The room erupts back into noise and motion at once, though it is all more timid now, more restrained. From the corners of their eyes, they continue to watch Luceran, wary and afraid.
But of course they are.
He is a Fae in their midst. A Fae with a terrible past, slick with blood, and that is even before the horrors that unfolded within his castle walls. Back when he was a warrior. The Frostwall. He may wear fine silks and heavy furs now, but there was a time when he wore silver armor instead, and the Sundered Kingdoms learned a very different kind of dread at the sound of his name.
I glance up at him. “Perhaps you should have waited in the carriage after all, Lord.”
He exhales slowly, something tired threading through the sound.“Just do what you need to do,” he says, “so we can return to the road.”
I roll my eyes, though I don’t disagree. I am far too eager to see my father to argue.
I head for the bar, curious if Luceran might follow, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns away from the warmth and noise and moves toward the darkest corner of the room, claiming a chair tucked deep in shadow. He wraps his coat around himself and stills, becoming little more than a suggestion of pale hair and silver fur at the edge of the firelight.
It is clear he has no desire for human company. Mine included.
I take a seat and tap my fingers lightly in time with the jaunty tune spilling from a small stage near the back, where a pair of musicians, one with a lute, the other a flute, play with fervor. A small crowd gathers around them, and slowly, tentatively, the revelry we disrupted begins to return.
Couples swirl and stomp across the wooden floor, laughter ringing out as boots strike hard enough to make the boards vibrate beneath my stool. Those watching clap along, mugs raised, voices lifting with the music.
I do cherish the quiet. It is the best accompaniment to a good book. But this noise, brimming with joy and life, feels like something I needed just as much as the food I am waiting for.
I do not wait long.
The innkeeper bursts through the swinging door, nearly tripping over himself before catching his balance. He straightens hastily and holds the door wide as his wife steps out, her cheeks flushed, lips painted a cheerful red, her arms laden with a steaming bowl of stew and a plate piled high with fresh bread.
She sets the food before me, smiling broadly, while the innkeeper places a mug at my elbow and fills it with golden ale. Then they retreat together, bowing as they go, grins fixed too wide, too bright, as if I am someone important.
I don’t miss the way their eyes dart toward the shadowed corner of the room.
“Thank you,” I say quickly, hoping my sincerity reaches them before they vanish back into the kitchen.
They do not linger.
Well. No sense letting it go cold.
I tear the bread in half and plunge it straight into the stew, scooping up meat and vegetables before shoving an indecent amount into my mouth. I groan softly when the warm, savoury flavour hits the back of my throat, rolling my eyes as if offended by how good it is. I barely finish chewing before washing it down with a generous gulp of ale.
By the end, I’m holding the bowl to my lips, slurping the last of the broth, scraping the sides clean with the final crust of bread. When there’s nothing left, I slump back on my stool and drag in a deep, satisfied breath.
I haven’t eaten food like that in far too long.
I’m still basking in the afterglow of my feast when the chair beside me scrapes loudly against the floor.
I stiffen.
I’d already noticed that every other seat along the bar was conspicuously empty. I frown, irritation flickering. I’m not in the mood for company, least of all a hopeful suitor emboldened by ale and music.
“Hello,” a man says beside me.
I’m already preparing myself to fend off whatever clumsy flattery he’s worked up the courage to offer, but when I turn, the words die in my throat.
“Rollin?”
He smiles and nods, and though I only knew him briefly at the Aurevault, his face is etched too clearly into my memory for there to be any doubt.
“But how…” I stop myself, suddenly acutely aware of the darkened corner of the room, of the presence I know is watching even if I can’t quite see him. I shift closer, angling my body so my back shields Rollin from view, and lower my voice. “How are you here? Pax said you were… that you didn’t survive the night.”
Rollin nods once. “I wouldn’t have,” he admits quietly. “I’m certain of that. But luckily, I didn’t have to.”
