Chapter 28 Chapter 28
Anya’s POV
I stared at the ground, kicking at a pebble. The hope in Carla's eyes was painful to see because I couldn't share it.
"What if they're already dead?" I whispered, the fear coiling in my gut. "Or worse... what if they're alive, and they just really don't want to see me? There was a reason they left me, Carla."
I took a long drink of water, washing down the bitterness of the thought. "Let's just focus on surviving today, okay? We can't chase ghosts."
I looked around the bustling settlement. The sun was beginning to rise, and the market was coming alive. "Look," I said, analyzing the scene. "The market is chaotic. There are dozens of people buying, boats coming in... but I only count seven women working the stalls. They're completely overwhelmed."
An idea sparked. "We need a job. Why don't we offer to clean and sell the catch?"
Carla’s eyes lit up, the disappointment about my parents forgotten in the face of a new plan. "That's brilliant. Let's ask her."
She turned back to the old woman, who was busy flipping more fish on the brazier. "Excuse me, ma'am?" Carla asked, her voice polite but firm. "Are you looking for extra help? My friend and I... we're looking for work."
The old lady hesitated. She looked us up and down, eyeing our hands—which were clearly not used to hard labor—and our strange, mismatched clothes. She likely thought we were runaway nobles who would demand high wages she couldn't afford.
Carla saw the hesitation and leaned in, desperate. "Look, you don't have to pay us in silver or gold. We don't need money. Just give us work, a safe place to sleep, and a share of the fish to eat each day. That is enough for us."
The old woman’s weathered face broke into a wide, incredulous grin. Her suspicion vanished instantly.
"Truly?" she laughed, clapping her hands together. "Well, if that is all you ask... grab an apron, girls. I have plenty of work for you."
We followed the old woman to the back of the stall, wiping our hands on our skirts.
"My name is Anya," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
"And I'm Carla," my friend added, standing tall beside me.
The woman smiled, her face wrinkling warmly. "I'm Rowena. Welcome to the business, girls."
She handed us heavy iron tongs, thick aprons, and a massive jug of oil. She pointed to the line of sizzling black skillets. "It's simple. You just keep flipping the fish until they're golden brown and crispy. Once they're cooked, transfer them to these wooden bowls. The men coming off the boats will be starving, and they want their catch fresh and hot. Understood?"
"Understood!" Carla squealed, beaming with happiness.
The work was simple, yes, but looking at the mountain of raw fish waiting to be fried, it was also overwhelming.
We were going to reek of grease and fish guts by sundown. But as I looked at Carla, and then at the open sky, I realized it didn't matter.
We would smell like fish, but we would be free. We were incredibly lucky to have this work.
A horn blew from the harbor. A massive wooden trawler docked, its ropes creaking as it secured to the pier.
Dozens of fishermen swarmed off the deck, exhausted and famished. They made a beeline straight for Rowena’s stall, the scent of the frying food drawing them in like a spell.
Carla and I fell into a rhythm, flipping and frying as fast as we could.
Suddenly, a young man about our age stepped up to the front of the line. He had messy, windblown hair and a kind face. He didn't just bark an order; he paused, staring at us—two new faces in a small town—with genuine curiosity.
"One fried fish, please," he asked, his eyes lingering on me for a second longer than necessary.
I felt a small, shy smile tug at my lips. I used the tongs to place a steaming, golden fish onto his wooden plate.
"Here you go," I said softly.
He smiled back, a charming, crooked grin, and placed a silver coin on the counter.
The young man didn't walk away with his food. Instead, he leaned his hip against the wooden counter, taking a slow bite of the fish while his eyes studied us with an unnerving intelligence.
"So," he asked, his voice dropping to a casual, conversational volume that somehow felt loud over the sizzling oil. "Who are you girls running away from?"
I froze, the tongs slipping in my hand. I quickly looked away, pretending to focus on a particularly stubborn piece of fish.
Carla was faster. She stepped in front of me, her chin lifted defiantly. "We aren't runaways," she lied, her voice sharp. "We're workers. Now, if you want more fish, tell us. If not, move along. You're blocking the customers."
The man chuckled softly, shaking his head. He didn't look offended; he looked amused.
"Workers. Right."
He pointed a grease-stained finger directly at me. Or rather, at my chest.
"It's your clothes," he said, his eyes locking onto the dirty white fabric. "That silk? The specific embroidery on the hem? That comes from the master tailor of the Blackwater Pack."
My blood turned to ice—the Blackwater Pack. Alpha Kai's pack.
The man’s grin turned knowing. "I trade goods inland sometimes. I know quality when I see it. And I know that dress costs more than this entire fishing shack."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You're definitely not from here, are you?"