because I was spared from responding by the arrival of a swaggering, thick-bearded man. His lean body cast a shadow on our plates as he sauntered up to our table.

“I heard Henri Albanon was wandering around town with a gorgeous woman, but I was so sure it was a dirty lie that I bet my cutlass on it. Looks like I’m about to be one blade poorer.”

Henri snorted as he gripped the man’s forearm in greeting. “Good to see you, Brecke. I would pretend to be insulted, but I can’t believe she’s willing to be seen with me, either.”

“That makes three of us,” I teased.

Brecke grinned. “And a fiery one, too. Are all Lumnos women like her? Maybe I’m in the wrong realm.”

Henri slid an arm around my waist and tucked me possessively into his side. “I assure you, there’s not another woman like this in all of Emarion.” He winked at me, his smile radiant with affection, and my heart stumbled. “Brecke, this is Diem Bellator. Diem, meet Brecke Holdern.”

The man appeared to be deep into his third decade, and despite the faint web of creases at his eyes and mouth, the brightness of his joy brought a youthful charm. His dark hair was closely cropped in the usual military style, and he wore a tunic embroidered with a rounded temple surrounded by a nine-leaved laurel wreath, part of the standard-issue Emarion Army uniform. Though the fabric’s brown color marked him as a mortal tradesman, his arms and legs were trim and cut with muscles, and his skin was littered with scars—the body of a soldier.

I offered a hand in greeting, and his amusement faltered as he took me in. He grabbed my forearm and roughly pulled me closer, leaning his face to my own. “Your eyes. They’re...”

My smile vanished. “Grey.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” His eyes—chestnut, with a touch of gold—narrowed. “Even the Descended don’t have those.”

“Childhood illness,” I said bluntly, tugging my arm from his grasp.

He tilted his head as he looked me over head to toe, studying me more closely.

“If you don’t believe me,” I said coolly, bristling at the scrutiny, “you’re welcome to take that cutlass you mentioned and see if my skin is as tough to pierce as a Descended’s.” I thumbed the weapon at my hip. “Though I can’t promise you won’t lose a limb in the process.”

He gave a wicked grin. He crossed his arms, eyes lighting up at the challenge. “A Bellator, indeed.”

My chin lifted in pride. I may not have been a Bellator by birth, but I took upholding my father’s venerated name as a sacred duty.

Henri, visibly uneasy at the whole exchange, cleared his throat. He motioned for Brecke to pull up a chair, and the two men soon fell into a lively chat about mutual friends whose names I didn’t recognize. I let my mind wander as I focused on my dinner, though I marked how Brecke shot me glances every time Henri looked away.

Eventually the men’s conversation slowed, and Brecke turned to me directly. “Andrei is your father, then?” I nodded, and his expression smoothed, as if he’d solved some great mystery. “And Auralie is your mother.”

“You know my mother?” That was unexpected—though deeply respected among the healers’ circles, she was relatively unknown otherwise. I motioned to his tradesman tunic. “Are you a healer?”

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