Chapter 17: Not Now

Seville's mornings came later than Norvic's. Not that the sun rose later—but the walls were tall, and the light had to climb over the pale yellow sandstone battlements before it could reach the city. By the time it finally found the second-floor window of the inn, it was soft and warm.

Vaste opened her eyes.

The ceiling was wooden, with a long crack running along one of the planks. She'd memorized its position—in any unfamiliar room, her first task was to locate the door and windows; her second was to memorize every mark on the ceiling. A crack could mean a leaking roof, or a structural weakness.

But today, the first thing she did was different.

She turned her head and glanced at the other bed. Glaze wasn't awake yet. White hair spread across the pillow, the blanket half-kicked off, revealing curled legs and one hand dangling over the edge of the bed. Her fingers were slightly bent, fingertips pointing toward the window—as if even in sleep, she was waiting for the morning light to catch her hand.

Vaste looked away. Then she realized what she'd just done—waking up, and the first thing she did wasn't checking the door or the windows, wasn't confirming her weapons' positions, wasn't listening for footsteps downstairs or cart wheels in the street. It was checking whether that strange girl was awake yet.

Her hand rested on the small knife she kept beside her pillow. A habit from her street years—a knife by the bed, blade outward, handle inward, within reach. It was still there. This morning, nothing had changed.

She sat up, set the knife on her knee, and began inspecting the blade. She'd wiped it last night—it didn't need another pass. But she did it anyway. Checking her weapons was the starting point of the day, the one ritual she'd never broken as an adventurer. The ritual was still there. There was just one thing before it now.

After a while, she went downstairs to wash up. When she returned, she carried a tray—black bread and oatmeal, included with the room. She set the tray on the table, walked to the bed, and tapped the headboard with her knuckle.

"Up."

Glaze opened her eyes, poked half her head out from under the blanket, her white hair a tangled mess. She looked at Vaste for a moment, then asked a question.

"What are we doing today?"

"Finishing up. We still have to sort through the things we bought yesterday."

---

After breakfast, Vaste laid out the things she'd brought back from the market on the table: two silver potion bottles, a bundle of whetstones. Then she pulled two more items from the larger bag—a scarf and a coat.

The scarf was green-striped, woolen, slightly rough to the touch but thick. The coat was a pale green, with wide yellow ruffled trim at the cuffs and hem, cotton fabric, not too heavy—right for autumn before the cold fully set in.

Glaze stood by the table, tilting her head at the two items. Then she looked at Vaste.

"Are these for me?"

"No."

"Then why are they next to my bag?"

Vaste didn't answer. She lined up the whetstones, keeping a two-finger gap between them and the potions.

"Are they yours?"

"No."

"Then who are they for?"

"...You."

"You said no just now. That was dumb."

Vaste crumpled the paper from the whetstones and tossed it into the small bamboo basket in the corner. She turned and walked to the window, her back to Glaze.

"Saw them on the road. They looked right."

Her tone was identical to when she gave out mission instructions. But the back of her neck was visible through the gap in her hair, exposed briefly in the morning light—the part she usually kept covered, the part she never showed anyone.

Glaze shook out the coat and ran her fingers along the wide ruffle at the cuff, then wrapped the scarf around her neck. It was too long—the ends hung straight down to her waist. The pale green coat over her pink undershirt looked surprisingly right.

"A bit big."

"Better than small."

They finished tidying the rest of the room. Vaste folded the empty bags from her pack, ready to return to the inn before checking out. Glaze opened and closed the bag of chestnuts, closed and opened it. She wore the little wool socks and leather boots today, the green stripes of the scarf swaying with her movements.

Vaste finished packing, slung the bag over her shoulder.

"Let's go. Checkout first."

---

Seville's main street in the morning was a different scene. The early market was still winding down—vegetable vendors stacking empty crates onto mules, a queue forming outside a bakery for lunch bread, apprentices in work aprons running out of an alley carrying freshly dyed cloth. Sunlight cut diagonally across the rooftops, splitting the street into light and shadow.

Checking out was simple—hand the key back to the innkeeper. He checked the room, returned the deposit.

"Sleep well?" He counted out the copper coins one by one on the counter.

"Fine." Vaste said.

"Good." The innkeeper looked up at Glaze, then back at Vaste. "Are you two sisters? Can't really tell—hair colors are way different."

Glaze tilted her head, about to answer—but Vaste had already pocketed the deposit.

