The midday sun poured through the colorful market tents, making bright patterns on the cobblestone path. The smell of roasted chestnuts, spices, and a bit of subtle magic filled the air. Not that Jules gave a single fig about the magic. She was on a mission, and her shopping list was as glamorous as a Monday morning: tomatoes, sage, and something that looked like a lemon. Nothing fancy, just survival supplies for the world's pickiest stew.
With her bag slung across one hip, Jules muttered curses under her breath, bouncing between three tomato vendors who all seemed to have graduated from the School of Ridiculous Claims. "Best in the kingdom!" crowed one. "Grown on royal soil!" boasted another. The third just winked and said, "You'll never taste better." Please. She'd heard less nonsense from her neighbor's parrot.
Jules let out a sigh so dramatic it could've won an award. Why was buying tomatoes suddenly the hardest thing she'd done all week?
That's when it happened, the unmistakable, skin-crawling prickle on the back of her neck. The kind that screamed: Someone is staring at you with judgemental eyebrows and attitude.
"You know," came a voice behind her, smooth as silk and twice as smug, "if you spend another fifteen minutes picking tomatoes, the sun's gonna set and civilization will collapse."
Jules closed her eyes and counted to three, then spun around, ready to unleash.
And there he was.
Tall, sharply dressed, and radiating the kind of self-importance you usually only see in crows or minor royalty. Arms crossed, eyebrow arched, he looked like he'd just stepped out of a book called 'How to Be Unbearably Superior in Three Easy Steps.'
"I beg your pardon?" Jules replied, her voice so sugary it could rot teeth.
"You've been loitering," he said, gesturing at the stand. "I can't get to the garlic without you starting World War III with the tomato guys."
Jules blinked. Once. Twice. "Sorry, do I know you, Mister Garlic Emergency?"
"Sylen," he said, tapping his chest like it was supposed to mean something. "No, you don't know me. But clearly, you need help buying vegetables."
Jules narrowed her eyes. "Oh, I get it. You're one of those guys who thinks sounding smart is the same as being smart."
Sylen shot back, "Better than being one of those people who argues with a tomato vendor like it's a high-stake political debate."
"Excuse you," Jules said, clutching a tomato like it was sacred, "these are for a stew. If I mess this up, my best friend will riot. I'm basically saving lives here."
"Oh no," Sylen deadpanned. "Hmm...a stew crisis . Sounds the alarms. Someone call the king."
Jules huffed. "You wouldn't understand. This is art, people like you eat bland eggs and call it 'minimalist cooking.' "
Sylen stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And you're the type who names her plants, aren't you?"
Jules gasped. "They have personalities, you emotionally empty baguette!"
Sylen's jaw dropped. "Did… did you just call me a baguette?"
"You heard me, Wonder Loaf."
They locked eyes, the air between them practically crackling with sass. The tomato vendor, sensing the incoming storm, quietly backed away from his own stall.
Passersby slowed down, drawn in by the drama. Somewhere, a kid whispered, "Mom, are they fighting or flirting?"
The mom just shook her head. "I don't think even they know."
Sylen tilted his head. "You know, for someone who sasses like a sword, you've got terrible taste in produce."
Jules shot back, "And for someone who looks like a moody magazine model, you talk way too much for free."
He opened his mouth, then shut it, lips pressed into a flat line. For the first time, Sylen actually looked… stung.
Jules gasped, clutching her chest in mock horror. "Oh no, did I bruise your precious ego? Should I get you a healing crystal? Maybe some almond milk?"
"I don't do almond milk," Sylen growled. "I'm not a hipster warlock."
"Obviously not. You're more like a grumpy forest prince who gives speeches about garlic."
Silence.
Another round of heated staring, neither willing to back down.
And then, as if choreographed, they both spun on their heels and stomped away from the stand, each muttering about the other's attitude, fashion sense, and questionable life choices.
Neither of them had a clue they'd be forced to sit at the same dinner table within the week.
Neither of them knew that Niah was the inconvenient thread tying them together.
And neither of them was remotely prepared for what was coming next.
* * *
Maeve's Play (Just for Fun)
Jules: I hate him. I hate him. I just—ugh! Who does he think he is, huh? Garlic Emergency? (Pacing back and forth, fuming.)
Sylen: (Strolling over, arms folded.) Hey there you Tomato, who are you calling Garlic Emergency? Watch your mouth. I'm the Great Sylen. If I really showed you what I'm capable of, you'd be on your knees begging for forgiveness.
Jules: (Spins around, eyes blazing.) First of all, I'm not a "Tomato." If anything, you're the one with tomatoes stuck on both eyes. And you know what? You're right, you're not a Garlic Emergency. Sorry for calling you that. (Heraing this , Sylen smirks and was about to start, but Jules cuts him off rudely.) You're a baguette. And there's no way I'm falling to my knees for you. And if I kicked your "sun-that-doesn't-rise" area, you'd be the one on the ground. (She points, grinning wickedly.)
Sylen: You—You! Who do you think you are? I will—
Author: Hey, guys! Everything good?
Jules & Sylen (in unison): NOOOO! (Jules yells, "I hate him!" Sylen shouts, "I hate her!")
Author: (Grinning mischievously.) Well, that's good to know. But don't worry guys, there's more to come. This is just the beginning. (Smirking and turning to leave, then glancing back at Jules.) How's my revenge, sweet Jules? Hope you're enjoying it. (Waving at her.)
Jules: What, So this was your revenge? Just wait—I'm going to make you pay! (She grabs a tomato and chases after the author, ready to launch her vegetable missile.)
Sylen: (Utterly baffled.) What revenge? How did I get dragged into this? All because of these catfights, I'm stuck in the middle. Poor me. (He sighs, dramatically wiping away an imaginary tear.)
* * *