Page 19

Chapter 18

T he Cozy Hearth inn was unrecognizable. What was usually a modest, worn space had become something else entirely—something vibrant, alive.

Silks in deep reds and bright golds draped from the rafters, their edges moving in slow, enchanted ripples as if stirring beneath invisible hands. The hearthfires had been altered, burning in shifting hues of green and blue. Spell-woven lanterns hung suspended in the air, which carried the thick scent of roasting meat, spiced honey, and a dozen unfamiliar spices. Voices layered over the music—low orcish rumbles, elven lilt, human laughter, something chittering in a dialect I didn't recognize.

I tightened my grip on my shawl, suddenly very aware of how out of place I must look.

“You look beautiful,” Iris murmured. Then, after a beat, “And if you pull that neckline up one more time, I will cut it lower.”

I shot her a skeptical glance. She had arrived at my door an hour ago, carrying a dress I hadn't worn in years—one I'd tucked away after my father died, when practicality became more important than beauty. Deep blue with copper embroidery, it hugged my waist before falling in soft pleats to just above my ankles. The neckline was lower than I normally wore, leaving the tops of my breasts exposed. I'd forgotten how it felt to wear something simply because it made me feel good, not just because it was practical.

"I look like I'm trying too hard," I muttered.

"Yes, because everyone here is so plainly dressed ," Iris said dryly, gesturing to the vibrant crowd.

My eyes swept the room. The caravan had drawn all manner of people—a one-eyed elven woman with star charts tattooed up her arms, laughing deeply at something her companion said; a human boy no more than sixteen with burn scars tracing up his palms and a strange fire-gleam in his eyes; a silent dwarven woman tending the bar, her beard braided with tiny silver bells.

They touched easily, laughed freely, spoke in half-finished sentences as if everyone already knew the endings. I didn't know how to stand here, how to be. These weren't my people. This wasn't my world.

But then, something familiar caught my eye. Near the back of the room, slightly removed from the heart of the crowd, sat Kazrek with Vorgrim and Uldrek. His broad frame was relaxed against the sturdy wooden bench, arms resting loosely on the table as he listened to something Vorgrim was saying.

As if sensing my gaze, Kazrek turned his head.

For a moment, the room shrank down to just that look. He took me in—slowly, deliberately. His eyes swept over me, lingering for a fraction longer than was proper at the dip of my neckline, the curve of my waist. Then he stood and crossed the room.

"You came," he said, his voice low, just for me.

"I did," I replied, lifting my chin.

Kazrek’s eyes searched mine for a moment before stepping aside. “Selior isn’t here yet,” he admitted. “But sit with us. Eat. There’s time.”

It wasn’t quite a request, but it wasn’t a command either. Just a quiet certainty, like he already expected me at his side. My heart beat a little faster. Not from fear—just the way it always did when he looked at me like that.

I stepped forward. Into the noise, into the color, into the warmth of unfamiliar magic—drawn to him, before I could think better of it.

The caravan folk didn’t treat me like an outsider, exactly. Instead, they treated me like something new. A curiosity. A story they had only just begun to figure out.

An older man with curling, salt-grey hair pressed a carved wooden charm into my hand without a word. When I frowned down at it, he gave me a knowing look. “Safe dreams,” he said, before turning back to his drink as if that explained everything.

A sprightly woman wearing tattered silks stopped briefly in front of me, inhaling deeply with a pleased hum before vanishing into the throng.

Then, an elven woman with a braid like woven silver sidled up and tucked something warm into my hands—a honeyed roll, fresh from the oven. “You look underfed,” she said simply.

I let out something between a breath and a laugh, genuine and startled all at once. And it surprised me how easy it was to soften into this. To let the sharp edges of myself dull for a moment.

Iris, distracted by a figure draped in shimmering dusk-blue, sent me one last grin before disappearing into the press of bodies, leaving me alone with Kazrek, who extended his hand, palm up, calloused and steady. I hesitated just a moment before slipping my hand into his. His fingers curled around mine, warm and sure, anchoring me amidst the unfamiliar.

He guided me to where Vorgrim and Uldrek sat, the two orcs leaning back into their seats like men who knew they belonged wherever they decided to be. A few other caravan folk clustered nearby, passing around platters of roasted meat and spiced vegetables, their conversation interwoven with laughter and the occasional flash of magic flickering between fingers.

