The Baker and the Ghost

He found her in a floating apothecary near the Bridge of Sighs.

This version of Lyra was a hedge witch. She wore a simple dress of sage green, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing pale arms dusted with flour and dried herbs. Her hair, the color of roasted chestnuts, was tied back in a messy bun, held in place by a wooden chopstick.

Caspian stood in the shadows of an archway, watching her.

She was laughing.

It was a sound that hit Caspian like a physical blow. Prime Lyra had never laughed like that. Prime Lyra had been anxious, desperate, weighed down by the knowledge that her mate didn't want her.

Sector 4 Lyra was radiant. She was leaning over the counter, handing a packet of dried lavender to a customer.

The customer was a man. A mortal. He was broad-shouldered, wearing an apron stained with yeast and sugar. A baker.

"I’ll see you tonight?" the baker asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Only if you bring the cannoli," Lyra teased, tapping his nose.

The baker caught her hand and kissed her knuckles. "For you, always."

Caspian felt a surge of acid in his throat. Jealousy, hot and ugly, coiled in his gut.

* He’s nobody,* Caspian thought viciously. *He can’t give her the stars. He can’t walk between worlds. He’s just... dough and heat.*

But Lyra looked at the baker as if he hung the moon.

Caspian stepped back into the shadows. His first instinct—the playboy instinct—was to stride in there, flash a smile, and dazzle her with a display of high-tier magic. He knew exactly what buttons to push. He knew Lyra liked dark chocolate, hated the smell of patchouli, and dreamed of seeing the ocean.

But this Lyra didn't know him. To her, he was a stranger.

"She’s happy," a voice in his head whispered. "Leave her alone."

"Happiness is fragile," Caspian countered silently. "That mortal will die in fifty years. I can give her eternity. I owe her eternity."

He convinced himself it was for her sake. He told himself that a simple life with a baker was a waste of her potential. He told himself he was saving her from mediocrity.

But deep down, he knew the truth. He wasn't doing this for her. He was doing it to silence the screaming in his own soul.

He waited until the baker left. He waited until the sun began to set, painting the canals in shades of violet and bruised orange.

Then, he walked into the shop.

The bell above the door chimed. Lyra looked up from her mortar and pestle.

"We’re closing soon," she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

Caspian smiled. It was the smile that had broken a thousand hearts in Prime. It was practiced, lethal, and tinged with a sadness that made women want to save him.

"I’m looking for a cure," Caspian said softly.

Lyra paused. She looked at him—really looked at him. Her eyes were hazel, flecked with gold. The same eyes.

"What ails you, stranger?" she asked, her voice guarding.

"Regret," Caspian said. "I’m told it’s terminal."

Lyra’s guard didn't drop, but her curiosity piqued. She was a witch, after all. Broken things fascinated her.

"I have valerian for sleep," she said, gesturing to the shelves. "And lemon balm for anxiety. But regret... that usually requires a time machine, not a tea."

"I’ve tried the time machine," Caspian said, stepping closer. "It didn't work."

He let his aura slip, just a fraction. He let her feel the hum of his magic—ancient, dark, and powerful. It resonated with the latent witch-blood in her veins. He saw her pupils dilate.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"I’m Caspian," he said. "And I think you’re the only one who can help me."