I pushed through the heavy wooden door. The air inside was thick with a mixture of too many elements: smoke from the hearth, the sharp tang of ale, and the press of way too many people crowing the small space. Voices overlapped in a constant hum of conversation, punctuated by rough laughter and the clatter of mugs against tables.
No one looked up when I entered.
Good. I didn’t want any attention on me.
I kept my head down and moved through the crowd toward the bar, where a broad-shouldered male stood wiping down the counter with a rag that had seen better days.
I guessed him to be the tavern keeper for the keen way he scanned the place as he cleaned.
His sharp eyes flicked to me as I approached, assessing and lingering just a moment too long on my hair before dropping to my face.
"What'll it be?" he asked, his tone flat.
I was glad I’d passed whatever silent test he’d used to evaluate me.
“What is that herby smell in the air?”
He almost smiled. “That’ll be the special of the day Bronworth stew. We do it every year in prep for the festival. It’s got slow-roasted pulled beef and spring vegetables. Would you like some?”
It sounded delightful. “Yes, please. And some water.”
“Sure. That’ll be five pieces of silver.”
I fished out the coin pouch from my bag and counted out the silver. The tavern keeper's eyes lit up as he took it eagerly, like he wasn't used to seeing coin so readily offered. One glance around the room told me why. This wasn't the kind of place where people paid willingly.
“I’ll have that ready for you in five minutes. Probably best if you stay up here at the bar with me, my Lady." He gestured toward a stool at the far end, tucked into the corner where the wall met the counter. Then he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Safer that way."
“Thanks.” I would have liked to sit at one of the tables in the corners that afforded some privacy, but I wasn’t going to argue.
While he wiped his hands, I went to sit on the rickety old stool he’d pointed to.
The tavern keeper disappeared through a wooden door behind the bar. The hinges creaked as it swung shut, muffling the clatter of pots and the low murmur of kitchen staff beyond. The scent of cooking meat grew stronger for a moment before the door closed completely, sealing off the back room from my view.
He returned moments later with a wooden bowl, steam rising from the surface. He set it down in front of me and bustled away.
The first sip of Bronworth stew hit my system like mercy.
Warm, rich broth flooded my mouth, savory and filling, with chunks of meat and vegetables that melted on my tongue. I closed my eyes for a heartbeat, letting the heat spread through my stomach.
Gods, I needed this.
I ate slowly, forcing myself to take small bites even though I wanted to scuff it all down at once.
When the food worked its magic and I felt less like I was going to wither away from exhaustion, I pulled the map from my cloak and spread it before me, smoothing out the creases with one hand while I ate.
My eyes traced the route again with despondency. Everything was just so damn far from here.
I was in the village of Crookwood, roughly a hundred miles away from the next kingdom and a lifetime away from the mage realms.
Even if I pushed myself and phased again when I finished eating, I didn’t think I’d be able to make it out of Galaythia by nightfall.
What about tomorrow?
That might be a possibility. Not a great one but maybe a sensible one since the reality of the situation was that I simply wasn't strong enough yet to cover this type of distance. Even with a damn basic galdrlore spell.
I’d rest here for a little while. Eat. Regain some strength. Then I'd move on and try to get as far as I could.
Grandmother always said that magic got better with keen practice. Not justpractice. You had to be purposeful and respect the limits. That applied to everything, no matter how great or small.
