Durik sniffed. “You’re late.”
“We’re early,” Thistle returned. “You’re impatient.”
He ignored her and squinted at me. “Well? Let’s see it.”
I extended the bundle. He unrolled it with a theatrical flourish. When metal caught light, he made a sound between a grunt and a relieved sigh.
“There she is,” he murmured. “Petal bowl, spiral handle, crack at the throat—aye, that’s her. Family prize. Carved by my ancestor with one working eye and a bone chisel.” He tucked the spoon into his belt and reached into the satchel slung across his shoulder. “A deal’s a deal.”
He drew out the shimmering invitation and handed it to me. The warmth of charm magic bled through the vellum.
“This should get you through the city gate—assuming you don’t get yourselves arrested first,” Durik said,
“Appreciate the confidence,” Mav muttered.
Durik’s grin was all teeth. “I trust you about as far as I can throw your horse. But you kept your bargain. So do I.”
Branrir cleared his throat. “Advice before we go?”
The troll scratched his chin, squinted up into the drifting canopy. “Don’t let the fresh paint fool you. That place’ll chew you up faster than Rouzbeh ever would. Goblins are honest about being evil. Royals will smile while they gut you.”
“How comforting,” Vesper snarked with a roll of his green eyes.
“You wanted an invitation,” Durik shrugged. “I never said it’d be safe.”
Behind us, the inn door creaked. Shubre emerged with a basket in her arms, flour smudged across her apron. She regarded us as one might an uninvited fungus that had colonized her porch overnight.
“You’re still here?”
“We will be on our way shortly,” I said. “Thank you for everything.”
She grumbled something unflattering and thrust a small basket into Thistle’s arms. “Honeycakes. For the road. If you come back, don’t track rain and mud all over my floors again.”
Thistle looked genuinely moved. “Shubre, are you going soft on us?”
“Don’t flatter yourselves.” She vanished back inside and slammed the door.
We stood a breath longer in the mist and let the weight of the road settle.
Aurillion.
The capital city of Avandria.
It rose in my mind half-remembered: towers spearing sky, stained-glass Saints, violet banners. Lifetimes had passed since I had been there.
“Let’s ride,” Branrir said, already turning toward the horses.
We mounted quickly. Mav’s hands were steady as he helped me into the saddle. I slipped the invitation into my pocket. The spoon was gone. Rouzbeh was behind us.
The road to Aurillion opened ahead.
The trail unfurled in dappled gold and green, the forest stitched into panes of stained light. Mav rode behind me, his arms braced at either side. His chest was a steady heat at my back, his breath measured, yet tension threaded through him.
I was no better.
I could not stop thinking of his mouth upon mine.
The night clung to me: the careful weight of his hands; the heat of his breath when he asked,“Can I hold you?”The wild, consuming balcony kisses; the aching restraint of his retreat. The look in his eyes had surpassed hunger; it held a level of caring I had never experienced.
