THE MAN IN THE MARKET

THE MAN IN THE MARKET
Tessa's Point of View

The road to Mistefell was longer than I’d imagined—and far less romantic than the stories made it out to be.

Dust clung to my ankles. My stomach grumbled in a rhythm I could almost sing to. Ares walked beside me in brooding silence, his eyes scanning every alleyway and passing merchant as if we were still being hunted.

Maybe we were.

We’d been walking for what felt like weeks, surviving on scraps, stolen bread, and luck. The little money we had left had gone to a rickety old cart ride, which dropped us off two towns shy of the kingdom’s border. Since then, it was just our feet and Ares’s uncanny knack for stealing apples without ever getting caught.

“I can’t believe you just walked past that guard and yanked the bread,” I whispered to him yesterday. “Like, full eye contact and everything.”

He only shrugged. “He was looking at your neckline, not my hands.”

I punched his shoulder, but secretly… I was impressed.

Ares could steal. But I could swindle. That’s how we made it through. A few lies here, a charming smile there. Once, I pretended to be a merchant’s long-lost daughter. Got free lunch, a shawl, and ten copper coins before Ares dragged me out by the wrist.

We made a good team.

But by the time we arrived in the town nestled just before the green hills of Mistefell, we were down to one crust of bread and my patience.

We passed through a crowded gate, surrounded by singing children and flocks of pigeons. Banners were hung over the main square, fluttering in shades of emerald and silver. Some kind of festival, maybe? The town square pulsed with life—drummers played fast beats, women tossed petals, and men with long mustaches handed out sweets to squealing kids.

For a moment, I smiled. A real, honest smile.

Ares didn’t.

He kept scanning the rooftops like he expected an arrow to fly from them.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He nodded once, but something in his jaw tightened. “It’s Mistefell. My mother was from here. That’s all.”

I blinked. “You never said you had family.”

He glanced at me, his eyes briefly softer. “I didn’t. I only had her. Until she left me.”

“Oh…” My heart dropped a little. The thought of little Ares wandering alone in Astaria’s cruel streets made my throat tighten. “I’m sorry.”

He looked away. “What about you? Got family left?”

I hesitated. “Not anymore. My parents… they were murdered. Our coven was hunted by a tyrant king from a distant land. I don’t know who he was. Jeremiah and I fled.”

Ares’s brow furrowed. “The man I… killed, the one who came after you—was he one of them?”

I nodded slowly. “One of the last. Jeremiah protected me all these years. But now…” My voice caught. “Now it’s just me.”

He didn’t speak. He just slowed his step and let our shoulders brush as we walked.

The quiet between us wasn’t heavy. It felt like shared understanding.

But soon, hunger outweighed emotions.

I spotted a row of vendors lining the cobbled street—stalls filled with honeyed fruits, golden buns, and smoked meat. My mouth watered.

I tugged at Ares’s sleeve. “Let me try this one. I’ll be quick.”

“Tessa…” he warned, his eyes darting to a man in elegant robes watching us from the distance.

“I’m not five,” I said, flashing a grin. “Watch and learn.”

He sighed. “Fine. But if you get caught—”

“I won’t.”

I slipped into the crowd, moving like I used to in the alleys of Lorian—a shadow in silk, a whisper in wind. My eyes locked onto a man dressed far too richly for a market stall. He stood alone, fingers gliding over a leather-bound book, his gaze lost in the motion of the square.

Perfect mark.

He wore a cloak of forest green and rings of obsidian on his fingers. A pouch dangled from his belt. Probably heavy with coin.

I brushed past him, fingers reaching—

He caught my wrist.

My breath hitched.

Before I could even blink, he spun me toward him with terrifying ease.

I stared into his face—sharp jawline, cold grey eyes, a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.

“Well,” he said, his voice smooth, almost amused. “You’re brave. Or very foolish.”

I tried to pull away. His grip was firm, not painful—but absolute. Like a wall of stone disguised in silk.

“Let me go!” I hissed, glancing over my shoulder. Ares hadn’t noticed yet. I was still half-buried in the crowd.

“Do you know what the punishment is for stealing from a royal in Mistefell?” the man asked, lowering his voice so only I could hear.

Royal?

My stomach dropped. “I didn’t know—”

“No, you didn’t,” he cut in, tilting his head as if studying a wild animal. “Still, ignorance rarely saves anyone.”

I was about to scream for Ares when I felt the crowd split behind me. I didn’t even turn—I just knew.

Ares was there.

His growl was low, not animalistic—but it carried weight, like a storm grumbling from the mountains.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he smiled.

“Ah,” he said without turning. “There you are.”

He released my wrist and stepped back just as Ares pushed between us.

“Touch her again,” Ares said, his voice laced with warning, “and I’ll rip your hand off.”

The man raised his palms, feigning innocence. “I didn’t hurt her.”

“You were about to,” Ares snapped.

There was a beat of silence between them. Tension so thick it could choke the whole square.

Then the man’s eyes narrowed—not at me, but at Ares.

“I didn’t believe the rumors,” he said slowly, “but now… I see it.”

Ares stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

The man stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Ares.”

My breath caught.

He knew his name.

I looked between them, confused.

Ares’s hand hovered over his blade.

But the man only smiled—cryptic, confident—and added one final line:

“It’s been a long time.”