“Two ales,” Marcellious said, fishing coins from his pocket and dropping them onto the bar.
The barmaid plucked up the payment, fished out the change from her cleavage, and set it before him. With a practiced whirl, she turned to fetch our drinks.
As we waited, I leaned my elbows on the bar, scanning the room.
A few feet away, my attention caught on a young man standing at the edge of a rowdy circle of men.
Thin, wiry, and dark-haired, he gestured wildly as he shouted, his brown, almond-shaped eyes blazing with fury. Like mine, his olive-toned skin was flushed with emotion, his jet-black hair bouncing with every emphatic movement.
Marcellious nudged my arm.
I turned to see him extending a ceramic beer stein toward me.
I took it and drank deeply, the cool ale quenching my parched throat.
“What’s going on?” Marcellious asked, nodding toward the commotion.
“No idea,” I said, already moving toward the group.
We hung back at the edge of the circle, listening.
“They took my beloved!” the young man shouted, his voice raw with anguish.
“Who took her?” one of the onlookers asked.
“The Timehunters! They took my betrothed!”
A jolt of alarm shot down my spine.
Marcellious and I exchanged a wary glance.
“We’re all in danger!” the young man shouted, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. “Every single one of us! The Timehunters are killing people mercilessly.”
A few chuckles erupted from the gathered men.
“I’m telling the truth!” he insisted, swaying unsteadily. “We have to protect each other! The solar eclipse is coming soon; when it does, the Timehunters will search for Timebounds and Timebornes. Any baby born during that time will be in danger. You must protect your wives and children!”
He clasped his hands beneath his chin, his voice thick with desperation.
“Timehunters, you say?” one man scoffed.
“Your wife probably left you,” another jeered. “And now you’re making up an addlepated story to save face. You’re an asshead, Osman.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
“What a fanciful tale,” another man sneered, elbowing his drinking companion. “I’ve heard enough of his nonsense. Timebornes and Timebounds—pah! Folly. Let’s drink.”
More men dismissed him, returning to their tankards, until Osman stood alone, rubbing his forehead with his palm. His shoulders slumped in defeat.
I glanced at Marcellious before nudging him and tipping my head toward Osman.
We stepped forward.
“What seems to be the problem?” I asked.
Osman waved a hand dismissively. “Leave me be. You’re probably here to mock me like the others.”
His voice carried a thick British dialect, the kind that twisted vowels and clipped consonants, making it harder to follow.
