Her stomach growled, a reminder of just how long it had been since she’d eaten anything substantial. Pulling the hood of her cloak low over her head, Elora stepped out of her room and followed the scent of stew and roasted meat wafting up from the common room below.
The inn’s dining hall was a crowded, boisterous space. Men in rugged leathers and coal-stained trousers filled the mismatched chairs, their loud voices clashing with the clatter of mugs and the scrape of utensils on wooden bowls. The air was a heavy blend of sweat and ale, a musky haze that nearly smothered the more inviting aroma of simmering stew.
Elora slipped through the throng, her shoulders hunched, her steps deliberately light. She kept her head down, her hood casting her face in shadow as she wove between tables, careful not to brush against anyone. Despite her best efforts, she felt it almost immediately—eyes turning her way, gazes that lingered too long, burning holes into her like sunrays burning dry leaves. She curled her fingers into her palms, nails biting into the soft skin.Don’t run.Running would only draw more attention.
“How much for a bowl?” she asked as she reached the bar.
The innkeeper paused, her laugh with a nearby patron dying mid-breath as she turned to Elora. Her expression was curt, hergray-streaked brows pulling together as she scanned the cloaked figure before her. “Two copper.”
Elora nodded, reaching into her pocket to pull out the coins. She could feel the man beside the innkeeper watching her, his gaze crawling over her as if there was a snake slithering down her body. She kept her movements measured, refusing to look at him even as her skin prickled with discomfort.
“Haven’t seen you before,” the man muttered, leaning closer to her.
Elora’s fingers faltered on the coins for just a heartbeat, her shoulders tensing beneath the cloak. She didn’t look up. She couldn’t.Just pay. Get the bowl. Move.
She placed two copper rounds on the counter. Her stomach churned, half from hunger, half from the uncomfortable scrutiny. The innkeeper snatched up the coins and ladled a steaming bowl of beef vegetable soup and thrust it toward her.
Across the hall, tucked beneath the shadowed curve of the staircase, Elora spotted an empty table. It was a small, unassuming spot, half-hidden from the rest of the room, perfect for avoiding attention. She slipped into the chair and wasted no time digging into the bowl of stew.
The first spoonful burned her tongue, the broth scalding as it hit her palate, but she didn’t care. Each bite sent warmth spreading through her stomach, chasing away the gnawing ache of hunger that had taken root. The chunks of beef and soft vegetables disappeared too quickly to savor, her body demanding more even as her mind urged her to slow down.
"Wasn't expecting to see you here. What's with the getup?"
The voice, smooth but edged with curiosity, startled her. Elora froze, the spoon halfway to her lips, and glanced up.
A young man stood at the foot of her table, his presence cutting through the din of the dining hall. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than her. He wore a long coat of black leather, the heavy fabric hanging in folds that framed his lean, muscular frame. Dark, almost jet-black hair fell in slightly tousled layers. It had an effortlessly disheveled look, as if he’d just come from a skirmish.
But it was his eyes that held her attention the most, gray with a smoldering gaze, like a storm caught between rolling thunder and stillness. There was an unspoken weight in them, as if he'd seen the darkest recesses of humanity.
Elora stared, her confusion evident. She didn’t know him. How could she?
The man tilted his head, but then, as if realization struck him, his lips parted in a soft chuckle. “Ah. My mistake. Thought you were someone else.”
Elora said nothing, hoping he would lose interest and leave. Instead, to her dismay, he pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.
Elora’s fingers tightened around the spoon, her appetite evaporating. She cast a wary glance at the rest of the room, wondering if anyone else was paying attention. But the men at the bar were still shouting their half-drunken stories, and the innkeeper was too busy wiping down mugs to notice the stranger settling in at her table. Not that she would probably care to intervene anyway.
"While I'm here, mind if I join you, sweetheart?" he purred.
His gaze locked onto hers, and Elora felt pinned under its weight. There was a glint in his storm-gray eyes—curiosity, yes, but something darker, more dangerous, lingered just beneath the surface. His lips curved into a slight, almost mocking smile, as though he already knew how she’d respond.
Sweetheart.
The word dragged Gerard’s voice from the recesses of her mind. He’d called her that, too, right before he... Her jaw clenched, the memory threatening to surface, but she shoved it down.
“I… umm… no, I…,” she murmured, her focus dropping to the stew. She tried to keep her voice steady, but it sounded too small in the crowded room.
“Dangerous place to stop for a meal.”
He pulled one of the daggers from his belt and began twirling it between his fingers, the blade catching the dim light as it spun. The movement was effortless, a practiced display of skill that set her nerves on edge. Was he trying to intimidate her? Or just showing off?
Her muscles tensed instinctively, ready to bolt, but the gleam of the blade rooted her in place. She couldn’t decide which possibility was worse: that he knew who she was or that he worked for Thorn.
“Not much of a talker, are you?” he asked, tilting his head as he studied her. His expression was unreadable, save for the faint lift of his eyebrow.
Elora shook her head slightly, keeping her gaze down and her hood low. She hoped the message was clear enough:Leave mealone.
“Fair enough,” he said with a shrug, though he made no move to leave. “Guess I’ll have to do all the talking. Name’s Rell, by the way. And you are?”
