Reunion

The noise of the Capital arrived before the view: hammer blows, merchants’ cries, the drum of boots on cobblestone. Passing through the great iron gate, Asori and Blair were swallowed by a torrent of voices and smells.

The walls were imposing, towers pointing at the sky like motionless lances. Inside, the city layered itself: on one side, noble quarters with gleaming roofs, marble temples, and clean fountains; on the other, narrow streets where children ran barefoot, vendors hawked spices, and beggars stretched out a hand with the same gesture they used to greet the saints.

—Welcome to the Capital —Blair murmured, pulling her hood tighter over her white hair—. Here, even the air has a price.

The Sweet Kiss thrummed in Asori’s chest: she was tense, weighing every shadow. And then, as if that weren’t enough, Blair reached out and laced her fingers with his.

Asori blinked.
—What…?

—Couple —she whispered without looking at him, pretending to examine a fabric stall—. Less suspicious that way. People who walk alone or in groups draw eyes, but lovers are common—lots of honeymooners come to the Capital.

Asori swallowed, awkward and surprised.
—A warning first would’ve been nice.

—Smile —she said, flat—. Fiancés smile.

He obeyed, though the smile bent more toward sarcasm than sweetness. Blair noticed, sighed, and gave his hand a warning squeeze.

—If you blow this, I’ll burn your boots—and when we’re back at the castle, I’ll make sure you go three days without bread.

—How romantic —Asori muttered.

And they walked hand in hand, like two actors still learning their lines.

The central market boiled like a cauldron: fruit, spices, artisans, charlatans peddling fake amulets. Over the bustle rose the harsh voice of a soldier in Zeknier’s black armor.

—I said the tax is due today! —he roared, flipping a fruit stand. Apples rolled across the ground like a miniature escape.

An old man dropped to his knees, trying to gather what little remained. The soldier shoved him with his boot. The crowd watched in silence, swallowing fear.

Asori’s stomach knotted. He saw the old man and remembered the one from the village… remembered what Blair had said about not intervening. The wind whispered along his skin to take a step, but his feet rooted where they were.

A dry thunder cracked—not from the sky, but from the ground.

A fissure split open between the soldier and the elder, and from it rose a stocky young man with tousled chestnut hair and a smile too big to be innocent. He wore light armor studded with stones and rested a rock-forged sword on his shoulder.

—Arguing with an old man over fruit, really? —he asked in a deep, mocking voice—. That’s not bravery. That’s constipation.

The whole market let out a stifled murmur.

The soldier snarled, turning his blade toward him.
—And who the hell are you?

The young man stepped forward, smile even bigger.
—Someone who can’t stand sour men in armor. I’m Mikrom. And if you don’t leave the old man, I’ll give you a free souvenir in the pavement.

He raised the stone sword and slammed it into the cobbles. The earth shook hard; the fallen apples bounced as if in celebration.

The soldiers shuffled back, muttering. Their leader cursed and withdrew, dragging his pride.

Blair, forgetting her hood for a heartbeat, ran to him.
—Mikrom!

He turned, and the womanizing grin transformed into genuine surprise. His eyes glossed before he could stop it.

—Blair! —he said, wrapping her in a clumsy, crushing hug that nearly lifted her off the ground. Then, lower—. I thought you were…

—Dead —she finished, serious—. That’s what everyone thought.

The market buzz swelled. “The princess? Wasn’t she dead?” Mikrom reacted fast, raising a hand.

—Silence! —he commanded, with a voice that made the stones hum—. No one saw anything. No one heard anything. Anyone who talks makes an enemy of me.

The hush was immediate. Respect for Mikrom was obvious.

Asori watched, still with Blair’s fingers woven through his. He felt invisible, unnecessary, but also… relieved to let someone else carry that much presence.

Blair whispered in his ear:
—Easy. He’s trustworthy. He’s my cousin.

Asori arched a brow.
—Your cousin, or your luxury bodyguard?

Blair smiled for the first time in hours.
—Both.

Mikrom led them through alleys to a discreet tavern hidden behind a sign that read “The Cracked Pitcher.” Inside smelled of sour wine and fresh bread. A few people drank in silence, but Mikrom’s entrance drew respectful nods all around.

At a table in the back, the three sat. Mikrom ordered wine for himself and water for the “lovebirds.”

—So… —he said, eyes sparkling as he looked between Blair and Asori—. My cousin returns from the dead and brings a mountain boyfriend? Didn’t see that one coming.

Blair rapped her knuckles on the table, red.
—He’s not my boyfriend!

—You were holding hands just now —Mikrom teased, womanizing grin back in place—. Solid theater, I must say.

Asori folded his arms, dry.
—If being your cousin comes with that sense of humor, I’d almost rather be your enemy.

Mikrom laughed so loud a few patrons turned.
—I like this one! Sharp tongue.

Blair sighed, hiding her face in the hood.

When the joke ebbed, Mikrom lowered his voice.
—The tournament is more than a show. Zeknier’s using it to test the waters. His spies will be in the stands, taking notes on everything.

Blair’s brow tightened.
—And the prizes?

—Gold in obscene amounts. And second prize… —Mikrom leaned on his elbows—. A slave named Aisha.

Asori leaned forward, recalling what the merchant had already told them.
—Know anything else about her?

—Rumors. That she heals with a touch. That her chains shine with their own light in the dark. That someone like her can’t be ordinary.

Blair closed her eyes for a beat.
—Then she might be a bearer.

—Yes —Mikrom confirmed—. And if Zeknier has her under his thumb, we’re in trouble.

Silence fell over the table. Outside, the Capital’s racket went on as if this conversation didn’t exist.

Mikrom tossed back his wine and smiled again—womanizer even under strain.
—Still, not all tragedy. My cousin’s back, and she brought a partner who looks ready to nap through mass. That’s something.

Asori sighed.
—Great. Humor included.

Blair glanced at him sideways, and for the first time since entering the city, the Sweet Kiss felt light.

Night settled over the Capital. In the streets, bards rehearsed verses about heroes who didn’t yet know their parts. From the tavern window, the coliseum-in-the-making was visible: a monster of stone and wood growing day by day.

Blair leaned back against the table, looking at her cousin and Asori.
—The tournament will decide more than we imagine.

Mikrom smiled, roguish with a spark of seriousness.
—Then we can’t lose. Not in the arena, not in life.

Asori tightened his fists, feeling the weight of what was coming.
And so, between wine, water, and the banked coals burning in their chests, the new chapter of their journey began.