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Nodding, Henrik crosses the tavern to speak with the apothecary.

Harlon joins us, but his smile is calculating. “Going so soon?”

The barman passes next to us, his hands full with the tray he was just preparing.

Suddenly, Harlon jabs out his elbow, causing the tray to tip. The tankards fall, thoroughly dousing Ayan before they careen to the ground and fill the room with the sound of shattering earthenware.

The barman gasps as he turns toward Ayan.

“Shame,” Harlon says evenly. “Best take off your cloak. I’ll have my daughter launder it and return it to you before you leave in the morning.”

“It’s fine,” Ayan says in a tone that’s deeper than his everyday speaking voice. He keeps his eyes cast down, ensuring the hood shadows his face.

“What did you say your name was again?” Harlon asks.

“I didn’t.”

Harlon bends his knees to peer up at Ayan from under his hood. Ayan turns away, but it’s no use.

“Come now, it’s too hot for a cloak in this weather, and you certainly don’t want to wear it soaked in ale.”

“I’m fine,” Ayan insists.

We’re in trouble. Other elves have noticed the odd exchange, and they’re closing in around us. Henrik watches us from across the room, assessing the situation as he speaks with the apothecary.

“The least you can do is look at me while we’re speaking. Don’t you have any manners?” Harlon steps directly in front of Ayan.

Ayan catches Harlon’s hand as he attempts to throw the hood back. “Speak for yourself.”

“Are you disfigured?” Harlon asks with a laughing sneer.

“He’s shy,” I say, inserting myself between them, smiling up at Harlon. “Doesn’t do well in crowds—gets all panicky.”

Ayan suddenly swears behind me, and the crowd gasps. Harlon’s eyes move from me to Ayan, and grim satisfaction darkens his features.

Filled with dread, I whirl around.

Sure enough, someone came up from behind and ripped Ayan’s hood back, revealing the elf in all his criminal glory.

Bartholomew and Lawrence look baffled, but judging from Ayan’s defiant expression, he is well aware he’s a wanted man.

“Capture him,” Harlon commands.

Chaos breaks out around us. Ayan elbows the man behind him in the stomach, and then he whips around and punches him in the face.

More elves press in around us, and here I am with nothing but a bow that’s practically worthless in close quarters.

Lawrence grabs me around the waist, swinging me out of the way when a man makes a grab for me. Flames flare past my shoulder, licking hot against my bare skin. Lawrence snarls as the fire hits him, and then he turns to find his attacker. He draws his sword, wasting no time to cross the room.

“Out of the tavern!” Henrik hollers as he fights his way through the crowd.

I’m just nocking an arrow, determined to do my fair share, when someone grabs hold of my hair and roughly pulls my head back. My vision temporarily blurs as the shocking pain overtakes me. When the initial surprise wears off, I jab the arrow over my shoulder and into my attacker’s chest. With little force behind it, it barely penetrates his flesh—but it’s painful enough he releases me with a howl.

As I circle back, remembering my little knife, a tiny warrior flies through the air, screaming like a banshee.

“Maisel!” I gasp.

With a club that’s nearly as big as she is, Maisel knocks out my opponent. He crumples to the floor, likely having no idea what hit him.