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Recovering my wits, I summon a frosty glare while rubbing my wrist. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Who said I was helping you? Maybe I came to rescue that poor bastard before you robbed him of the ability to reproduce.”
That earns him an inadvertent smile. “Well, when you put it that way, I’m pretty sure you owe the world an apology.”
He chuckles, and the velvety rasp skates over my skin. “You may be right about that, princess.”
My smile vanishes. “What did you call me?”
“I mean no offense. Just keep your guard up, okay? There are dangerous people about tonight.”
I fix him with a pointed stare. “I’m guessing you’d know all about that.”
He shrugs but doesn’t argue.
After allowing myself one last lingering glance, I glide away. I sense him tracking me through the bustling tavern to the rear entrance, until I open the door and slip into the night.
Chapter Two
Agnar
I study the closed door for far longer than I should. I’ve known the mysterious woman for all of five seconds, and she’s already the most interesting thing that’s happened to me since I crossed the ocean and entered Meridia.
With a reluctant sigh, I return to my warm ale. As fetching as she was, I’m not here to work on my love life. Accounts of strange occurrences have reached Tirene, and I’m in the eastern kingdom to observe and report back to Sterling and Lark Barda, the King and Queen of Tirene and two of my closest friends.
Still, the woman’s swift dismissal irks me for some unfathomable reason.
Frowning, I toss back a few gulps of the brew—slightly acidic, but I’ve ingested far worse during my time as a soldier—and toe away the rat trying to chew my bootlaces. According to everything I’ve heard, Meridia is bucolic, fertile, and peaceful. A kingdom that represents the epitome of bounty with happy citizens tending to magical beasts and fertile lands.
The disgruntled murmurs, weary postures, grim expressions, and shifty eyes hint at a different story, though.
“…the king’s off somewhere again.” A wiry man with sallow skin two tables over leans close to his companion. “Closeted with his advisors, they say. Been that way for weeks.”
His companion’s dull tone matches his dust-covered clothing. “Talking won’t bring the harvest back.”
“More like he’s hiding. Staying safe and secure with his larder packed full and wine cellar stocked while we struggle. That’s why they slapped a curfew on us, so we don’t disrupt their noble sleep with our suffering.” The first man drains his mug, slamming the empty cup to the table.
A new voice rises behind me. “My cousin’s whole orchard went gray last month. Everything tastes like ash.”
“Heard the same about the grain stores in Millbrook.”
A middle-aged woman with rolled up sleeves and dirt under her nails sniffles. “The Graywatch took Miriam last night because she had ‘early signs.’ She was just tired, like everyone—”
A broad-shouldered man with a potato-like face pats her on the back. “Every day, more of the godsdamned wealthy run away to the countryside, leaving the rest of us to rot.”
His drinking partner nods. “The pampered asses think they can afford not to care.”
I cock my head as they gossip about destroyed fields and the strange, spreading sickness.
A chill brushes across the back of my neck like a winter’s breeze through a cracked window, and every instinct braces for danger. Nothing’s there except for the usual bar patrons and an odd, distorted ripple passing over the candlelight.
“Henry?” The woman’s panic wrenches my focus away from the eerie light.
The potato-faced man sits motionless, his mouth hanging open.
The woman snaps her fingers in front of him. “Henry? What’s wrong?”
No response. The man’s eyes appear as vacant as a doll’s.
