“What?”
“Cathea runs it. She has a loft above the bar. She’d have my head if I stayed anywhere else.”
“Oh, perfect,” Ella muttered. “Can’t wait to meet the woman who literally threw you out of her tavern. And sleep in her loft.”
He only huffed and swung down, tugging her with him from the saddle as if eager to make introductions. Jakobav tiedthe horse outside, then pushed open the tavern door without hesitation, marching in as though the place belonged to him.
The tavern smelled of spiced mead and woodsmoke, its rafters charred dark with age and memory. Bundles of dried herbs dangled from the beams overhead: lavender, sage, and something musty that pricked at Ella’s senses. A wide stone hearth crackled low behind the bar, its flames throwing amber light across weather-worn tables and mismatched chairs that looked as though they had been salvaged from a dozen different households, none of them alike, yet somehow belonging together. Symbols had been carved into the lintel above the threshold, old and curling, and though she didn’t know their language, power hummed as she passed beneath them.
The tavern noise dipped as they walked by, just slightly, as a few heads turned. A pair of older men nodded once in acknowledgment before pointedly returning to their dice. A barmaid lowered her gaze as she slipped past, quickening her steps. No one dared interrupt, but clearly everyone knew exactly who had walked through their door.
At the center of it all stood Cathea, her presence unmistakable. A glint of obsidian gleamed at her throat, the carved black-rose pendant catching the firelight and holding it fast.
They grabbed a table near the bar, tucked at the edge of warmth and noise. Laughter swelled from the far end of the room where a cluster of men threw dice. A bard plucked at a stringed instrument in the corner, his notes soft enough not to intrude. Tankards clattered, chairs scraped, voices tangled and rose again, and for the first time since the clearing, Ella allowed herself a breath.
Cathea was everything and nothing Ella expected. Tall, broad-shouldered, her silver-streaked curls framed a weathered face with eyes that missed nothing. Her tunic bore the stains ofa long shift, ale-darkened and lived-in, and she moved with the absolute command of someone who had built the place with her own hands and dared the world to try and take it from her.
The moment she spotted Jakobav, her voice cut through the din like a cleaver.
“If you break anything this time, boy, I’ll sell your ass to a Thirelle sea circus.”
Jakobav grimaced. “Hello to you too, Aunt.”
Ella nearly choked on her drink. Aunt? Of course the terrifying tavern-keeper with a voice like a war horn would turn out to be family. Why had a Dravaryn royal chosen a tavern over living at the castle?
Cathea’s sharp gaze flicked to Ella, eyes glinting in the firelight.
“And who’s this? Pretty and bloody—just like those two women you usually haul through my door. What is it with you bringing me beautiful, half-feral fighters, boy? And I assume you’ve already roped her into your messes?”
Jakobav stiffened. “Maeren and Savina are not—” His jaw clicked, irritation flashing. “They’re soldiers. Respected First Guard. And Ella is…”
He faltered, as if a single accurate word simply did not exist.
Ella cut in smoothly before he could drown in the attempt. “More like dragged,” she said, lifting her cup and swallowing hard. “Threatened me with chains, actually.”
Jakobav bristled, his jaw tightening as his shoulders twitched, like the words had landed harder than he wanted them to. Ella smiled in quiet triumph. Gods, if he weren’t so determined to brood, she could’ve sworn his cheeks might have flushed.
Cathea barked a laugh that rattled the shelves. She slapped her palm against the bar and shook her head. “Ooo, I like her. About time someone poked holes in your armor, boy.”
“And the rest of you, quit staring,” she barked toward the tables without turning her head. “This tavern isn’t a throne room. He’s just Jake here, same as the rest of you sorry bastards.”
Jakobav only sighed, the sound long-suffering, as though he had carried Cathea’s antics for half his life.
Up close, Ella was drawn to the pendant at Cathea’s throat, a carved obsidian rose etched so finely the petals seemed to fold inward on themselves. The sight unsettled her, a faint shiver of something otherworldly crawling beneath her skin.
When she lifted her gaze, Cathea was already watching her, sharp and unhurried, patient as stone. The woman wore the look of someone who knew exactly what Ella had felt and was just waiting for her to catch up. Gods, it was the same way Jakobav acted most of the time. That same watchful, silent knowing sat in both of them like a birthright.
Before Ella could linger on the thought, Cathea’s grin curved as she leaned across the table and launched into a story about the night Jakobav had tried to juggle flaming mugs, only to catch his own shirt on fire.
“Nearly singed his princely bits,” Cathea said with relish.
Jakobav buried his face in his hands. “Why are you like this?”
Ella’s laughter broke loose, wild and unstoppable, tumbling out of her like something that had been waiting too long to be freed. When she finally managed to pull air into her lungs, Jakobav was staring at her, but not with irritation or his usual storm. Just…watching.
“There,” he said softly. “That smile is the real one. It suits you.”
He leaned in slightly, the shift subtle but intentional. “Second time I’ve seen it. The first, you were holding my knife you thought you’d gotten away with stealing, which I’m learning is fitting for you.”
