The sun was just past its peak, and the air carried the smell of dust and bread baking. Lyra balanced the clay jug of water on her hip, the familiar scrape of its weight against her side, a rhythm she had long learned to ignore. She walked with a small group of girls from her neighbourhood, their bare feet slapping softly on the stone-paved streets as they threaded through the market district. Laughter bubbled quietly among them, but their eyes never lingered long on the stalls—they had chores to finish before the sun sank.

Halfway through the narrow street, a group of boys lounged near the fountain, tossing a small leather ball between them. One of them, a boy she knew only by sight, Alexis, called out.

“Lyra! Careful, or you’ll drown the whole town with that jug!”

She didn’t glance at him, keeping her gaze on the cobblestones. Ignoring him had become a habit. Most girls knew better than to answer; some who didn’t find themselves the target of teasing could turn ugly fast.

But Alexis didn’t retreat. He fell into step beside her, grinning, teasing under his breath as she focused on keeping the jug steady.

“Don’t scowl so hard,” he said, nudging her lightly. “It’s just a little water.”