I pad across the thin carpet, curiosity tugging me forward.
The edge of the ridge is only a few feet from the base of the tower. Beyond it, verdant hills roll toward a wash of endless blue, capped with white peaks that seem to dance to the beat of the sea’s drum. An angry sky churns above them in swirls of black and gray. In the distance, far from where I stand, a bolt of lightning tears through the clouds. The world brightens, then sinks back into shadow.
My breath hitches. It’s a stunning portrait. The kind of sight I imagine elves of old painted on their canvases or wrote songs about. My fingers itch, like they always do when I’m struck by something beautiful.
The urge to draw suddenly overwhelms me. I’m so far from the all-seeing eyes of the Order. No one would ever know.
I exhale and clench my hands into fists. No. It’s not safe. Someone might have alerted the Order to the firebird attack last night. They could already be on their way to assess the situation. I can’t risk the wrong person arriving, bursting through the door, and catching me in the act.
I change into a fresh pair of trousers and warm socks, then head down the stairwell. As I descend, the scent of cooked meat drifts up to meet me. A pang of hunger twists through my stomach, and only then do I realize how little I’ve eaten since leaving Caer Draen.
The taproom is empty—for the most part. Only the cloaked stranger has ventured downstairs for breakfast this morning. He sits at one of the long tables, his plate overflowing with sausage and eggs. When he notices me hovering by the door, he waves for me to join him.
Eyeing him, I walk to the other side of the table and ease onto the bench. Pale sunlight slants through the nearby window, illuminating the silver tones of his hair. He’s striking. The kind of person everyone stares at when he enters a room. Many would love to command that kind of attention, but I’ve never much liked the idea of being so perceived.
The innkeeper must hear my footsteps, because she bustles through a door with a platter of food. She gives us a wary look before hurrying out of sight again. I frown after her. Surely she doesn’t blame last night’s events on me.
The smell of warm bread draws my attention. My plate holds several slices, along with a measure of eggs, a few slabs of sausage, and a generous helping of golden butter. I choose a slice and make quick work of buttering it. The first bite practically melts in my mouth.
A long moment passes where the only sounds are the scrape of my knife against the bread and the howl of the wind outside. I notice the stranger is watching me, a little too closely. My pulse skips. There’s something distinctlyoffabout him.
After I’ve eaten enough to quiet the worst of the hunger, I brave the question I’ve been dying to ask.
“So,” I say, meeting the stranger’s icy gaze, “why did you run straight into danger last night? You seemed awfully eager to fight whoever was out there. Or warn them.”
“You want to know if I’m a rebel.” He glances at the plain clasp at my neck. “You know that doesn’t fool anyone. The scent of magic clings to you, Swynwraig.”
“Just because I’m a Swynwraig doesn’t mean I’m with the Order,” I say quickly.
“Hmm. Except you can only become a Swynwraig if you’ve joined. They don’t let anyone else have access to magic.”
I pick at my sausage, the fragmented pieces of my childhood haunting the back of my mind. My magic likes to destroy those memories the most, so it’s difficult to remember how and when and why I came to join the Order. Mostly, I know I had my magic before they called on me, but only my necromancy. Everything else came later, just as it does for everyone else.
“You’re right. I was once a member. But now I’m not.” I clear my throat. “You didn’t answer my question. If you’d run into rebels instead of firebirds, would you have fought them…or helped them?”
He arches a silver brow, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “If you’re not from the Order, I’m not sure why it matters.”
“Call it curiosity.” I shrug, taking another bite of my bread.
He studies me for a long moment. Too long. My stomach knots.
“I’m not one of them,” he eventually says.
I arch a brow. “I find that hard to believe.”
“They’re too chaotic for their own good. Usually, I stay out of it, but lately, they’ve been making things difficult around here. And killing horses? That would be a new low, one that might suggest they planned to attack the inn. That’s why I went outside last night.”
“And you have the training to fight them?”
His lips curve into a dangerous smile. “It didn’t escape my notice that you also went outside, Swynwraig.”
And it doesn’t escapemynotice that he didn’t answer my question.
“Yes, well, that was after I saw the firebirds.”
“So you thought you might help,” he murmurs, leaning just slightly closer. “Tell me, how exactly what that work? You left the Order. Surely they took your talisman.” His gaze flicks over me. “Which means you can’t wield their magic anymore.”
He knows about the talismans. Interesting. Most people don’t. How would he…?