As Kazrek and I sat, Uldrek’s smirk widened. “Well, now,” he drawled, raising his tankard. “Didn’t think we’d see the day our Kazrek brought a woman to the fire.”

Kazrek rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. Vorgrim watched from behind his mug, gaze flicking between us, unreadable as ever.

I stiffened, out of habit more than anything. But when I glanced at Kazrek, he looked… patient. A little resigned. Like he’d heard this all before.

So I met Uldrek’s smirk with one of my own. “Oh? And what exactly does that mean?”

Uldrek rubbed his chin, mock thoughtful. “Let’s just say Kazrek’s not one to linger,” he said, shooting Kazrek a look. “Not in battle, not in caravans, and sure as hell not where people might start relying on him.”

Kazrek’s mouth twitched, but his eyes didn’t match the humor.

I decided it was time to nudge the mood back toward safer ground. “So... he usually has poor taste?”

Uldrek choked on his drink. Vorgrim made a low sound—maybe a laugh, maybe approval. Hard to tell.

Kazrek shook his head, half amused, half suffering. “Eat,” he said, nudging a plate toward me. “And stop encouraging him.”

The conversation stretched into something easy after that. They spoke of small things—of places they’d been on their travels, of strange superstitions they’d come across in distant towns, of a hedge-mage with a talent for charms gone humorously wrong. It was a side of Kazrek I hadn’t seen before—one surrounded by history and laughter, built on years of trust rather than the weight of responsibility. He was still Kazrek—quiet and steady—but there was a looseness to him here, a rare ease in his posture.

I found myself watching him more than was proper.

Uldrek, catching my gaze, smirked. "Not what you expected?" he asked, leaning in with theatrically conspiratorial interest.

I raised an eyebrow, pretending nonchalance. "Kazrek's capable of conversation. It's not exactly shocking."

"Mm." Uldrek gestured lazily at his friend, setting his tankard down with a dull thunk. "He always was the serious one. Even as a pup, he was the kind to sharpen his blade twice before using it. But we used to get him to laugh, now and then.”

Kazrek made a low sound of disapproval. “And usually at my expense.”

I couldn’t help the way my lips twitched. "Must have been a patient child, then."

"Oh, absolutely not." Uldrek grinned, leaning back into his chair. "Kazrek was the kind who wouldn't let a mistake go until he fixed it himself. Stubborn as a mountain."

Vorgrim hummed his agreement, resting his elbows on the table. "It suited him for warfare. But for healing…" He paused, considering his words. "He had to learn how to let go."

I turned to Kazrek, curious. "And did you?"

Kazrek’s gaze flicked to mine, steady. “I’m still learning,” he said. No self-deprecation. No bravado. Just truth.

I held his gaze a moment too long, something uneasy shifting in my chest. I looked away before I gave too much away.

The night stretched on in warmth and conversation. It was different from the controlled, structured life I'd built for myself—the unwavering discipline of routine, of filling my hours until exhaustion kept the fears at bay. This was… loosened. A life that moved in the small spaces between duty. For once, I let myself sit in it.

Eventually, the feast began to slow. The air had taken on a lazier quality, softened by full bellies and too much mead. Laughter gave way to quieter conversations, murmured songs, and the occasional burst of low, contented humming.

Vorgrim had been drawn into a circle of traveling healers near the firepit. I caught fragments of their conversation—some old field technique for breaking fevers, talk of a rare root that could numb bone pain. He seemed more animated than I’d seen him all evening, his gravel-deep voice lifting as he gestured with a clay cup.

Uldrek had disappeared with little ceremony, last seen slipping between two velvet-draped curtains with one of the tavern girls. Kazrek only shook his head when I asked. “He’ll reappear with a new story. Or two.”

I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach all the way through. My body was warm from drink, my limbs loose and comfortable—but something in my chest had begun to tighten again, coiling with the knowledge that Selior still hadn’t arrived. The rune. Maeve. Everything I was trying not to think about.

I pushed back from the table and stood, brushing invisible crumbs from my skirts. “I need air,” I murmured.

Kazrek’s eyes lifted to mine instantly. “Too much mead?”

“Too much everything,” I said with a small smile.

