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ARATON
The mountain roads on the way to New Solas are rugged and unforgiving, even to those with the advantage of wings. I've been forced to land three times already because of sudden wind gusts powerful enough to snap a xaphan's wing if they're not careful. The satchel full of Lord Ithuriel's correspondence weighs heavy against my hip, the brass clasp digging uncomfortably through my tunic. A particularly important parcel sits nestled inside, wrapped in gold-leaf paper that costs more than most humans make in a year.
Soimur disappears behind me as I soar past the last ridge of The Ridge, the silver spires of the city's noble district gleaming in the afternoon light. I'm anxious to reach New Solas before nightfall, when the lamps turn the city into a sea of gold light. The trip normally takes a single day of flying, but the winds have not been kind, and my supplies are running dangerously low.
I scan the horizon, wings beating steadily against the currents. There—nestled in the valley below, a small human settlement. Not much to look at—a cluster of stone buildings with thatched roofs, smoke curling from chimneys, the kind of place most xaphan wouldn't bother with. My lip curls slightly atthe thought of mingling with humans, but my canteen is nearly empty, and I'd rather not arrive in New Solas looking haggard and thirsty.
I tuck my wings close and dive, controlling my descent with practiced ease. I land at the edge of the settlement, straightening my tunic and running a hand through my windblown hair. No sense looking disheveled, even if it's just humans who'll see me.
The village is quiet but not deserted. I notice immediately how human gazes drop or slide away as I pass. A child stares openly until his mother snatches him inside with a harsh whisper. The tension is palpable but familiar—many human settlements beyond New Solas hold little love for our kind.
A weathered sign reading "Supplies & Sundries" catches my eye. Perfect. I roll my shoulders back and stride toward it, ignoring the whispers that follow. The shop door creaks as I push it open, a small bell announcing my arrival.
The interior is dim but well-stocked—shelves lined with preserved foods, tools, fabrics, and an impressive array of goods for such a modest establishment. No shopkeeper in sight, though. I flex my wings slightly, the dusky gray feathers catching what little light filters through the dusty windows.
"Be right with you," calls a female voice from the back room.
"Take your time," I answer, my voice carrying the natural resonance all xaphan possess. I trail my fingers along a shelf of jarred preserves, examining the neat handwritten labels.
The sound of something heavy being dropped echoes from the back room, followed by hurried footsteps. A moment later, a woman emerges through the curtained doorway. She stops dead, her gray eyes widening before narrowing to slits.
Her hair is the color of autumn leaves, deep auburn pulled back in a practical braid that doesn't quite contain the wild strands framing her face. She's striking in a way I wasn't expecting—all sharp angles and tension, like a bow drawn tight.Her sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing toned forearms dusted with freckles.
She sees me, and something in her posture changes—becomes tighter, more dangerous.
"Get out." Her voice is cold as mountain water.
I raise an eyebrow, amused rather than offended. "I've barely arrived."
"And now you can leave." She's coming around the counter now, moving with a purpose that's almost predatory. Closer, I can see a faint scar across her collarbone, peeking out from her simple linen shirt. "We don't serve your kind here."
"My kind?" I place a hand to my chest in mock offense. "You wound me, truly. And here I was, ready to pay double what your goods are worth."
"I don't want your money." She's only feet away now, close enough that I catch her scent—something earthy with hints of woodsmoke. "There's another village ten miles east. Try there."
A smile plays at my lips. Most humans stammer and bow in my presence, cowed by centuries of conditioning. This one looks ready to throw me out personally. "Does this hostile welcome extend to all travelers, or am I special?"
"Only to winged messengers of false gods who think gold buys them passage anywhere." Her eyes flash, and for a moment, I see something beyond anger—grief, perhaps, or a deeper hurt.
I lean forward slightly, enjoying how she stands her ground even as I breach her space. "You don't know the first thing about me."
"I know enough." She crosses her arms. "I know you work for someone important enough to afford those fancy clothes and that polished manner. I know you think you're doing this backwater village a favor by gracing us with your presence."
"Actually," I step closer still, "I'm just thirsty." I let my gaze drift deliberately to her mouth before returning to her eyes, injecting the word with double meaning.
A flush creeps up her neck, anger and something else sparking in her eyes. "You can die of thirst for all I care."
"That seems extreme for someone you've just met." I reach out, quick as lightning, and catch a loose strand of her hair between my fingers. "What's your name, fierce one?"
She slaps my hand away, and the contact sends an unexpected jolt through me. "None of your business. Now get out of my shop before I throw you out."
I laugh, genuinely entertained. "I'd like to see you try."
"Ronnie!" A voice calls from outside. "Everything all right in there?"
Ah, Ronnie. It suits her—sharp and quick, like her tongue.