Stories We Tell

The old baker stepped out from behind the stall, concern deepening the lines on his face. He offered a hand to Ellan, who lay slumped on the cobblestones.
“Come now, lad. Let me help you up.”

Ellan lifted a hand, palm out. “No. It’s fine. Just... give me a moment.”

He stayed seated, head bowed as dizziness spun at the edges of his vision. The cool stones beneath him felt steadier than his feet would have. Sweat clung to his brow. For a few heartbeats, the festival noise faded beneath the thunder of his pulse.

The guard ignored Ellan’s last jab—not from patience, but because replying would only make him look worse. He turned on his heel and strode across the plaza, the basket of pies cradled like a prize.

He pushed through the crowd toward a cluster of rough-looking sailors gathered near a merchant cart. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a sun-worn face—looked up as the guard approached.

“Captain,” the guard called.

Jory raised a brow. “That for us?”

The guard handed him the heavy baskets. “This, gentlemen, is Lady Aminthea’s grace. Accept it with gratitude.”

Jory eyed the bounty, then the guard. “Why this many?”

“Lady’s orders,” the guard said, smug. “She insisted.”

He pivoted sharply and made his way back toward the center of the plaza, where Lady Aminthea sat with Mira. They’d chosen a quieter bench, tucked just outside the bustle, listening to a bard perform beneath the golden glow of lanterns.

Children gathered at the bard’s feet. A few adults leaned in, soft smiles on their faces, caught by the cadence of his voice. Mira and Aminthea shared a spiced drink, relaxing for the first time all evening.

The bard straightened, sweeping his arms wide.

“This is no tale of gold or dragons—
But one of love, shattered like glass.
I saw it myself—by gods, I wept.
A husband, hollow-eyed, haunted by hope…
Wandering the docks for the one who once called him beloved.”

Aminthea blinked. “What?”

Mira tilted her head. “This promises to be... dramatic.”

The bard stepped forward, voice tightening:

“Night after night, he searched—
Starving, shivering, soaked to the bone.
And then—ah, fate!—he saw her.
Light in his eyes, he ran. Fell to his knees.
Pleading. Praying. Offering his heart.”

He paused, letting silence hang like a held breath.

“But her heart? Cold as northern stone.
She turned. She spat.
And when his words still clung to her robe like dying leaves—”

Snap.
He snapped his fingers sharply.

“She kicked him.
Kicked him!
Into the sea!”

Aminthea’s brow twitched. “What in the gods’ names—?”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. A few chuckles.
One old man muttered, “Poor soul...”
Another added, “She didn’t even flinch.”

The bard tilted his head, eyes gleaming.

“So ask yourselves, good folk—
Who is crueller?
The drunk who begs,
Or the noble who scorns him like dirt beneath her boot?”

Aminthea’s voice was tight. “What heartbroken? He’s just a drunk. And how is he married to me? Why am I the villain?”

Mira paused, then gave her praise with still face. “My lady, you’ve made quite the impression in such a short time.”

Aminthea stood. “Let’s leave. I’ve had enough of stories.”

Mira rose beside her. “Yes, my lady. It’s late.”

As they turned to go, the same guard approached, standing straighter as he reached them. “My lady, the sailors took to the pies eagerly. They requested more.”

Aminthea smoothed her sleeve. “Good work, Ren.”

He handed the remaining coins to Mira and stepped back.

With guards flanking them, the two women left the festival behind. Music and laughter faded as they walked into the quiet of the outer streets.

Back at the plaza, Ellan slowly pushed himself to his feet, light-headed and sore. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“To think,” he muttered, “I couldn’t even find one damn moon pie.”

He walked aimlessly, dragging his feet. Didn’t look back.

Then, from somewhere nearby:

“—and now, my friends, pies for everyone!”

He ignored it. Until he heard—

“...Ember Moon Pie...”

He froze. Turned.

The voice came again.
“Young man! You there! Come, come! We've got extras—come have a taste!”

Jory was waving him over, basket in hand.

Ellan didn’t speak. He just walked.

The sailors had formed a loose circle around Jory, who laughed as he handed out generous slices to all who asked. The mood was easy. Warm.

Jory handed Ellan a piece, grinning. “Eat, lad. That’s what festivals are for.”

Ellan, however, sat a little ways off. He didn’t hear a word. All his senses were fixed on the pie in his hands.

Ellan took a bite. At first, he felt disappointed—his fever dulled the flavors. But the warmth of the crust, the sweetness of spiced berries, lingered. He sat down just outside the circle, chewing slowly. His body still ached, but something in him eased.

Jory’s voice rose behind him.

“This one’s no tale—it’s truth.
A storm that swallowed the sea whole,
A ghost ship, and a phantom captain who can tame the sea...”

Ellan didn’t listen. 
Didn’t care about the gasps or the shouts of excitement from the crowd. 

He had his pie. That was enough.

Eyes closed, he savored the taste.

Far from the festival, Aminthea and Mira walked a quiet path beneath the trees, guards trailing behind them. The buzz of the celebration was long gone, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the chirp of night insects.

Something flickered in the shadows.

Two glowing eyes stared from a narrow alley, fixed and unblinking.

Aminthea slowed. Then stepped closer.

Under the soft glow of a lantern, the figure revealed itself—a kitten, barely more than a scrap of fur, wrapped in a bit of cloth. Its gaze was sharp. Too sharp.

She crouched slightly, studying it.

It stared back, like it was sizing her up.

Something in its gaze tugged at her memory. Not a kitten—but those piercing red eyes. That drunk.

She sighed. “We’re taking it.”

Mira stepped forward, frowning. "My lady, forgive me, but perhaps it’s not wise."

Aminthea murmured, "It won’t survive on its own

Ren moved to pick it up. The kitten hissed, swiping at him with tiny claws.

He flinched. “Feisty little thing.”

Still, he carefully scooped it up, wincing as it scratched and squirmed. Mira reached out, and Ren passed it to her.

Once in Mira’s arms, the kitten settled a little bit, still putting up a fight to escape. Ignoring the protest, she gently rubbed it, making it relax.

Aminthea watched it. Thought of the plaza. The bard. The mess of the day.

Then she looked up at the stars, scattered across a sea-dark sky.

Stars help me, I’ve had my fill of drunken fools like him.

At the same moment, Ellan sat alone at the edge of the square, licking the last of the pie from his fingers.

He looked up at the same starry sky.

No more self-important, senseless highborns like her, he thought, and closed his eyes against the sky.