Amy slipped through the side entrance of the shop. It wasn't a busy day inside, but she had to make as many sales as possible before nightfall. She hurried into the cramped back changing room, tying her brown hair into a tight bun and knotting her apron securely around her waist.
Every coin counted. She finally convinced them to let her work, so now she had to bring home enough to convince the Fitzgeralds that she didn't need to be married off just yet. If she could prove she was useful, that she could bring in real money, maybe they would give her more time. She hoped they would. Prayed, even.
The man they had chosen for her had visited a week ago, and he was even worse than she had imagined. She had tried to be patient, tried to look past his coarse manners and his shallow comments, but it was impossible.
They shared nothing in common, and the thought of being bound to him made her stomach twist into knots.
She had one week left before he came back for her.
Taking a deep breath, Amy picked up her tray and walked out to the floor.
Outside, the noise of Ferendal washed over the shop walls—screams of excitement, heavy drums, and the continuous roar of the crowd.
It was the same every festival. The same people with the same simple tastes and bright, easy smiles.
She liked to watch them, the Fitzgeralds let her go sometimes. She would walk with the crowds dancing, laughing, completely impervious to the worries of the world even if for a single day. She couldn't do that today.
She picked up a wooden pad from the counter and made her way to the front tables.
Smile, greet, ask what they want.
It was a simple process, but she repeated it in her mind every single time. She couldn't risk making a mistake. Every satisfied customer meant a potential extra coin, and every coin brought her closer to keeping her freedom.
"Happy Ferendal! What would you like to eat, sir?" she asked her first table, smiling warmly and penning down the order before heading back to the kitchen to hand it to the cook.
As she stepped back into the dining room, she noticed a newcomer walk in. He looked about her age, but he carried himself with an odd, heavy stillness that stood out instantly against the festive chaos outside like a shadow stretched across a sunlit room.
He was completely alone. Free, she thought, watching him sink into a corner table.
She walked over to him, holding her tray under her arm.
"Happy Ferendal! Would you like anything to—?"
"No," he interrupted, his voice flat. He didn't even give her a glance, staring blankly ahead as if his mind were miles away.
She didn't take it personally. He just wasn't hungry. Up close, he looked exhausted—not physically, but burdened, like someone carrying a weight he didn't want to bear. Like me, she thought, offering him a gentle, unseen smile before stepping away to check on her other tables.
Outside, the drumming picked up a frantic, joyful pace. She glanced out the window, watching young men and women chase each other through the decorated alleyways. Some of them probably didn't even know what Ferendal was. They just loved the fact that they got to skip work, skip school, and pretend the world was easy for a few hours.
Watching them gave her a strange sort of hope, imagining all the places she would travel and the things she would see. But only if she didn't get married.
A hand rose near the corner of the room. It was the strange boy from before, waving her over.
She glided across the floor, tray in hand. "Yes, sir?"
"I've changed my mind. What do you have to drink?" he asked.
"Usually a lot," Amy responded with a polite nod, gesturing toward the bar setup. "But on a day like this, just beer."
"No water?"
Amy bowed her head slightly. "I can fetch a cup from the well behind the kitchen."
She hurried to the back, dipped a clean wooden cup into the cold well water, and returned to his table, placing it carefully before him.
"What is this festival about?" he asked, taking the cup from her.
"What?" Amy blinked, taken aback by the question. Everyone in the city knew the origins of Ferendal.
"I asked what these people are celebrating." He looked up now, his dark eyes locking straight into hers.
There was something unsettling about his gaze—sharp, intense, and far too focused. Completely out of place in a small shop, like a wolf sitting among sheep.
" Ferendal. It's the local tongue for dawn of iron."
"The beginning of the holy war of liberation. This day, some years back. According to history, the saints started their march to rid the world of demon spawns"
"Don't you believe in the saints?"
"What?" She faltered, thrown off balance again by his strange, probing questions.
"I'm just curious as to why you're not celebrating with the rest of them."
"Well… I have to work," she said, offering a faint, awkward smile. She couldn't very well explain that her entire future depended on the coins in her apron pocket.
"I see. It was nice meeting you, Miss…"
"A-Amy," she stuttered, stepping back half an inch.
Her cheeks flushed slightly. She felt flustered, completely unaccustomed to strangers asking for her name or maybe it was the unnerving intensity in the way he looked at her.
Most patrons just wanted their drinks poured quickly.
"Cassian," he said, his voice quiet.
"And I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again very soon."
Amy stood frozen as he took a sip of his water. He was odd, guarded, and entirely unpredictable. Yet, as she looked at him, she knew he meant what he said. About them seeing each other again.
It was a strange thing to be told by a stranger.
Stranger still that she wanted to believe it.
She walked away, telling herself it meant nothing. Besides, if she kept thinking about it, it wouldn't matter in a week. If she didn't make enough today.