EVERLY
The moon peersdown at me as the portly man shoves me into the cold night air, warning me I better be ready to spy for them in the morning.
I straighten my shoulders and gather my cloak around myself. The last thing I need is to freeze to death.
As I make my way through the streets, fear creeps into my heart—fear of failure, of ending up like that red-haired woman.
Earlier, I had thought these streets were so freeing, so different from Astarobane. Now, I wonder if they are truly that different. Maybe this city is even worse.
At least in Astarobane, no one ever kidnapped me. They abused me, turned away when I passed, and threw red poppies at me one day in the market, but they never kidnapped me or asked me to spy for them. Probably because they’d rather have a sewer rat spy for them than an outsider.
I shiver and curse the icy bite of this mountain city’s nights compared to the warmth I’m used to back home.
Home.
The word pierces my heart as I reach for the bag tied to my waist and pull out Kassandra’s fox.
Will I ever see her again? Ever sit by the fireplace, listening to Grandmother spin tales of the old days? Though lately, she keeps saying Hector is the rising sun, the one who will bring magic to our people, but I cannot bring myself to believe her.
Magic will never return to the Bloodstone tribe. The gods cursed us for a reason. Grandmother just refuses to see it.
Besides, nobody has seen Hector, Roland’s son, in many summers. At least, I haven’t seen him. Maybe Cenric has. After all, he’s his cousin.
As I continue walking, my thoughts shift back to my current situation. I must survive and find a way back to the family I love, back to the life I knew before I came here.
I wander through the streets, unsure of my exact destination but knowing I need to put as much distance between myself and those men as possible. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since last night.
Food. I need food.
And a drink.
Or three.
I spot a sign hanging above a doorway that reads,Bottom of the Barrel.
Determined to drink enough to forget being kidnapped, I push open the door, and the smell of stale ale and sweat hits me like a punch of cold air.
The ale house is dimly lit by a few scattered torches. The wooden walls are grimy, and the floor is sticky with spilled drinks and who-knows-what else.
A fire crackles in the hearth at the far end of the room, casting an amber glow over the patrons hunched over their mugs. The low murmur of conversation fills the air, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the clink of tankards.
I make my way to the bar, weaving through the crowd of men and women. Some are dressed in the plain clothes of laborers, others in the finer garments of merchants or tradesmen. Yet, they all share the same look in their eyes—a resignation to the lot life has dealt them.
Unfortunately, I know that look. I see it in the looking glass every damn day.
Near the end of the bar, I lean against it, trying to catch the attention of the barkeep, a burly man with a thick beard and a scowl that could curdle milk.
“What’ll it be?” he asks, not even looking up from the tankard he’s wiping with a cloth.
“Ale, please. And whatever you’ve got in the way of food.”
When he turns to fill a tankard from one of the barrels behind the bar, I take a moment to survey the room, my eyes scanning the faces of the other patrons.
That’s when I see him.
Cenric.
My heart skips a beat. Well, almost. It feels like it’s slipping, falling, pounding.
