Page 9 of A Match Made in Slumber

“Unless you want to wake Elian now, you’ll have to man the stall for him for the time being,” the herbalist said, squinting at me as though assessing whether a vanguard officer possessed the cognitive capacity to handle customers and currency. “It’s the first morning of the Great Midsummer Market. Believe me, the queues will be relentless, and the customers will be picky. If nobody is standing behind this counter when the chime rings, the crowd will tear this place apart looking for their stock.”

Secure the perimeter. Maintain the position. Protect the asset.

The commands clicked into place within my mind with ease. I settled on a simple strategy: treating the marketplace as an exposed outpost. The civilian buyers were the advancing force. And Elian? A high-value casualty currently compromised in the rear. I’d held attacks against screaming barbarian hordes with far fewer fortifications than a wooden display.

“Understood,” I said, rolling up the sleeves of my uniform. “Brief me on the logistics. I need to be familiar with the merchandise.”

For the next quarter of an hour, I watched Fern’s abridged demonstration on the arts of commerce and listened intently to the intel. Committing a vast catalogue of inventory details to memory came with the territory for a commanding officer who prided himself on remembering the name, rank and place of origin of every man serving in his battalion.

“Got that?” Fern asked, an amused glint in his eye as a massive copper chime began to echo across the marketplace, signalling the official opening of the daily trade.

I widened my stance behind the polished timber top and planted my boots on the cobblestones. “Rest assured, Herbalist Fern,” I replied, my eyes locking onto the first wave of customers turning the corner. “The position will hold.”

Things Get Out Of Hand

Timeline: Six hours after the opening of the Great Midsummer Market.

Elian

Iawoke from a dreamless nap to the foreign sensation of being warm, well-rested and nestled beneath a comforting weight. For a lazy, disoriented moment, my surroundings refused to click into focus. Golden sunlight filtered through the seams of the canvas stall, washing over my shoulders in a wave of gentle, prickling heat that made me want to melt back into the chair’s cushion.

Prying my eyes open, I squinted up at the small patch of sky visible through the roof flap. A flawless expanse of brilliant blue met my gaze. Not a cloud around. The sun sat pinned squarely at the apex of its celestial pedestal, radiating the unmistakable, blazing heat of high noon.

Noon.

Panic spiked through my veins like a splash of glacial water. I had slept through the opening morning of the Great Midsummer Market. What in the goddess’s name…? Why hadn’t Fern kicked me awake?

I scrambled to untangle myself from the plush, heavy folds of the midnight-blue fabric draped over my chest. I jolted upright, only to freeze as my fingers brushed the material. The rich silk and silver-threaded lining belonged to the very man I’d ripped across the planar veil—by accident, thank you very much—from wherever elves engaged in conflict over citadels, wrote in elaborate runic characters and glowered a lot. The memory of my cross-dimensional cock-up came flooding back in a dizzying rush.

Expecting a clusterfuck of disasters, I paused in a half-risen hover, my breath catching as two distinct sights registered.

First, tucked into the quiet corner of the storage area, lay a massive, curved sabre with a crimson pommel. It rested atop a bundle of hardened leather and steel plates, which, in turn, had been arranged on top of three crates of Fern’s famous enchanted pomegramons—the prized, yellow-skinned citrusy hybrid fruit known for their zesty, ruby-seeded pulp.

Second, and far more alarming, there was Commander Kill’em himself.

His wide back completely blocked the light of the curtained threshold, as he manned my display counter, holding the front against a relentless crowd of enthusiastic punters.

I gaped.

Kill’em running my retail booth with the ruthless efficiency of a conqueror. Barking gruff, monosyllabic instructions at the patrons and having the normally sprawling, unruly market queue organised into two perfectly straight, disciplined lines.

I couldn’t complain about my usual business; the matchsticks commanded an excellent reputation, always drawing wealthy locals and travellers from afar. If I wanted to, I could live comfortably only on what I earned during each Great Market for the remaining months until the next big event. Yet, I had never seen my establishment lively to this extent, nor provoking an uproar I could only describe as… mass hysteria.

As I scanned the crowd pressing at the counter, an irritating pattern emerged. The patrons—both men and women alike—displayed interest clearly extending far beyond elemental alchemy.

A pair of male nobles at the front of the queue stood all hot and bothered, twirling their hair, their eyes locked onto the span of Kill’em’s shoulders. Further back, two local weavers whispered behind their palms, giggling as they ogled his large, calloused hands, which were presently counting out currency.

“Goddess above,” one murmured loud enough to drift through the curtain, her cheeks flushed a bright pink. “You know what they say about big hands.”

“I didn’t know Elian had hired a Northern mercenary,” the other squealed. “I’d buy a box of plain gravel if he served it to me with that scowl.”

Tension locked my jaw. A sudden, irrational surge of territorial possessiveness flooded my chest. How dare they covet what is mine? flashed through my mind, instantly followed by: Have I completely lost my mind? I had no right to feel jealous over a man I had known for less than a day—even if we had shared intimate dreams. Even if he had blanketed me in his own cloak and… volunteered to defend my livelihood.

Pricking up my ears, I listened as Kill’em addressed the next customer, his voice calm, steady and utterly shameless.

“Four silver pieces for Frost-Fire,” Kill’em grunted, quoting an amount four times my standard asking price.

A gasp escaped me. Granted, I considered the Frost-Fire Match a brilliant invention of mine. Specifically designed for sweltering summer nights—it produced a crackling, beautifully ambient firelight that cast a refreshing chill rather than heat, allowing a cosy hearth without melting. True, it’d taken me a month to perfect the particular crystalline resin for this spell, but charging four silver pieces for it still constituted highway robbery.