Berith walked ahead, his footsteps weaving through the southern plaza like a man with no intention of turning back. If anyone in the crowd looked twice at him, they didn't dare approach.
Marcella followed a few paces behind. She had already made her choice, and it was to follow this man wherever he went.
Even when he tried so desperately to keep her out.
The market was just waking. Merchants called out in sing-song voices, arranging baskets of summer peaches, and strings of herbs under the rising sun.
Marcella trailed him, her eyes flicking to the side whenever he glanced back. She paused at a shopfront, pretending to admire a display of brass trinkets and incense sticks when he turned his head. She didn't want him to see that she was watching him, even though they both knew she was.
Berith exhaled, then turned his gaze forward again. Gods, she was infuriating. Like a ghost with too much will.
He kept walking.
She kept following.
