The Essence Flow

Chapter 98: Silk, Lies, and Watching Eyes

The days before the ball blurred into a cycle of rehearsed bows and fumbled footwork. Towan practiced until his legs ached, until Herb’s voice drilling “Nod like you’ve seen a mildly interesting rock!” echoed in his dreams.

He emerged from the bathhouse one evening, towel slung over his shoulder, steam still clinging to his skin. The inn’s hallway was quiet—just the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen and the creak of floorboards underfoot.

Rellie leaned against the wall outside his room, arms crossed. “You’ve been grimacing like a man chewing glass all week,” she said by way of greeting.

Towan blinked water from his eyes. “Huh? I’m fine.”

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “Liar.” A beat. “Take the ball as a chance to relax for once. Eat fancy food. Laugh at nobles. Maybe even dance without looking like you’re plotting murder.”

He rolled his shoulders, forcing a smirk. “I’ll stick to the murder plots. Safer.”

Rellie snorted and turned to leave—then froze.

Her right eye twitched. A tiny, involuntary spasm—

“What is this?”

Before he could react, she lunged forward, fingers darting toward his bare chest like a striking viper. Towan recoiled, but her grip was unshakable. She plucked something from his skin—nothing visible, just air to the naked eye—but the moment her fingers closed around it, Towan felt it.

A whisper of foreign Essentia, so faint it had woven itself into the rhythm of his own. Like a single wrong note in a familiar song.

Rellie held her closed fist between them, her gaze sharp enough to flay him open. “Someone’s been watching you,” she murmured.

Towan’s breath hitched. Seriah. That fight in the forest—her blade had grazed his chest, but he’d assumed it was a near-miss. Now, he realized: It was a mark.

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“How long has this been here?” he demanded.

Rellie’s jaw tightened. “Long enough.” Then, with a vicious crunch, she crushed the unseen energy between her fingers. The marker dissolved like shattered glass, its remnants scattering into motes of light only Essentia-sensitives could see.

She turned to leave, but Towan caught her wrist. “Wait. How did you notice that?”

A shadow passed over Rellie’s face. For a heartbeat, she looked almost… guilty. Then she wrenched free and tossed her braid over her shoulder with forced nonchalance. “Trade secret.”

The lie hung between them, thick as fog.

Towan let her go, but his mind raced. Rellie shouldn’t have been able to sense that. Not unless—

He remembered the way her eye had twitched. The way she’d known before even looking.

…Has she met Seriah too?

The dim lantern light of the Drunken Hound’s back room did little justice to the suit—but even in the shadows, it gleamed.

Towan stood before the cracked mirror, the charcoal-black fabric hugging his frame with an almost unsettling precision. The high collar framed his jawline like a blade’s edge, while the open-shoulder cuts—subtle but deliberate—hinted at the lethal grace beneath the finery. When he turned, the navy underlayers caught the light, revealing embroidery so fine it seemed woven from spider silk: a pattern of interlocking crescents, their platinum threads shimmering only when touched by direct flame.

The buttons, shaped like stylized crescent moons, glinted dully.

Herb leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Still can’t believe it suits you so well," he muttered, though his tone carried something heavier than surprise.

Towan adjusted a cuff. "Yeah. I like it."

And he did. That was the strange part. It felt right in a way that went beyond fabric—like the suit had been waiting for him.

Cassia and Rellie appeared behind him in the mirror’s reflection.

Cassia gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in theatrical awe. "Oh my! Where did this dashing young noble come from?" She fluttered her lashes, scanning the room as if Towan had vanished. "Surely not our scruffy bartender?"

A small, reluctant smile tugged at Towan’s lips.

Rellie, ever the contrast, stepped forward and—without ceremony—plucked a nonexistent speck of lint from his shoulder. "It looks good on you," she said simply.

Then, quieter: "Too good."

Her fingers lingered near the embroidery, tracing one of the crescents. Her eyes flicked to his in the glass—a silent question.

Where did this really come from?

Towan held her gaze but said nothing.

Herb cleared his throat. "Alright, enough gawking. We’ve got a ball to survive." He tossed Towan a pair of gloves—black, supple, expensive. "Try not to duel anyone before dessert."