Sixthday. The Southern Colonies Market.
The market was loud at mid-morning.
Carts and stalls and bodies packed the narrow streets between the Merchant's Quarter and the Warrens. The smell was fried dough and old fish and the sharp green of cut herbs. Children ran between legs. Women argued over prices. Men sat on crates and watched the crowd with the eyes of people who'd been watching crowds their whole lives.
Lysander Vex walked through it alone.
He wore a coat the color of the sky after rain, cut well but not showy, the kind of coat a man wore when he wanted people to look at his face instead of his clothes. His face was worth looking at. Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, eyes the color of the river when the sun hit it right. His hair was dark, pulled back from his forehead, the ends curling against his collar. He moved like a man who'd been taught since birth to move through rooms full of people who wanted something from him. Easy. Open. Aware.
He stopped at a stall selling bread. The woman behind it was old, her hands dusted with flour, her face lined with years of heat and weight. She smiled when she saw him.
"Lysander. You're early."
"I'm always early, Mara. You just forget between visits."
She laughed. It was a good sound, rough and warm. "What do you need today?"
"Loaf for my mother. The one with the seeds on top. She says yours are the only ones worth eating."
"She's right." Mara wrapped a loaf in brown paper, tied it with string. "And for your sister?"
Lysander's smile flickered. Just for a moment. Just enough for someone watching closely to see. "Something sweet. The honey cakes, if you have them."
Mara looked at him. Her hands paused on the paper. "Seraphine is well?"
"She's well. She's just…" He stopped. His hands moved, a gesture that meant nothing and everything. "She's been quiet lately. She likes the honey cakes. They make her smile."
Mara added two honey cakes to the paper, wrapped them separate from the bread. "No charge for the cakes."
"Mara—"
"Go. Before I change my mind."
He laughed, took the package, and pressed a silver coin into her palm anyway. More than the bread and cakes were worth. More than she'd asked for.
She looked at the coin. "You're too generous."
"I'm not generous. I'm spoiled. There's a difference."
He moved through the crowd like water through stones. People parted for him, not because he expected it, but because he moved in a way that gave them room. He didn't push. He didn't hurry. He let the crowd flow around him and he flowed with it.
The flower seller was at the end of the row, her stall tucked between a spice merchant and a woman selling clay pots. She was young, maybe seventeen, with dirt under her nails and a face that had been pretty once before hunger thinned it.
She was crying.
Not loud. Not asking for attention. Just standing behind her stall with tears running down her face and her hands limp at her sides. The flowers around her were wilting. No one was buying.
Lysander stopped.
He didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't offer advice. He just stood there for a moment, letting her see him, letting her decide if she wanted to speak.
She didn't.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a handkerchief. White. Clean. He set it on the stall beside her hand.
"My mother says a clean handkerchief is the most useful thing a person can carry. I've never found a situation where she was wrong."
The girl looked at the handkerchief. At his face. At the coat that cost more than she'd make in a year.
"I don't have anything to sell you," she said. Her voice was rough. "The flowers are dead. They all died. The heat came early and they all just… died."
Lysander looked at the stall. The flowers were brown at the edges, their heads drooping, their stems brittle. A whole season's work, gone.
"I'm not here to buy," he said.
He picked up a flower from the back of the stall. Blue. Dried. The petals were crumbling, the color fading to grey, but the shape was still there. A cornflower, maybe. Or something like it.
He held it for a moment. Turned it in his fingers.
"This one," he said. "How much?"
The girl stared at him. "It's dead."
"I know."
"It's not worth anything. They're all dead. I was going to throw them out."
He set the flower down and pulled a silver coin from his pocket. Not the small ones he used for bread and cakes. A full silver. The kind that bought a week's food.
"For the flower," he said.
"That's too much. That's—you can't—"
"I can." He pressed the coin into her hand. "The flower isn't dead. It's just finished blooming. There's a difference."
He picked up the blue flower again. Tucked it into his coat pocket, beside the bread and the honey cakes.
The girl was still holding the coin. Still staring at his face.
He smiled. It was the kind of smile that didn't ask for anything back.
"It will be okay," he said. "Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it will be okay."
He walked away. The crowd closed behind him. The girl stood at her stall with a silver coin in her hand and a white handkerchief beside it, watching the space where he'd been.
The Vex estate rose behind its walls.
Lysander approached the side gate, the one the servants used, the one that opened onto the narrow streets of the Warrens. The guard on duty was the same man who'd been there for years, his face weathered, his eyes tired, his hands steady.
"Good morning, Elian."
The guard straightened. "My lord. You shouldn't be using this gate. Your father—"
"My father doesn't know I leave. Let's keep it that way." He smiled. "How's your daughter? The youngest one. She was sick last month."
