She was a tall woman, reaching six feet easily. Her figure was muscular—carved from hard labor and dealing with too many drunks. Red hair, the color of dark wine, was bound back from her face in a low braid that hung thick as a ship's rope down her spine.
Hazel eyes swept over me—not the warm autumn kind, but the cold green-gold of river stones. They held the flat assessment of someone who'd learned to read threats in a glance.
"Horne!" someone in the back called out. "Where's my bloody ale, eh?"
"You're cut off, Greenley," she yelled back, then looked at me, shaking her head in obvious irritation. "Bastard doesn'tknow when to quit." She continued shaking her head. "And doesn't know how to call a person by her first name." She nodded. "You need something, you call me Heather."
"Understood."
She didn't smile. Didn't need to. Her face was striking enough without the pretense—large eyes that had seen too much, a full mouth set in a line that suggested she wouldn't take crap from anyone. And I believed it.
"Drink or room?" Her voice matched everything else about her: low, direct, no patience for bullshit.
"Drink."
I approached and leaned against the counter.
"Well, what'll you have?" she asked, her accent marking her from the south, even if her swagger was purely northern. She must have been here a long time.
"Ale."
She nodded, returning moments later with a frothy tankard. Her eyes narrowed, taking my measure.
"You must be lost?" Suspicion threaded her words.
"Not lost." I lifted the tankard. The cool metal steadied my hands as the bitter ale washed over my tongue.
"You're no local." Her gaze swept over me with deliberate slowness, lingering on the fine quality of my leather jerkin, the unmarked steel of my sword hilt, and the subtle embroidery threading my cloak's edges. It was the type of clothing that marked me as someone with coin, someone who didn't belong in a place like this.
"No, I'm not." I leaned closer, my voice dropping. "What's happened here?"
Her expression shifted. Her hand froze mid-polish, cloth suspended as her eyes darted to the other patrons. The room's atmosphere thickened like curdled milk.
Remembering that I currently appeared to be a wealthy young knight, no doubt on my way to Camelot, I also recalled that there was no way this woman, nor anyone from the North, would trust me.
"Magic. Would have destroyed us all if left unchecked."
The ale tasted suddenly sour. "But the king saw to it that all magic users were removed?"
"Aye. It's a land of the dead now," she continued. "Full of ghosts that'll be haunting this place for a long time, I reckon."
"Ghosts?"
She nodded. "Practice magic and you'll find yourself in an unmarked grave."
My stomach plummeted.
Anyone who was magical wasn't just destroyed; they were denied a proper burial. Erased.
"The king’s justice is... thorough." The words tasted like rust.
"Necessary though, isn’t it?" she asked, her eyes sharp, testing my allegiance. Despite the fact that we were both on the same side, I dared not reveal even the slightest indication of it.
"Indeed." I dropped coins on the counter. They rang like a bell tolling a death sentence. "The realm's safety must come first." I glanced toward the window. "I should be on the road before nightfall."
I stood, the woman's gaze trailing me like a knife in my back.
Outside, I untied Shade and mounted quickly, boots hitting the stirrups with urgency. I didn’t look back.
