Page 13 of Sanctuary and Spices
Fine, silky white hair fell just past his shoulders, framing aristocratic features that could have belonged to theCrown’smost entitled patrons.
Yet it was the battle scars that drew my attention. They weren’t flaws; they were statements, reminders that beneath the liquid-metal grace lay something lethal.
“And you haven’t introduced me to your charming companion.” His gaze flicked to me, his golden eyes narrowing slightly, as though he could see straight through me. “I’m Lyrian. A…co-worker of Ronhar’s.”
The Pel’ax vendor quietly backed away, antlers quivering. Other merchants found sudden interest in reorganizing their wares.
“Jani Crayle.” I stepped forward before Ronhar could stop me, instincts kicking in. I’d managed diplomatic disasters in my kitchen before. “New chef at the Wanderer’s Rest.”
“Ah yes, the infamous Crown incident.” Lyrian’s perfect posture never wavered. “Quite the dramatic entrance to our little corner of space.”
Heat crept up my neck. “News travels fast.”
“Everything travels fast here.” His metallic skin rippled. “Especially news about someone who stands up to an Aurenai ambassador. Most impressive.”
Ronhar’s markings flickered with what might have been amusement. “We have supplies to gather. Unless you’re here to actually help with inventory?”
“What a coincidence.” Lyrian’s movements were too smooth, too calculated. “I was just heading to check on some of our more... interesting vendors. Perhaps I could assist?”
I noticed Ronhar’s jaw tighten ever so slightly, but his voice remained calm. “That depends on whether you’re offering actual help or just reconnaissance.”
“Actually,” I cut in before whatever this was between them could escalate, “an extra perspective might be helpful. Since I’m still learning the market.”
“Excellent.” Lyrian gestured toward a side corridor. “Shall we begin with Mai’s spices? Unless you’ve already visited?”
“We have,” I said. “But I’d love to see your recommendations.”
Other shoppers gave us a wide berth as we moved through the market. A pair of heavily armored mercenaries shifted subtly out of Lyrian’s path, their weapons-grade crystals dimming in what might have been deference or warning. A Krythari merchant abandoned her haggling mid-sentence to nod her head as we passed. The reactions split clearly—cold fear for Lyrian’s perfectly controlled presence, wary recognition of Ronhar’s quieter authority.
The space between them crackled with old history, and I found myself wondering how two such different men could make hardened merchants equally nervous.
We stopped at a stall run by a towering Ulthari. Lyrian’s movements were fluid as he examined a crystalline container of dried mushrooms, his tone light but pointed. “The varieties from the lower levels of Danti are exceptional.”
“Those are restricted harvest zones,” Ronhar growled.
“But perfectly legal with the proper permits.” Lyrian turned to me, ignoring Ronhar’s glare. “These would add incredible depth to stocks, wouldn’t you agree?”
I studied the mushrooms, interest warring with wariness. “They would. The earthiness would balance spice blends beautifully.”
Ronhar crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. “Our current suppliers are sufficient.”
“Perhaps.” Lyrian handed the container to the vendor. “But why settle for sufficient?”
The tension between them was palpable, like the air before a storm. I stepped back, letting them navigate their unspoken rivalry while I cataloged the market around us: merchants arguing over storage methods, whispers about trade routes, and the faint hum of Leyline currents beneath it all. It felt alive in a way I hadn’t expected.
We moved through the market’s layers, each man steering us to different vendors. Ronhar favored established merchants with clear connections to their goods’ origins, while Lyrian led us to hidden stalls tucked into shadowed corners, offering rare and exotic ingredients I’d never seen before.
At one stall, a Jeth merchant with crystalline growths caught Lyrian’s eye. Her rasping voice made my skin prickle. “Lord Lyrian. I have that information you inquired about.”
Ronhar stiffened beside me.
“Perhaps,” Lyrian said smoothly, his gaze flicking to Ronhar, “we should discuss business another time.”
“Of course.” The merchant bowed, her crystalline growths throwing rainbows across the stall.
The market’s energy shifted as we approached a food stall tucked into the edge of the maze. A Syrithan vendor with elaborately braided sensory tendrils lit up at the sight of us. “Ah! My favorite critics! The usual for you both?”
I blinked, turning to Ronhar. “You eat here together?”
