It landed as grave as the prophecy itself.
She couldn’t move. She only stared at him, caught in the echo of tavern gossip and the terrible weight of what it implied.
Pity surfaced in the set of his expression, wrought with sorrow, scraping along her nerves, loud and unwelcome.
Ella’s breath hitched, her throat tightening until the words tore out of her before she could stop them.
“Don’t ever look at me with pity,” she whispered, raw and furious.
He didn’t bite back, didn’t bristle at the anger in her voice. Instead, he reached across the table, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist in a cool, grounding press that quieted the chaos inside her head.
“I understand,” he said, voice even, neither resigned nor uncertain but chosen.
His hand lingered before slipping from her wrist. He didn’t rise. He eased back into his chair, as if declaring that he would follow her lead and stand wherever she chose to stand, whether she remained at this table with her drink or left for the loft above.
The tavern carried on around them, a low hum of laughter and clinking mugs, and the sound grated against her rawness.
It unsettled her to hear such mirth after the whispers of her mother’s illness, even though she’d known for years that the prophecy foretold a sudden sickness that would force her to take the throne.
Knowing hadn’t lessened the sting.
She let her gaze roam for distraction, catching the scrape of chairs and the thick curl of smoke still unfurling from the far corner. Her own mug sat empty, and she slid it across the table before pushing to her feet. Without a word to Jakobav, she brushed past him, her steps carrying her toward the bar. She told herself she needed more ale, though perhaps what she needed was a moment of space, and either way, she welcomed the distance.
One of the men who’d been smoking in the shadows all evening shoved his chair back and rose, the wooden legs dragging harshly against the floorboards. He cut across the room with a crooked smile that never touched his eyes.
“You look familiar,” he said, his voice slick with drink.
Ella turned, mug in hand, her reply immediate. “No offense, but I really doubt that.”
His grin widened, teeth catching the light, a flash too calculating to be friendly. “That’s a bold tone for such a pretty girl. Why don’t you trade that mug for something stronger?” He tilted his head toward the smoky corner where his companion lounged in the haze, watching. “Come sit with us.”
Ella set her drink down on the counter with a calm that belied the pulse thudding in her throat. “Well, in that case,” she said, her voice cutting clean through the noise of the tavern, “I do mean offense. Fuck. Off.”
The man’s posture shifted at once, his smile vanishing. He leaned closer, the air around him thick with the stench ofwraithleaf smoke, the black in his eyes dilating until his gaze was all pupil and malice. “You won’t say that to me again.”
Ella stepped forward, reckless defiance tightening every line of her body. She gave a mocking smirk as her hand dropped to the dagger strapped against her thigh, fingers brushing the hilt with slow, unmistakable promise. “I wouldn’t have,” she said, her tone sharp enough to draw blood, “but now I absolutely will.”
His hand shot toward her throat, fingers curled like claws—but it never reached her.
Jakobav caught the man’s wrist mid-lunge, his grip iron. In one brutal movement, he slammed the man’s hand onto the bar, the crack of impact splitting through the tavern like a struck drum, wood groaning beneath the force. The man staggered, his expression twisting with pain as Jakobav’s shadow swallowed him whole.
“For someone so familiar with smoke,” Jakobav said, his voice low, steady, and colder than steel, “you should know better than to play with fire.”
“Relax,” he slurred, eyes gleaming with something insidious. “I didn’t realize she was spoken for. Maybe you wouldn’t mind sharing. Don’t princes like to sit back and watch?”
In a single, merciless motion Jakobav shoved the man against the bar, one hand fisted in his hair to hold him down, the other pressing a knife against his throat. The edge caught the light, a glint of promised ruin.
The tavern stilled around them.
The bard stopped playing music, the scrape of chairs ceased along with the shuffle of boots, and the tavern chatter faded into complete silence.
Ella’s breath lodged in her chest.
They were making a spectacle, and yet some strange part of herself couldn’t look away.
From the smoky corner, the second man rose, his body tense, but he didn’t advance. He only watched, like he was weighing the knife’s gleam, the predator’s stance, the inevitability of what was about to happen.
Jakobav’s grip tightened. His voice dropped into something darker, almost ritual. “Hope you’ve made peace with the old gods.” The blade shifted, the moment on a razor’s edge.
