The sign forThe Last Dropcreaked softly above me, swaying on its iron hook like a slow, patient threat. A carved noose hung at its center, rope weathered smooth by years of wind and rain. Warm light bled from the narrow, leaded windows below, slicing through the lingering fog that clung to the square like a reluctant ghost. Laughter drifted out in low bursts—too normal, too alive—for a place that smelled faintly of old ale and older sins.
I hesitated at the threshold, my pulse skidding hard against my ribs.
A prickling crawled up the back of my neck, strong enough to stop me mid-step. I glanced toward a leaning brick building, its windows warped with age. For a second, I swore I saw a shadow shift behind the crooked glass—but when I blinked, it was gone. Only my reflection stared back, pale beneath Alaric’s hat. Isquared my shoulders, ignored the phantom burn still ringing in my wrists, and stepped beneath the noose and through the door.
Inside, the air hit heavy—ale, woodsmoke, unwashed bodies. Lanterns in glass globes hung low, their flames catching in the bottles stacked behind the counter. Amber light pooled across the scarred floor, glinting off spilled drink and stains I refused to name.
Voices murmured beneath the clatter of mugs and the groan of chairs. Cloaked figures crowded a dice game in the corner. Near the hearth, two men argued in low tones, their words swallowed by the fire. Behind the counter, a hawk-eyed woman leaned close to a sailor with wind-burned cheeks and salt-stiff hair.
I moved deeper into the room, tugging Alaric’s hat lower, the silk scarf warm against my throat. Heat and shadow folded around me, but my thoughts stayed fixed on the clock.
I wove between tables, careful not to brush too close. A few heads turned—quick, curious glances—but none lingered. I kept my chin down, my hands loose, and didn’t slow.
I slid onto a stool at the counter, the wood worn smooth by years of use. From here, I had a clear view of the room: the gamblers in the corner, the pair by the fire, the shadowed stairs leading to whatever rooms waited above. The bartender’s eyes caught mine for the briefest moment—narrow and measuring—then returned to pouring a drink. I let my fingers drum lightly against the bar’s edge, feigning patience while my mind kept moving. Every voice, every clink of glass, every shift of movement was a thread I tried to weave into the picture.
Somewhere in Shadeau, Maître Vesper was here. And I was going to find him. If I didn’t find the Eye before nightfall, I wouldn’t just return empty-handed—I’d return to Alaric’s fury.
The bartender drifted over, wiping her hands on a rag.
“Drink? Something to eat?”
My stomach twisted, the thought of food almost painful. “I don’t have any coin,” I admitted, voice low.
She waved it off. “It’s covered.”
I followed the bartender’s glance.
At the end of the counter sat a man with the stillness of someone who never needed to prove his strength. Brutally built, muscle defined beneath a sleeveless, fur-trimmed leather vest. A beard framed his mouth and jaw. Black ink coiled over his sun-browned skin—knotted, storm-dark patterns etched deep into flesh. His hair, pale as sunlight, was braided back from a face too striking to be chance. And his eyes—ice-bright blue— found me for a single heartbeat before drifting away, as if he could look whenever he wished and chose not to.
Every instinct told me to refuse. I hadn’t eaten in days, and the hollow ache in my gut almost overpowered my caution. There is not much in the way of food aboard a cursed pirate ship that never goes to port.
“I’m not hungry,” I murmured, hesitating just long enough to convince myself I still had control over the choice. I can’t trustanyone here. Especially strange men in taverns. Stars know what he would want in return.
I forced myself to look away before I forgot why I was here.
The bartender returned a few minutes later, setting a steaming bowl of thick stew in front of me, along with a hunk of crusty bread and a glass of golden mead.
“Compliments of your benefactor,” she said, nodding toward the end of the bar again. “Recommends the stew—it’s the best in Shadeau. Mead’s from the north, strong but smooth.”
The scent of the food hit me like a wave—rich broth laced with herbs, the savory tang of slow-cooked meat, and fresh bread still warm from the oven. My mouth watered, but I kept my voice steady. "Excuse me,"
The bartender’s brows lifted just slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise—or caution?
“Have you seen Maître Vesper?” I asked, lowering my tone so it didn’t carry. “Or know where I might find him?”
Before the bartender could say more, a low, gravel-edged voice carried down the bar. “Haven’t seen Vesper in Shadeau for months.”
I froze, the piece of bread halfway to my mouth. Slowly, I looked toward the source.
The man at the end of the bar hadn’t moved much—just enough to lean his forearm against the wood. I didn’t dare look at him for long. Instead, I turned back to the stew, though I could still feel those eyes like a blade.
He rose from his seat with a quiet scrape of the stool, and for a moment I thought the room itself had shrunk. He’d looked big sitting down—now, standing, he was a mountain. Each step toward me was deliberate, heavy enough that I felt them through the floorboards.
He stopped when he reached me, shadow swallowing the light, and those piercing eyes locked on mine with the weight of an anchor.
“What business,” he asked, voice low and edged with something dangerous, “do you have with Vesper?”
I set my spoon down and held his eyes without flinching.
