When she reached the bottom and stepped onto the warm, soft sand, the rocks and dirt swirled together and spun off back to the mountain. Her hair flew around her face in a parting embrace, and she chuckled.
“What a show-off,” she called into the wind.
Chapter Three
Isla
“TellmeagainwhyI’m letting you drag me out tonight?” Isla grumbled as Bri pulled her along the brick path leading to the town square.
“Because you’ve been brooding all day since your boys left, and it’s bringing me down." Bri looked pointedly at Isla, her dark face scrunching as she gave Isla a once-over. “What better way to fix it than a night out? Come on, justtryand have fun.”
Isla snorted. “Tell me how you really feel, Bri.”
Despite her brutal honesty, Isla loved Bri like a sister. They’d been best friends for over a decade, ever since the Harvishes had relocated from the kingdom of Ara Mir twelve years ago. Bri’s mother, then a widow, had met a hunter from Lockhurt who had been visiting the desert lands on an expedition. They fell in love, and she uprooted her and her daughter’s lives to follow her new husband to frigid Evonlea. Isla and her family had welcomed their new neighbors when they arrived in town. She always smiled when she pictured ten-year-old Bri stepping out of their wagon, taking one look at Isla’s fur-lined hood, and saying in her thick, throaty Aramian accent, “I’m never wearing anything likethat.”
“I know you worry when they go off on their trips,” Bri said, patting Isla’s gloved hand with her own as she winked. “You just need a good distraction. Perhaps one of the tall, dark, and handsome variety.”
Isla rolled her eyes. “I think I’ll pass on that tonight. Thanks, though.”
“Suit yourself. You can be on the lookout for me, then.”
“As if you need any more help in that department. Half the people in this village have asked for your hand, if I remember correctly,” Isla said, letting out a laugh. “In fact, didn’t you tell several of them you would consider it?”
“I’ve got to keep my options open,” Bri said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt for you to put yourself out there, too, Isla,” she added, her tone softening. “It’s been a long time since Waylan. He’d want you to be happy.”
As always, Isla’s stomach clenched when she heard his name. She had no ideawhathe’d want.
He was dead.
She swallowed thickly and looked away, focusing on the familiar street before them. Bright lanterns and a wooden carving of a bear’s head cast the shadowed road in a faint light. Music and laughter poured from The Bear’s Head, the pub’s crowd already large and rambunctious. Along the street, the other shops were closed for the night. To Isla’s right was a popular dressmaker’s store owned by an older woman named Tatiana. Her window displays were always full of the latest fashion trends and colorful fabrics, often drawing Bri’s longing gaze. Next door to Tatiana’s was a bakery that carried the most delicious breads and treats Isla had ever tasted. Even though it had been closed for hours, the lingering scent of sugared dough as they passed the door had Isla’s mouth watering. Cinnamon rolls, appleberry drops, chocolate bread with cream…it was her favorite spot on the street by far.
A variety of shops lined the rest of the cobblestone path: a haberdashery, butcher, cobbler, blacksmith, and others with various trinkets and knick-knacks for sale. While mostly silent in the late evenings—save for the pubs—the main street of Lockhurt usually bustled with travelers and locals alike during the mornings and afternoons. The familiar smells of the baked goods and market spices as well as the sounds of people milling about always put Isla at peace. She found so much comfort in this small town of hers. In an unexpected rush of emotion, Isla looked over at Bri, reached down, and squeezed her hand. It was her way of silently acknowledging that she knew her best friend cared about her, but she wasn’t willing to talk about Waylan right now.
Nearing the pub, the girls passed a stone fountain in the center of the square with a large statue atop depicting the “God of Air.” Before Isla’s grandmother passed away eleven years ago, she would tell her and Arden stories of this supposed god. The most popular legend said this being saved a huge region of north Evonlea from an avalanche that occurred at the Aataran Mountains over a thousand years ago. This mountain range, which ran through the southern part of the kingdom, had been under attack. Enemy troops had planted some sort of explosive on both sides, causing a massive rockslide to rain down on the north end. It would have buried every town within a hundred miles. As a little girl, Isla’s favorite part of the tale had been when the mighty and powerful god stopped this attack by halting the rocks in their tracks with his magic and moving them back into place. Ever since then, many villages along the mountain range had established statues, shrines, and even temples to honor this so-called deity.
As an adult, Isla didn’t know what she believed anymore. Where was this god now, when her people were being attacked? There had been no signs of any ancient, powerful deity for centuries. She was skeptical when she looked at the statue, wondering if he had any lingering concern for the land he’d once saved, or if he evenexisted. The figure stood tall, with toned muscles and a quiet strength. His hair was wild and unkempt, swirling in the phantom wind of his creation. He had a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a stare that penetrated the soul. Despite her doubts, it always drew her eyes when she walked by, and she often had to remind herself that it was only a statue.
Bri skipped ahead as they approached The Bear’s Head, her heavy cloak fluttering behind her. She looked stunning in a long-sleeved, two-piece outfit of gold and navy, with bottoms that tapered at the end and tucked into a pair of sturdy but fashionable boots. Her blue top stopped right above her navel, leaving an inch or two of umber skin exposed. The gold material around the neckline brought out the gleaming flecks in her dark eyes and accentuated her short, curly black hair. Isla had chosen a simple green textured sweater that Bri claimed “made her eyes pop” and gray fleece-lined leggings. She valued comfort and warmth over fashion, but still enjoyed letting Bri dress her up every once in a while.
Bri tugged open the door of the pub, and they were instantly met with shouts of laughter, the clinking of glasses, and boisterous men bragging about recent successful hunts. Isla took in the scene before her: dozens of wooden tables surrounded by hunters with their fur coats flung across chairs, dirt-packed boots leaving trails of dead grass along the floor, and several harried servers trying to deliver cups of ale and plates of meat through the crowds. Younger and older women alike were interspersed among the patrons, friends or wives or simply girls looking for a night off from a busy work day. Isla was one of the very few women in her town that braved the hunt; most of the others tended to their families, shops, and keeping the village running smoothly.
Her attention snagged on the group of familiar men.
“I saw Andrei bag two leopards this morning with one spear. Just lined them up and got them both! Lucky brute.”
“Come on, that wasn’t luck, Prater. Pure skill.”
“Did you see my shot this morning? Right between the eyes, brought him to his knees in one go.”
“Bet that’s the only thing you’ll bring to its knees today!”
A round of laughter rose from multiple tables at this exchange. Isla caught the eye of Hamil, the man who’d made the last comment.
“Because you’re so adept at bringing one to their knees, hmm?” Isla bumped Hamil’s shoulder and grabbed his near-empty glass.
His brows lifted in surprise at her appearance, and he threw an arm around her waist. “Just say the word, princess,” he said, eyes twinkling with mischief.
Isla chuckled and finished his drink, the warm ale burning slightly as it went down. Hamil was one of her brother’s best friends and quite notorious for his charm. Women were easily swept away by his smooth tongue, big, hazel eyes, and long, dark-brown hair that was always in need of a cut. Tonight, it was pulled back into a low bun. He was the portrait of a mountain man, with a full beard and the muscles of a warrior hunter.
