I moved to join them, lowering myself onto the bench. A barmaid pressed a mug into my hand before I could refuse. The ale burned sharper than I remembered, but it was clean. I drank, and the fire went down easy.
Santiago launched into a story—louder now, his words slurring just enough to betray the wine. “Did I ever tell you,” he said, arm tightening around Lysara, “how Iwoodedher in the prison?”
“Wooed,” Lysara corrected dryly, though her lips curved.
“No, no, I meantwooded.” His grin widened, daring her to stop him. “See, we weren’t supposed to have anything sharp, right? Prisoners and all. But I stole a splinter of cedar from a cart the guards rolled in. Hid it in my boot for weeks.” He leaned forward like he was sharing a state secret. “And with that little scrap of wood, I carved her a rose. Petals, thorns, everything.”
Lysara shook her head, but she wasn’t hiding the warmth inher eyes. “You gave me something the size of a thumb, barely recognizable.”
“It was art!” he protested, thumping his chest. “A rose. The most beautiful rose that ever existed. For the most beautiful woman, naturally. And you kept it.”
Her gaze flicked down to her lap for a heartbeat before she met his again. “Because no one had ever given me something that was mine to keep.”
The table went quiet for a breath too long. Santiago—maybe sensing the weight creeping in—grinned crookedly and raised his mug. “So yes, Iwoodedher. And she never stood a chance.”
Lysara rolled her eyes, but her laugh—low, unguarded—broke the moment like a spark splitting tinder.
Their bickering tugged at the corners of my mouth in ways I didn’t expect.
I drank again.
The warmth spread faster than it should have. My edges softened, the weight in my chest easing just a fraction. For the first time in centuries, I wasn’t holding a line, wasn’t bracing for the strike. I let myself lean back and listen.
Maybe it was the ale. Maybe it was the noise. Maybe it was being surrounded by people who weren’t waiting for orders, or waiting to die. For a flicker of a moment, I belonged.
But belonging was a dangerous thing.
I tipped the mug again anyway.
Lysara’s laughter broke through—unrestrained, genuine, sharp as glass and bright as flame.
Santiago looked at her like he’d just been given the sun. My chest tightened at the sight. It was a reminder of what I’d kept locked away, what I’d told myself I couldn’t have.
The mug in my hand went empty faster than I realized. I set it down with a quiet thud, the room tilting just slightly. The doorswung. Aurelia stepped in, and the noise of the tavern dimmed in my ears. Her hair was loose, a few damp strands clinging where she’d smoothed them back. She wore a loose tunic, the neckline dipping low enough to reveal the scar that carved its path across her chest. Tight brown leathers hugged her legs, boots laced to her knees. She looked less like a girl pressed raw by fate, and more like the woman fate had been warned about.
She caught sight of me. And smiled. It was small. Quick. But it landed with more force than the ale in my blood.
She crossed the room without hesitation, sliding onto the bench beside me. The brush of her shoulder against mine set every nerve sparking awake.
I turned toward her, unable to keep the words from leaving my mouth. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Her lips curved, a spark in her eyes. “Hopefully not for long.”
“Just my entire life.”
For a heartbeat, silence hung between us. Then her hand drifted along the rim of the cup that had been placed in front of her before she glanced at me again. The warmth in my chest wasn’t the drink anymore.
48
Aurelia
The tavern was alive.
Boots stomped in rhythm to a drum somewhere in the corner. Voices rose in song, off-key but joyful. Gabriel’s arm pressed into mine on one side; Malachi’s steady warmth was on the other.
Gabriel leaned in, voice lowered but sharp enough that a few heads turned. Almost a whisper-shout. “Where’s Eryndis? Did you see her?”
“I did,” I said carefully. “We spoke. She said she was tired—went to retire to her home.”