Page 2 of The First Scar
The Shadowmarked weren't allowed to sell wares. Gods forbid they make a living.
Serenya didn't miss a beat. She adjusted her priestess robe with ceremonial grace, then pointed past the Enforcer at a crooked post plastered with old rebel flyers.
"That symbol's wrong," she said coolly. "They're faking it again."
The Enforcer's eyes followed. Just for a beat. Just long enough.
I caught the merchant's strap mid-fall, steadying him with a firm hand.
"Careful," I murmured, as his bone-white fingers closed around it, shaking.
The Enforcer was already behind us. A growl, then flesh hitting stone. Not us. Someone else. A life punished for proximity. For being in the wrong skin at the wrong time. I gritted my teeth, pulled my cloak tighter over my own mark, and kept up my stride.
Blood coated the street—thick as wax as we turned down the next alley. No Enforcers in sight now—just closed shutters and crooked laundry lines.
Then—
Cinnamon.
Warm and sweet and cloying, the scent wafting toward me... pure, unadulterated seduction.
My head snapped toward the scent like I'd been yanked by the braid—the thin razors woven through my hair nicking my neck with the motion. I barely noticed anymore.
And there it was—the rickety little cart that held a piece of heaven.
"No," Serenya said flatly behind me.
I swallowed the saliva that had already gathered and side-eyed her.
"I'm just looking."
I was not just looking.
I was already moving, fast and quiet and a little reckless. The world narrowed to that steam rising from the cart—sweet, creamy, impossible. Trays of honeyed promise shimmered in the heat, soft edges crisping to perfect brown. Butter sliding down...
"You're worse than a shadowmarked child," Serenya hissed, catching up in a rush of fabric and disapproval.
"That's slander," I countered.
My grin curled. "I'm better. I've got technique."
And I did. My dagger flashed—quick, clean, and wicked. Not toward a throat. Toward blazing glory. A single unguarded bun, steaming, delicious, and mine. I tossed the saintly baker a coin and pitched the bun between my teeth, letting it melt in all its splendor. A pleased hum vibrated through my entire body.
Maxx was there, of course. Arm slung around the baker's daughter, talking fast, laughing louder. He winked as I passed. I rolled my eyes. Not my flavor of madness. Not anymore. He always turned up where trouble simmered—too loud. Too pretty. Too curious to stay away.
I didn't slow. The bun was better company.
Still warm.
And definitely worth dying for.
We paused beneath a crumbling awning. A spout trickled from a chipped stone basin—just enough to refill our canteens.
I drained mine in a single pull.
Serenya huffed, and handed me hers while she knelt to refill mine.
I chugged it down without apology again, uncouth but satisfied. Beside me, her lips pressed together, fighting a smile.
