Eira’s POV
“If you buy the bruised ones, they’re half price,” I tell Soren, turning a slightly soft tomato over in my hand.
“Since when do you care about half price?” Soren asks, leaning against the wooden frame of the produce stall.
“Since I realized you three eat like starving wolves and blow through our grocery budget in three days.”
He laughs, that easy, open sound that makes a few passing shifters glance our way. “Fair enough. Put the bruised ones in the basket.”
The neighborhood market is alive. It’s late morning, and the air smells like roasted nuts, damp cobblestones, and the sharp tang of ozone from the enchanted chalk advertisements rewriting themselves on the brick walls above us. A troll is loudly haggling over a sack of root vegetables two stalls down, while a pair of
