The bartender didn’t look up. Good. Rell wasn’t in the mood to be noticed.
He slid onto a stool in the far corner, away from the hearth, where shadows clung to the floor and the noise was just distant enough to feel unreal. When the barkeep finally shuffled over, Rell didn’t bother ordering anything fancy—just something strong, cheap, and fast.
The first sip hit like a punch to the gut. Exactly what he wanted.
He leaned back against the wall, letting the rough wood dig into his spine, and stared at the empty chair across from him. His fingers drummed a slow rhythm against the side of his mug.
He exhaled through his nose. He hadn’t expected her to get under his skin. Elora had been a job. A contract. A favor. And then she'd become… something else. Kira.
He was sure of it. Even without her memories, she said enough. His heart just about melted when she told him about the cloak. His cloak. Deep down, not quite buried under alchemy-induced memory erasure, she knew that cloak was a symbol of comfort. Comfort from a young boy who didn’t even know her but promised to save her. Her subconscious never forgot him.
He finally found her and already lost her again. He told himself this wasn’t the same as before. She’s free now, even if Tehvan is overbearing and a controlling jackass at times, he loves her. More than her actual father ever did. She’d be safe in Al’tera. That’s all he ever wanted for her, to be safe. Wasn’t it? He should have at least stuck with her until she got on the boat. Then he would know for sure. Instead he was a dumbass and let her traverse this deprived city alone.
Rell downed the rest of his drink in one pull and motioned for another.
She’d be fine. She had to be.
Because if she wasn’t… he'd burn that whole damn district down looking for her.
He ran a hand down his face and smirked bitterly into the rim of his cup.
“You’re getting soft,” he muttered to himself.
The ale didn’t disagree.
The second drink was starting to do its job.
He was on the edge of letting himself go completely—thoughts unraveling, loosening around the image of her eyes, the sound of her voice—when it hit him.
Not a blade. Not an arrow. A voice.
Smooth, sharp-edged, and too damn familiar.
“You’ve got some nerve showing your face in Kilfaire.”
Rell didn’t look up right away. Took a long, slow sip, then finally let his gaze drag toward her. “It’s a good face,” he said, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “Seems a shame to keep it hidden.”
Kazimiera leaned against the post beside his table, dark eyes gleaming with that knowing spark she always carried. Her black and gold leathers looked nearly untouched by the grime of the city, her curls twisted into a crown of quiet control. She held a jar of something amber and dangerous, sipping it like it didn’t bite on the way down. Still stunning. Still furious.
He leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance, but the tightness in his gut told a different story.Shit.Of all the ghosts in this city…
“Miera,” he said with mock surprise. “Didn’t realize you still haunted these parts.”
“What are you doing here, Rell? Come to honor the dead? Or join them, like you should’ve all those years ago?”
Rell’s smile turned cold. “Dramatic as ever. Your little rebellion would’ve gotten them killed either way, with or without me.”
Her eyes darkened, and when she spoke next, the words cut close to bone. “They died trying to saveyou, Rell. Don’t you dare pretend they didn’t.”
He stared down into his glass, jaw flexing once. “You here to dredge up ghosts, Miera? Or just to gloat?”
She tilted her head. “I’m here for a drink before the execution.”
That pulled his gaze up. “What, another poor soul who gave the wrong name in the wrong tavern?”
“There’s one every other day,” she agreed coolly. “But this one’s worth watching.”
He raised a brow. “And what makes this one so special?”
