Page 15 of Sanctuary and Spices
He glanced at me once, his golden eyes catching mine for the briefest moment. Something unspoken passed between us—an understanding, maybe, or a question neither of us was ready to answer. I looked away first, but the warmth lingered, curling low in my chest like the embers of a fire waiting to burn.
RONHAR
The market’s bins and baskets bumped against my legs as we made our way through the station’s corridors. The artificial morning cycle cast long shadows between the support struts, painting shifting patterns across the metal walls. I found myself watching the way Jani navigated the space—her movements fluid, efficient, as if the station had already started to adapt to her presence.
“That vendor with the crystalline mushrooms,” she said, shifting her load of supplies. “The way she handled them—I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Ulthari have specialized sensitivity to crystal resonance,” I said, adjusting my grip on the more delicate ingredients. “Makes them excellent judges of quality.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to buy from her? The restricted zones?”
My lips twitched despite myself. “Smart observation. But no. Their permits are legitimate. I just prefer working with vendors I know personally.”
“Like Mai?” She glanced at me, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “She certainly knew you well enough to tease.”
I grunted, not wanting to examine why that smile made my chest tighten. “Mai’s reliable. Good product, fair prices, doesn’t ask unnecessary questions.”
“Unlike me?”
“Your questions are...” I hesitated, searching for the right word. “Relevant.”
Her laugh caught me off guard—warm and genuine, nothing like the careful professionalism she’d shown in the market. It stirred something in me, a quiet pull I hadn’t felt in years. “That might be the nicest way anyone’s ever told me I’m nosy.”
“Not nosy. Observant,” I corrected.
The Flo-Lift hummed quietly as it dropped us at the café’s service entrance. Jani balanced three bags of produce with the practiced grace of someone used to navigating tight spaces. She stepped around equipment without breaking stride, her movements seamless.
“Mint needs replanting immediately,” I said, mentally cataloging the haul. “The crystal formations are unstable.”
“And these need prep,” she replied, shifting her load. “Soryn will want the dried mushrooms for tomorrow’s special.”
Her focus impressed me—practical, calm, already thinking ahead. But it was more than that. She moved as though this place, this rhythm, already belonged to her.
We reached the café’s service entrance just as a group of Krythari emerged from the main doors. Their chitin-like exoskeletons refracted the light into delicate rainbows that danced across the walls. I recognized Mai’s cousin among them, her faceted eyes bright with excitement.
“Perfect timing!” Soryn called from inside as we returned with the last of the supplies. His prosthetic arm whirred faintly as he waved us toward the café. “We were just discussing the festival.”
“Festival?” Jani set down her bags carefully, curiosity sparking in her tone.
“The annual Krythari Light Festival,” one of the organizers explained, their four hands weaving intricate gestures as they spoke. “A celebration of the connection between light and growth.”
Another voice piped up, high-pitched and full of enthusiasm: “It’s amazing! Last year, they had crystal formations that responded to emotional resonance, and before that there was this huge display of bioluminescent?—”
“Pix?” Jani blinked at the small figure bouncing near Soryn’s prep station. “How did you get here before us?”
“Oh! You two know each other?” Soryn’s scales rippled with faint amusement.
“We’re neighbors,” Jani said, her posture relaxing slightly.
I filed that information away, noting how Pix’s presence seemed to ease some of the tension in Jani’s shoulders. Interesting.
“As I was saying,” the Krythari organizer continued, “we would be honored to have the Wanderer’s Rest as a featured vendor this year. Especially with your new chef’s reputation for innovative flavor combinations.”
I saw Jani stiffen beside me. Her fingers twisted in her apron—when had she put that on? I remembered the news reports about her confrontation at the Crown. Too much pressure, too soon?
“The festival square is directly adjacent to your café,” another organizer added, their faceted eyes catching the light. “We’d like to incorporate your garden as part of the experience—a natural backdrop for the celebration.”
My markings flared faintly. “The garden isn’t just decorative. The plants are sensitive, and too much disruption could affect their growth patterns.”