Elian's face softened. "She's better. The fever broke. She's running around the house like nothing happened."
"Good." Lysander reached into his coat, past the bread and the cakes and the flower. He pulled out a small paper packet. "My mother's cook makes a honey tonic. For coughs. It's not medicine, but it tastes better than anything a healer gives you. Give it to her. Tell her it's from a friend."
Elian took the packet. His hands were shaking, just slightly. "My lord, I can't—"
"You can. You will. And you'll tell me next week how she's doing."
He walked through the gate. Elian stood in the doorway, watching him go, the packet held tight in his hand.
The gardens were quiet at this hour. The cooks were in the kitchen. The servants were in the halls. The family was still in their rooms, waking slowly, preparing for the day.
Lysander walked the path that led to his sister's tower. The stones were worn smooth, the edges rounded by generations of feet. The flowers along the path were fresh, watered this morning, their heads turned toward the sun.
He found Seraphine in her room, sitting at the window, looking out at the city below. She was eighteen, two years younger than him, with the same dark hair, the same eyes. Her face was thinner than it had been last year. The shadows under her eyes were deeper.
She didn't turn when he entered.
"You went out again."
"I went to the market."
"You're going to get caught. Father will—"
"Father will do what he always does. Be disappointed. Yell. Forgive me." He set the bread and the honey cakes on her table. "Mara sent her regards. She says you need to eat More."
Seraphine looked at the cakes. Her hands didn't move.
"I'm not hungry."
"You're never hungry anymore."
She turned from the window. Her face was pale, her eyes too bright, her mouth set in a line he knew too well.
"What's the point? What's the point of eating, of leaving the house, of pretending everything is fine when it's not? Marius is being groomed to take over. Father doesn't look at me. Mother looks at me like I'm already gone. And you—" Her voice cracked. "You go to the market and buy bread for old women and pretend it matters."
Lysander sat on the edge of her bed. He didn't touch her. Didn't reach for her. Just sat, close enough to be there, far enough to let her decide.
"It matters," he said.
"It doesn't. Nothing I do matters. Nothing any of us does matters. We're just… here. Waiting for Father to decide who we marry, where we live, what we become."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out the blue flower. Dried. Crumbling. The petals were falling off in his hand.
"I bought this from a girl in the market today. Her flowers all died. The heat came early and they just… died. She was crying when I got there. Standing behind her stall with nothing to sell and no one to buy."
He set the flower on the table beside the honey cakes.
"I told her it would be okay. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it would be okay."
Seraphine looked at the flower. At her brother's face. At the hands that had carried bread for an old woman and medicine for a guard's daughter and a dead flower for a girl who had nothing.
"You believe that?" she said. "That it will be okay?"
He smiled. It was the same smile he'd given the girl in the market. The one that didn't ask for anything back.
"I have to. If I don't, then what's the point?"
She picked up the flower. Held it in her palm. The petals were blue, still blue, even dried, even crumbling.
"It's dead," she said.
"It's finished blooming. There's a difference."
She looked at him. For a moment, just a moment, the shadows under her eyes seemed lighter.
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm your brother. It's the same thing."
She laughed. It was small, quiet, the kind of laugh that surprised her as much as it surprised him.
He stood. "Eat the cakes. They're honey. Your favorite."
She didn't promise she would. But she didn't say no.
He left the flower on her table and walked back through the garden, past the worn stones, past the fresh flowers, past the walls that kept his family in and everyone else out.
Evening. The Vex estate.
The family dined in the great hall.
Lysander sat at his father's right hand. Marius sat at his left. Their mother was at the head of the table, her face composed, her eyes moving between her sons, her husband, the servants who moved through the room with trays of food no one was eating.
The food was good. It was always good. Roasted meat, fresh bread, wine from the family's vineyards. Lysander ate because it was expected. Because not eating would raise questions. Because his mother was watching.
His father, Lord Vex, was a man carved from stone. His face was hard, his jaw square, his eyes the color of the walls that surrounded them. He didn't look at his sons when he spoke. He looked at the space between them.
"The wedding is in three days," he said. "Everything must be perfect. The guests are confirmed. The gifts are prepared. The Elite Squadron has accepted their invitation."
Lysander's fork paused over his plate. He didn't look up.
"The Elite Squadron," Marius said. "You invited the Elite Squadron."
"They are allies. They have been allies for generations. Their presence at the wedding will show the other families where power lies."
"The Shadow Sect is gone," Lysander said. He kept his voice even. "The Elite Squadron didn't destroy them. Someone else did. Someone we don't know. Someone who's still out there."
His father looked at him. For the first time, his eyes focused. "You have an opinion on this?"
