The Prophecy of Dreams

Chapter Four

"AND HOW EXACLY did you manage to get out?" Circe questions as we get on line.

"Don't look at me, it was my father's idea!" I laugh, holding my hands up defensively as I take in the vibrant assortment of pickled vegetables and meats at the stall.

The air is alive with the scent of vinegar and spices, making my stomach growl in anticipation. I eagerly open my pouch for coins, beginning my count before it's even our turn.

Circe grabs a wooden skewer piled high with pickled olives, Jovanna chooses pickled cherry red tomatoes, and I excitedly ask for a salted pickle. I make a mental note to come back to get salted pecans for my father, and Jasmine Pearl tea for Great Aunt Elora.

The vendor, a plump man with rosy cheeks and a warm smile, hands us our choices with a wink.

It's everything I've been waiting for. The crisp crunch paired perfectly with briny saltiness makes my lips pucker in satisfaction. I moan into every bite. After Storm Rites, Circe and Jovanna always stop by my cottage to greet me, and present any treats they believe I'll enjoy as I usually wouldn't be able to get them myself. It's a kind gesture that proves how well they know me, but it's bittersweet, bringing me gifts from somewhere I've always longed to go. But today? I'm in the village myself for Storm Rites. The food is fresh and the perfect temperature.

We trade amongst each other. The olives are particularly good, and I relish in the burst of tangy flavor that fills my mouth.

We meander through the market, stopping at various stalls to sample. The vendors greet us warmly, their faces familiar, many of whom offer special treats for my first real Storm Rites, and for Jovanna's birthday.

We sample salted fish that pop with flavor, vegetables soaked in brine, and tart bites that make our eyes water. Pastries filled with honeyed figs and stuffed grape leaves. I savor each mouthful, each laugh, each shared glance with my friends. This may be the only Storm Rites I celebrate with them.

"Try this," Circe urges, thrusting a piece of seaweed soap we've been gifted into my hand, its scent fresh and oceanic.

"Smells like freedom," I joke, tucking it into my sack.

"Or rebellion," Jovanna winks, twirling an iron ring around her finger.

"Gods, I love Storm Rites," Circe tosses an olive in the air before catching it in her mouth.

"We should make this a weekly tradition," Jovanna suggests, her eyes dancing with excitement.

"Easy for you to say when you can actually celebrate," I point out.

"Maybe once you go back, Elora will see that everything turned out fine and you can come celebrate again in the future," Circe says.

"I'll wish for it when we toss coins in the fountain later, I heard they're more likely to come true on Storm Rites," I say.

"Absolutely true!" Jovanna proclaims. "A seagull stole my favorite ribbon earlier, so I wished for it back, and look!" She twirls to show she's regained the ribbon.

"It's completely fake," Circe frowns. "Don't let her get to you too. She's already convinced me to give up a coin for my wish and it still hasn't come true."

"That's because you wished for something unreasonable." Jovanna huffs, hands going to her hips.

"Isadora lowering her asking price for the spear tip I want is not any more unreasonable than you wishing for a bird to bring your ribbon back!" Circe retorts, crossing her arms in frustration.

"Yes, it is! That woman is stubborn as a mule." Jovanna rolls her eyes.

Isadora, a weapon trading merchant in the village, is known for rare items and exorbitant prices. She refuses to haggle with anyone, no matter how persuasive they are. Circe's been eyeing an obsidian spear tip Isadora put in her shop for days now, but every time she approaches Isadora about it, the merchant shakes her head and quotes an outrageous price.