I slipped away, weaving through clusters of chairs and half-dozing revelers sprawled on cushions and rugs. As I reached the doorway, I caught the silvery-haired elven woman from earlier humming under her breath, a little dish of starlight-colored powder glimmering in her palm.

Outside, the night air was crisp and cool. The Cozy Heart’s porch was strung with dim lanterns, their glow just enough to push back the shadows.

I leaned against the railing, exhaling slowly.

The city was quieter out here. The thrum of magic and laughter behind me gave way to the more familiar sounds—distant boots on cobblestones, a dog barking somewhere far off, the soft rustle of wind through paper streamers left from the Night Market.

I wasn’t used to this kind of stillness—the kind that didn’t demand anything of me. No customers. No Maeve tugging at my sleeve. No ink to grind or orders to fill. Just… quiet.

It should have felt like peace.

Instead, it felt like waiting.

I turned the carved charm the old man had given me over in my hands, fingers tracing its smooth edges. A spiral pattern ran across its face, etched in careful, looping lines. Safe dreams , he’d said. I wasn’t sure I remembered what those were.

Behind me, the door creaked, and I didn’t need to look to know who it was. I felt Kazrek’s presence the same way I felt gravity.

He didn’t speak at first. Just came to stand beside me, leaning his forearms on the railing. We stood like that for a moment, staring into the quiet dark.

I looked up at him. “Do you think Selior is avoiding us?”

Kazrek’s jaw worked slightly. “I think… sometimes people know when trouble’s walking toward them. And they get smart about staying out of the way.”

I let that sit for a beat. Then, softly: “So, he thinks we’re trouble.”

Kazrek glanced sideways at me, his profile lit by the faint lantern glow. “You’re asking questions most people are afraid to say aloud. That makes you dangerous. Or brave. Depends on who you ask.”

I looked back out over the quiet street. “Do you think I’m brave?”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then, softly, “I think you’re the only one who doesn’t know you are.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. My throat was too tight. I wrapped my shawl tighter around my shoulders. Kazrek remained silent, standing with his hands braced at his sides, looking out over the field. The moonlight cast silver edges along his features, sharpening the lines of his jaw, the slope of his tusks. He looked steady here. Solid and vast, like the earth itself.

After a long moment, I took a breath. “Do you miss them?” I asked, my voice quiet.

Kazrek’s dark eyes flickered toward me, unreadable.

“Your people,” I clarified. “The ones you left behind.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I think… I was meant to stop somewhere. And see what could grow.”

“So you chose Everwood,” I murmured.

“I did.” Kazrek glanced at me then, something searching in his gaze. “And you? You’ve stayed here your whole life. Was it ever a choice?”

I exhaled, my fingers tightening around the edges of my shawl. “No,” I admitted. “But it had to be this way.”

He turned more fully toward me at that. There was no pity on his face—just quiet understanding. “For Maeve.”

“And for the shop,” I said. “For my father’s work, for my family’s name. It had to be me.”

Kazrek was watching me too closely now. “And if you could leave?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I wouldn't know how.” The thought of leaving felt too big—like trying to unmake the shape of myself.

“Then maybe…” His voice turned softer, like the whisper of wind through leaves. “Maybe it’s not about leaving. Maybe it’s about choosing. About where you let yourself root.”

The door to the inn creaked open again, releasing a burst of warmth and laughter. Iris stumbled out, cheeks flushed from wine and dancing.

"I'm heading home," she announced, her usual sharp wit softened by mead and merriment. "Before I lose what's left of my voice to all this flirting."

I turned toward her automatically, the familiar pull of routine nudging at me. It would be sensible to leave now and return to my quiet shop and carefully ordered life. To step back into the person I knew how to be.

But then Kazrek's presence shifted beside me—not reaching, not asking, just... there. I looked at him, really looked at him, and saw what he'd been trying to tell me. Maybe staying didn't have to feel like chains. Maybe it could feel like this—like choosing to plant yourself somewhere and seeing what might grow.

"Go on," I told Iris softly. "I think I'll stay. Just a little longer."

Iris's knowing smile was the last thing I saw before she disappeared into the night. Then it was just us again, standing in the space between the warmth behind us and the cool dark ahead.

I turned back to the hearthfires glowing through the windows, to the soft flicker of magic drifting through the rafters. To him.

And for once, I didn't think about what I had to do.

I thought about what I wanted to choose.