Lysander set his fork down. "I have observations. The Shadow Sect was seven hundred years old. They survived wars, plagues, the Elite Squadron itself. And then someone burned them to the ground. That person is still out there. That person could be anyone. Could be anywhere. And we're inviting the people who've been hunting them into our home."
The silence at the table was heavy.
Lord Vex set down his wine glass. "The Elite Squadron is not our enemy. They are our protection. Without them, the other families would have taken what we have long ago."
"The other families are afraid of us. They don't need the Elite Squadron to keep them in line."
"Lysander." His mother's voice was soft, but it cut through the room. "Enough."
He looked at her. Her face was still composed, but her eyes were different. Worried. Not for the family. For him.
He looked down at his plate. "Forgive me. I spoke out of turn."
His father studied him for a long moment. Then he returned to his wine.
"The wedding will proceed. The guests will arrive. The Elite Squadron will be welcomed. That is the end of it."
Lysander said nothing.
Night. Seraphine's tower.
He found her at the window again, the blue flower still on the table, the honey cakes untouched.
"You didn't eat."
She didn't turn. "You fought with Father."
"I expressed an opinion. He disagreed."
"That's fighting, for Father."
He sat beside her. The window looked out over the city. Lights in the Warrens. Lights in the Spire. Lights in the streets where people were eating, drinking, living lives that had nothing to do with the Vex family.
"Three days," she said. "Then you'll be married. Then you'll leave."
He didn't answer.
"You love her," Seraphine said. "Elara. You love her."
"I do."
"Then why do you look like you're going to your own funeral?"
He was quiet for a long time. The lights below flickered. Somewhere, a door slammed. Someone laughed.
"Because I'm afraid," he said. "Not of Elara. Not of the wedding. I'm afraid that when I leave this house, I'll forget what it was like to be here. With you. With Mother. With all of it."
She reached for his hand. Her fingers were cold.
"You won't forget."
"How do you know?"
"Because you remember everyone." She looked at the blue flower on the table. "You remember a girl in the market who lost her mother three years ago. You remember a guard's daughter who was sick last month. You remember that I like honey cakes. You remember everything."
He held her hand. Didn't speak.
"Three days," she said. "Then you'll be married. And I'll be here. And we'll both be okay. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday."
He smiled. It was tired, but it was real.
"Someday," he said.
He left the flower on her table. The honey cakes untouched. The window open to the city below.
The next morning. The market.
The girl with the dead flowers was packing her stall when he arrived. The wilted stems were in a basket. The empty pots were stacked. The handkerchief he'd given her was folded on the counter, clean, waiting.
She looked up when he approached. Her face was still thin, her eyes still too bright. But she wasn't crying.
"You came back," she said.
"I came to buy flowers."
"There aren't any. They're all dead. I told you."
He looked at the basket. At the dried stems, the brown petals, the work of a season gone wrong.
"Then I'll buy the seeds. For next season."
She stared at him. "You don't want seeds. You're a Vex. You have gardens. You have people who plant things for you."
"I want to plant them myself."
"Why?"
He thought about it. About Seraphine at the window. About his father's cold eyes. About the wedding in three days and the life he was supposed to live after.
"Because I need something that grows," he said. "Something that doesn't care about names or walls or who my father is. Something that just… grows."
She reached under the stall and pulled out a small paper packet. Cornflower seeds. Blue, like the ones she'd lost.
"For you," she said.
"How much?"
"Nothing. You already paid."
He took the packet. Held it in his palm. The paper was rough, the seeds inside barely visible.
"It will be okay," she said. "The flowers. Next season. They'll grow."
He looked at her. At her thin face, her bright eyes, the handkerchief folded on the counter.
"Yes," he said. "They will."
He walked back through the market. The crowd parted for him. The morning light was gold. The packet of seeds was warm in his hand.
He thought about Seraphine. About Elara. About the wedding in three days and the life he was supposed to live after.
He thought about the flower he'd given the girl three years ago. The one she'd kept, dried, folded into her pocket. He didn't know she'd kept it. He didn't need to know. That wasn't why he'd given it.
He tucked the seeds into his coat and walked toward the Vex estate, toward the walls that held his family in, toward the sister who waited at the window.
Behind him, the market woke. The stalls opened. The voices rose. The girl with the dead flowers swept her stall clean and started again.
Suddenly a vague figure appeared. Far away from people's sight.
The figure watched Lysander . Then turned toward the alley where Haut was already watching.
"Lysander. Still don't see him." It whispered.
Even I have limits. This is the 1200th time I'm doing this, if he still succeeds even this time then you're at the fault Lysander. I have paid my favour now. I'm reversing the time one last time to a few hours back when you entered the market. If you still couldn't protect yourself, then you were destined for it.
With a slight swing of its hand, time went back a few hours.