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The man down the bar grows more vocal, and my new friend flashes me an apologetic look. “I’ll check on you again in a bit. Let me know if you need anything.”

When he’s gone, I eat the soup slowly, pretending the carrot and limp celery medley is more satisfying than it really is.

“What’s another word for listless?” the elf suddenly asks me, glancing my way for the first time. Before I can answer him, he narrows his eyes at the wall across from us. “Lethargic? Torpid?”

Coming to a decision all on his own, he returns to his notebook.

I lean forward and crane my head to the side to get a better look at him. “I know you.”

The vulture-healing elf glances over, looking as if his mind is still on his journal. Then his eyes focus on my face, and his friendly, if slightly bemused, expression turns into a scowl. “Oh. It’s you.”

Bird killer.

He needn’t say it—I know what he’s thinking.

“What are you doing all the way up here?” I ask.

Before he answers, he glances at his journal longingly. Then, as if deciding he can’t be rude—even to the likes of me—he flips the leather cover closed and meticulously wraps the long lacing around it several times before tying a tidy knot. He then clasps his hands in his lap and angles his body toward me. “I’m going to the Furlaskin Ruins.”

“Where are those?” I ask.

His rich brown eyes widen with shock, and he lets out a tiny gasp.

He has fine, delicate features, full lips, and high cheekbones. His light brown hair is long and silky, and he wears it loose about his shoulders. The truth is, he’s prettier than I am, but in a masculine way.

Pushing the dregs of the soup aside, I place my elbow on the bar and rest my cheek on the palm of my hand—too late remembering the sticky spot. Grimacing, I sit up and glare at my elbow. “I take it I should know?”

“They’re to the far north, the last once-settlement before the land meets the ocean.” Frowning, he produces a handkerchief and dips it into the tankard in front of him.

I move back when he attempts to take my arm.

“It’s water,” he says impatiently, giving me no choice but to hold still while he first cleans my elbow and then the table. “The wine here is appalling.”

“What’s your name again?” I ask.

“Pranmore,” he says after the slightest pause—as if maybe he doesn’t want to give a sinister vulture murderess the information.

“Why are you going to the ruins, Pranmore?”

His expression becomes faraway and dreamy. “There is something indescribably beautiful about nature taking back its territory—trees growing through once-mighty foundations, wildflowers blossoming upon the graves of those who trampled their predecessors. It’s magnificent—the natural world in its purest, most powerful form.” He glances at my bow and wrinkles his nose. “But I suppose you wouldn’t understand.”

He’s right—I don’t really. I like trees and flowers as much as the next girl, but I am also quite fond of heated running water and all the other creations the High Vale elves so cleverly engineered with their magic.

“Aren’t you worried about the aynauths?” I ask.

Pranmore sits a little straighter. “Aynauths are one of nature’s creatures, just like you and me. As long as I do not provoke them, they will leave me be.”

“You heard that aynauths eat…deer?” I pointedly look at his prominent rack of antlers.

The elf clears his throat, and his fair cheeks flush with color. “As I said, I have nothing to fear.”

“All right then.” Finished with my meal and eager to sleep in a real bed for the night, I slip from my seat. “Best of luck with your travels.”

Without hesitation, he goes back to his journal. “You as well.”

I stop by the inn’s heated bathhouse, intending to fully enjoy Vallen ingenuity.

An attendant unlocks the door to the women’s rooms, and I step inside.