Page 16

Someone played a jolly tale on the fiddle, candles flickering and illuminating variously filled tables, plates stuffed with baked potatoes and meat stew.

Apparently, many others had the idea of rescuing themselves from the storm in the coziness of the inn. She swiped the rain from her forehead, her once-white strands now rather categorized as soft blonde due to the wetness.

The only blessing she apparently received that day.

One could still hear the storm brewing outside. But now it only seemed like a cosy background noise.

Stalking over to the counter, she felt the eyes of a few men follow her but she rather not meet their gazes. She kept her chin high when she slapped the bird onto the counter, catching the attention of a tall man behind.

A checked cloth in his hands wrapped around the glass he was cleaning, his blue eyes roving over her form.

The sleeves of his long shirt were rolled up, revealing a map of tattoos that fit perfectly to his brutish looks.

His red beard was bushy and long, competing with the curly mane on his head. His skin had the same colour as Lulva‘s, indicating his heritage originating in the southern kingdom. Good, a foreigner, it was more likely he would pay her for it.

“How much for the bird?” The moment she uttered the sentence, the men occupying the counter and enjoying their midday beers erupted into a chaos of dirty laughter.

She stood her ground, staring at the man who hadn’t looked away from her.

She raised a brow and waited for his answer.

“Five Gulls.”

“What?” A man exclaimed beside her.

“You cannot be serious, Keano, this Kupua isn’t allowed to sell.”

She turned her head towards him. “Says who?”

“The law! Witches are not allowed to make any gold, just trades.”

She clenched her teeth, trying to hold back her anger. She was cold, soaked to the bone and she only wanted to slip under the blankets of a bed to rest for a few hours.

To not deal with Lukas and his stupid wishes, chores at the orphanage or anyone spitting on her heritage.

She reined in her anger, compromising to be pliable like always, and turned back to the man named Keano.

“Five is too little. This is a rough-legged hawk and at least worth eighteen.”

The man stopped cleaning the glasses, putting his arms on the counter in front of her.

“Who guarantees me that you shot the bird and you didn’t steal it from someone?” His voice was gruff.

“I do.”

“And what is your word worth?” She dug her nails into the palm of her hands.

“As much as is yours.” Something glinted in his blue eyes before he picked up the rag.

“Fifteen, moon girl.”

Blanching at the nickname, she nodded. “Fine.”

“Keano!” the man protested and a wave of satisfaction rolled through her.

“Quiet. Is this your place?” said Keano.

The man shut down immediately, probably scared he would not be served anymore at his place.