Amy sat up in bed, the coarse woolen blanket slipping down her shoulders. It had taken hours for her mind to quiet down the night before, but exhaustion had eventually claimed her. She couldn't stop thinking about the strange boy in the corner of the shop—or the fleeting shadow she thought she had seen standing by the haystack in the dark.
She dressed quickly in her working dress, tying her apron around her waist, and padded quietly down the hall to the kitchen. The Fitzgeralds were never awake this early after a festival night. She prepared a small pot of porridge, swept the hearth, and set the table as fast as her hands could move.
She was reaching for the door latch when a sharp voice called out from the dark corridor.
"Where to?"
It was Mrs. Fitz, standing in the doorway of her bedroom, her hair wrapped in a night scarf.
"To work," Amy answered quietly. She didn't turn around, keeping her hand flat against the heavy wood of the front door.
"Why are you doing this to yourself, child?" Mrs. Fitz asked, her tone heavy with a mixture of irritation and exhaustion.
Amy didn't answer. She couldn't. She simply pulled open the door, stepping out into the cold morning air, hearing the long, tired sigh Mrs. Fitz let out before the bedroom door closed behind her.
Amy walked down the gravel path, pulling her cloak tight against the chill. Why was she doing what?
Trying to save myself? Trying to buy my own life? What is so wrong with that?
Even if the math was against her—even if she knew deep down that she couldn't raise enough coin in a single week to pay off the marriage debt—she still had to try. Giving up meant accepting a cage, and she refused to walk into it willingly until the very last second.
She tilted her head back, looking up at the sky. The clouds were soft, painted in gentle brushed streaks of orange and pale violet by the rising sun. They looked light, free, and completely unburdened by the earth below.
"Amy?" a voice called out behind her.
She flinched, her head jerking down instantly as she spun around on the gravel.
Standing a few paces behind her on the path was the boy from the shop. He was dressed in dark travel leather. There was a sword at his side.
She met his gaze, her breath catching in her throat. She took a few steps back
"Hello," he said softly.
She looked closer, she knew who it was
"Y-you're the boy from yesterday," she stuttered, her hand flying to her chest to calm her sudden, racing pulse.
"Cassian," he responded. He began walking toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, as if trying not to startle a skittish animal.
"What... what are you doing out here?" she asked, eyeing the blade at his side with wide eyes.
"Oh, just walking," he replied smoothly, offering a casual smile. "Mind if I walk with you?"
Amy stared at him for a beat before giving a faint nod.
They walked side by side down the dirt track. The silence between them was thick, almost uncomfortable. Amy kept her eyes glued to her worn shoes, her mind racing. Why is he here? Why is he talking to me? He carried himself with an intensity that frightened her, yet there was something fascinating about how entirely out of place he was in her mundane world.
"So," Cassian finally spoke up, breaking the quiet spell. "Where are you headed?"
"Work," she replied softly.
"Have you been working there long?"
"Not really."
"I see." He glanced down at her. "Do you live around here?"
Amy gave a brief nod, staring straight ahead. His intense gaze weighed on her, and it made her tongue feel heavy.
"What about you?" she managed to ask, desperately wanting to shift the pressure off herself.
"I stay in a rooming house, I guess," he said.
"You're not from here?"
"No," he responded flatly.
"Where are you from?"
"Norrath."
Amy stopped walking. She turned her head, raising her eyes to lock directly onto his. "The North?" she asked.
She didn't know much about it, just rumors and hearsay, but she knew it was quite the distance from Solmere.
"Yes," he responded, matching her pause.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice dropping. "All the way south, I mean?"
Cassian flashed her a sudden, brilliant smile. "Well, the sights here are beautiful."
Amy looked back down at the path as they resumed their pace.
"What is it like up there?" she asked softly.
"It's... rigid. Cold, sharp, and structured. If that makes any sense."
"Really? What color is it?"
The instant the question left her mouth, Amy clapped both hands over her lips. What color is it?
Cassian stopped, blinking down at her. "What?"
"Just... just ignore it," she mumbled frantically behind her hands, she wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole.
Cassian studied her for a moment, a faint, smirk breaking across his face. "Well... if I were to give it a single color, I'd say white."
"Oh."
A small pang of disappointment settled in her chest. White. Cold, empty, and barren. She had hoped he would describe a world of deep blues, silver frost, or vibrant starlight—something as grand and mythical like people described it in their stories.
Up ahead, the familiar timber roof of the shop came into view. Her time was up. She had to go back to scrubbing tables, taking orders, and counting coppers for a debt she couldn't pay. But as they stopped near the market square, Cassian turned to face her fully.
"Will you be working tomorrow?" he asked.