She gave the innkeeper a glance, said nothing, and turned toward the door. Glaze followed—the green stripes of her scarf flashed briefly in the shadow of the doorframe, then she stepped out into the sunlight.

Vaste walked on the shadowed half of the street. Glaze walked beside her, stepping along the line between light and dark. Today, she wasn't behind Vaste—but not quite beside her either. About a step behind.

Vaste led Glaze through Seville for the entire day. No particular destination—she just walked, glanced at things, occasionally stepped into shops. She was mapping the city again—she'd been here before, but she was re-familiarizing herself.

At a smithy, she picked up a greatsword and tested its balance. The smith—a woman in her forties—chatted with her about steel grades and quenching while turning a rod in the forge fire.

At an apothecary, the shopkeeper talked about recent price hikes in alchemical materials from the north. Vaste didn't take the bait.

Throughout all of this, Glaze stood beside her—watching whether the smithy's tools were arranged neatly, watching which potion on the apothecary's shelf had the brightest color. She didn't interrupt. She didn't rush.

---

By evening, as the sky began to darken, Seville's night market lit up around the square with strings of paper lanterns in foreign patterns. Vaste led Glaze through a side alley at the market's edge, back to the inn's first floor.

The inn's restaurant was open. Peak dinner hour—about a dozen tables occupied, locals, merchants, adventurers. Vaste chose a table against the wall. Glaze sat across from her, unwrapped the scarf from her neck and laid it on her lap, then speared a piece of turnip with her fork and chewed slowly.

Vaste ordered a meat platter and distilled liquor. Glaze asked for beet stew. The food arrived steaming.

"Are we not taking jobs for a while?" Glaze asked, chewing her turnip.

"The steel escort paid enough to last us some time. No rush." Vaste cut the roasted meat into small pieces, her movements fluid.

"You said before we needed to earn more."

"That was before."

Glaze stole a piece of Vaste's meat with her fork and chewed it more slowly. She pointed at Vaste's plate with her fork.

"Aren't you eating?"

"You eat."

"You always eat after me."

"You're always hungry first."

It was true—at the inn, Glaze's stomach growled first. On the road, her steps slowed first. Vaste wasn't deliberately letting her eat first. She just didn't have a choice.

A voice came from beside them.

"Ladies, mind if I sit here?"

It was a young man, early twenties, in a dark blue coat, top two buttons undone, holding a half-empty mug of ale. He stood by their table, one hand braced against the corner, leaning slightly forward. Behind him, a few young people his age were watching, smirking.

Vaste glanced at him. Not a warning glance yet—just a glance. Then she went back to cutting her meat.

"No."

"Plenty of empty tables, and you pick this one?" Another voice chimed in—a middle-aged adventurer, sent over by the man's companions. "You got your eye on someone?"

The young man raised his mug toward Vaste, grinning. "No, no—I was just curious." His gaze swept between Vaste and Glaze once.

"What's your deal, then? Friends? Adventurer partners?"

Vaste's knife and fork didn't stop. She placed a piece of meat on Glaze's plate. "Eat first," she said, her tone no different from before. Then she took a sip of her drink.

"I'm not interested in people like you."

She didn't turn around. The young man stood for a beat, raised his mug in a mock salute, and turned back to his table. The middle-aged adventurer followed, clapping him on the shoulder with a remark that was probably teasing. The group laughed—but the sound was quickly swallowed by the restaurant noise.

Vaste set her glass down and continued cutting her meat. She looked up at Glaze.

Glaze was looking at her. Her fork was in her hand, a piece of beet speared on it, but it had been hovering there for a while, not moving toward her mouth.

"Vaste."

"Yeah."

"Are we partners?"

"Maybe."

Glaze tilted her head, like she was trying to solve a difficult equation. She finally put the beet into her mouth, chewed slowly, and set down her fork.

"Vaste." She said it again.

"Yeah."

"Is this how you traveled before?"

"Yeah."

"Alone?"

"Yeah."

Outside, the paper lanterns swayed gently in the night market crowd, casting orange patches of light across the cobblestones.

"What about now?"

Vaste's hand paused. Then she turned the glass in her fingers. She watched the liquid surface tremble, catching broken reflections of the lantern light, then downed it in one go.

"Not anymore."

She said it without looking at Glaze. Just set the glass down—a soft thud against the wood. Then she stood. Outside, the night market voices grew thicker. Orange light patches swayed across the stone—and fell across her shoulders. She walked toward the stairs. Glaze followed, at the same distance as this morning.