Page 8 of A Match Made in Slumber

Austere? I never paid my chin much heed unless when shaving, but I focused on the more pressing matter. “My drawings?”

Fern let out a soft, knowing sigh. “I don’t know how Elian’s managed it, but it must have been some feat, since now you’re here.”

He bent down to reach beneath the display table, an appreciative hum escaping him at noticing the supply crates I’d reorganised into neat stacks. Bypassing those, he went for an undermount desk drawer and unearthed a leather-bound journal with frayed edges. He flipped it open and turned the pages towards me.

My breath hitched. Dozens of coal and pencil sketches covered the parchment—all of them capturing my own likeness in various states of focus and, indeed, undress. Some remained raw, unfinished charcoal silhouettes highlighting the breadth of my shoulders or the severe angle of my collarbones. Others stood complete, refined—capturing a mellow, tender gaze I had never suspected myself capable of exposing. A look that, it seemed, my subconscious had reserved solely for the man who’d drawn it.

He had drawn me. For weeks, perhaps months, while I had been pining for him in the barracks, he had been mapping my features onto paper.

“Those are private. But I’m showing them to you for one reason,” Fern said, his playful demeanour dropping into something steadfast and sober. “So that you understand you already belong here. You aren’t a hostile invader to Elian, commander. And he isn’t your captor. I believe you are a matched set.”

The statement chimed with some raw, unprocessed instinct buried deep in my chest. It struck a chord so precise, so invasive, that my immediate defence mechanisms flared into position to guard the breach.

“You appear to have a strong romantic disposition, Herbalist Fern,” I drawled.

Fern closed the journal with a soft snap, his hazel eyes boring into mine with unexpected iron. “Elian is… rare. Special. He’s like one of those delicate turquoise mountain orchids that require exacting, fastidious care to thrive. If you harbour any ill intentions towards him—although I admit I, honest to goddess, don’t believe you do—let me make one thing perfectly transparent. I’m not a violent man, but if you ever hurt him, I will slip a tincture of creeping nightshade and witch-root into your morning tea. It won’t kill you, but it will cause your skin to sprout venomous stinging nettles and turn your joints to stone for a fortnight. And it will hurt like a motherfucker. Do we understand one another?” The corners of his lips lifted in a pleasant smile.

Few had the nerve to risk getting up in my face like that. The attempt earned my respect. I appreciated the pre-emptive strike on his friend’s behalf—appealing to my honour while establishing a clear boundary. As for the notion of the fated match, well, that proved a bit harder to swallow.

Either way, the herbalist had brains and a backbone, and he spoke his mind. I took an instant liking to him.

“Completely.” I inclined my head. “I promise I mean Elian no harm.”

He must’ve sensed the sincerity in my words, because he nodded back as if we’d sealed a deal of sorts, settling the matter. An easy grin returned to his face.

A gust of wind brought a heavy scent of syrupy sweetness. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d encountered such a rich, flowery fragrance. It stood in stark contrast to the reality of the siege camp, where the air held nothing but damp canvas, rusted iron and woodsmoke. The richness of it hit me with a sharp pang, triggering a sudden, long-forgotten craving for the simple pleasures I’d starved myself of during the campaign.

“What is that scent?” I asked, my nose twitching.

Fern sniffed the air. “Candyfloss. And lavender sherbet.”

Right on cue, my stomach gave a loud rumble that rivalled the roar of a mortar. In that precise moment, a hollow, sucking sensation opened in my gut, as if my insides were collapsing in on themselves. Given that I’d been surviving on dried meat strips and willpower for the last twenty-four hours, my body had run out of fuel.

“Any chance there’s something edible that won’t result in nettles and petrification over there?” I asked, tilting my chin in the direction of his produce. “Something I might purchase from your establishment? I reached into the pocket of my uniform to locate my money pouch, only to realise, a curse running through my mind, I’d left it sitting on the folding table by my bunk in the command tent.

“Don’t fret, there’s no need.” Fern approached his counter, pressing a finger to his freckled nose as his gaze scanned his stock. He bypassed a few menacing-looking jars and chose a tall, wide glass cylinder brimming with a thick, sage-coloured emulsion. He poured a generous measure into a tall cup and handed it to me.

In response to the sceptical squint I offered the liquid, he chuckled. “Trust me. Drink it. It’s packed with restorative nutrients, and it stabilises the metabolic system after being exposed to magic and long, err, journeys. It will dull the edge of your appetite for now.” He rearranged something on the worksurface. “My little sister, Settyna, should be here in a moment. She comes to help for a bit of pocket money. Mostly she gossips with Elian and flirts with everyone, not to mention eats enough for two, but she’s a clever seller and minds the stall well. When she arrives, I’ll send her over to the Cloud Cake counter to get us some breakfast. Aisling makes the best baked goods you’ve ever tasted and I don’t care where you hailed from.”

“I like the sound of that. Cheers,” I said, tipping the cup back.

The texture offered a pleasant surprise. Smooth and filling, it slid down my throat, leaving a refreshing aftertaste of mint and toasted grains. I didn’t expect such good flavour from something that looked like a constipation remedy from a high-end apothecary.

Fern reached into a wicker basket and produced an elongated, curved fruit encased in a vibrant, sapphire-blue skin. He scored it with his thumbnail and offered it to me. This time I didn’t hesitate; having peeled back the rind, I took a large bite of the dense, creamy golden flesh within. Its mellow, honeyed creaminess elicited an involuntary, satisfied grunt from me.

Fern flashed his teeth, appeased by my unrefined appreciation of his botanical assets. But then his smile waned and he gave me a critical once-over.

“Keălhem, let me offer a suggestion. Why don’t you lose that needle? And the armour, too? It’s… way too conspicuous. I don’t know the whole story, but knowing Elian—” he let out a telling tsk “—I’d say it’s best to keep a low profile. I’m not entirely sure how legal this whole situation is.” A shadow of worry crossed his face. “The market will get busy soon. Real busy. No point in drawing any unwanted attention.”

While it felt odd to hear a stranger address me by my given name, skipping my military title, I figured things followed a different social protocol around here. I took more detailed stock of the expanding market crowd.

Indeed, my attire and hairstyle differed from the flowing, whimsical garments of the merchants around us. Adding to the equation the fact that I stood a full head taller than most, I might as well have been a beacon in the dark.

I unbuckled the leather rigging of my harness, removing the scabbard that housed my sabre. Fern stepped forwards to assist, his hands deft as he unlaced the heavy plates of my back and chest. We stowed my gear out of sight in a storage bay right behind Fern’s display table.

Stripped of my defensive panoply, I found myself in nothing but my uniform robes. The cut of the dark tunic still announced my martial background, but at least it didn’t scream run for your lives. This sudden weightlessness felt wrong—even jarring—making my skin prickle with unease. I’d spent so many years encased in heavy hide and steel that being without them now seemed akin to stepping onto the streets wearing only my undergarments.

However, brooding about my sudden change of status was out of the question in the presence of urgent practical tasks to perform—a notion Fern confirmed by offering a challenging smirk.