Page 13

T he Broken Spoke sat at the junction between Everwood's Heart District and the western quarter, a sturdy stone building with smoke curling from its chimney and lanterns casting warm pools of light across its entrance.

It wasn't elegant or refined, but it wasn't dangerous either—just honest, unpretentious.

I hesitated at the door, my cloak drawn tight around me despite the mild evening.

Through the windows, I could see the interior: a low-ceilinged room filled with wooden tables and mismatched chairs, frequented by laborers, guards, and traveling merchants.

The sound of conversation and laughter spilled out each time someone entered or left, along with the rich smells of roasting meat and spiced cider.

I'd never been inside. Since arriving in Everwood, I'd kept to quiet paths—the Archives, Tinderpost House, the training yard. Safe places. Known places. This was different. A step into something unfamiliar.

But then, everything about tonight was unfamiliar.

I hadn’t known exactly where to find him.

I started at the training yard, though I knew he wouldn’t be there this late.

One of the fighters—an older half-elf with a bandaged hand—had glanced up from sharpening his blade and nodded toward the west. “Wolfsbane drinks at the Spoke, more often than not.”

So I’d followed the narrowing streets until the wooden sign swung into view: a broken wheel hanging from its post.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, slipping inside and standing for a moment in the entryway, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer light.

The tavern was busy but not overcrowded.

A large hearth dominated the far wall, bathing the room in golden light and comforting warmth.

Overhead, iron chandeliers held dozens of candles, their flames reflected in the polished surface of the bar that ran along one side of the room.

Uldrek stood at the far end of the bar, one elbow resting on its wooden surface, a heavy mug in his hand.

He was talking to the barkeep—a broad-shouldered human woman with gray-streaked hair—his expression relaxed, almost at ease.

He smiled at something she said, a genuine smile that softened the hard edges of his face and made the scar across his nose crinkle slightly.

I felt a strange flutter in my chest. This was a side of Uldrek I hadn't seen before—not the watchful protector or the patient teacher, but simply a man enjoying a quiet drink, comfortable in his own skin.

His presence seemed to fill more space than his actual size, drawing eyes without effort.

Even in the mixed company of the tavern, his orcish features stood out—the pronounced tusks made more visible when he smiled, the sharp angle of his jaw, the deep green of his skin catching the warm light.

He looked... good. The realization caught me off guard.

As if sensing my gaze, he glanced up, his eyes finding me immediately across the crowded room. Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe concern—before he straightened, his casual demeanor shifting into the more watchful stance I recognized.

I made my way toward him, weaving between tables. By the time I reached the bar, Uldrek had turned fully toward me, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Well," he said, "this is unexpected. Everything alright?"

"Yes," I said, surprised to find it wasn't entirely a lie. I wasn't calm, exactly, but I wasn't afraid either. "I just… wanted to talk to you."

"Must be important to bring you into this den of iniquity," he said, his mouth quirking up at one corner. "Don't tell me—Ellie's finally sick of my face and you're here to break the news gently?"

The joke eased something in my chest. Familiar ground, even here in this unfamiliar place.

"Actually," I said, "Ellie's with Leilan and Gruha tonight."

His eyebrows rose at that. He knew how significant it was—I'd never left her before, not even for an hour. Not with anyone.

"Then I definitely need to buy you a drink," he said, gesturing to the empty stool beside him. "Sit. Before you change your mind and run back to check on her."

I slid onto the stool, still keeping my cloak wrapped around me despite the warmth of the tavern. Uldrek nodded to the barkeep, who approached with an expectant expression.

"Bren, this is Issy," he said. "She needs something… what do you like?" He turned to me, suddenly uncertain.

"Something spiced," I said, my voice soft. "Just small."

Bren nodded and moved away to prepare my drink. I noticed how she glanced back at us, curious but not intrusive. Uldrek must be a regular here—comfortable enough to be on first-name terms with the staff but not so embedded that my presence caused a stir.

"So," Uldrek said, turning more fully toward me, "what brings you to my disreputable corner of Everwood?" His tone was light, but his eyes were watchful, searching my face for clues.

Before I could answer, Bren returned with a small, steaming mug that smelled of cinnamon and cloves.

I wrapped my fingers around it gratefully, feeling the slight tremble in my hands.

I took a sip—sweet and warm, with a subtle kick of something stronger beneath the spice. It burned pleasantly down my throat.

"I've never done this before," I said after a moment.

"Had spiced cider?" he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting again.

"Been in a tavern," I clarified. "Alone. Like this."

His expression sobered slightly. "Ah."

"It's not..." I paused, trying to find the words. "Gavriel liked formal settings. Controlled environments. Places where everyone knew their role and stayed in it."

Uldrek's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the mention of Gavriel's name. He rarely asked about my past, but he always listened when I offered pieces of it. Always remembered.

"And what was your role?" he asked quietly.

I looked down at my mug, watching the steam curl upward. "To be perfect. Silent when needed. Charming when required. To reflect well on him, never to eclipse."

The memory felt distant now, like a story I'd read rather than lived. Gavriel's hand on my lower back, steering me through rooms full of powerful people. His smile when I said exactly what he expected. His cold disappointment when I didn't.

Uldrek took a long drink from his own mug, then set it down with deliberate care. "Well," he said finally, "no one here gives a rat's ass about perfection. Bren might murder you if you spill her good cider, but other than that, you're free to be as imperfect as you like."

The words settled around me like a blanket. I took another sip of my cider, feeling the warmth spread through me. Free to be imperfect. What a strange, wonderful concept.

We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the noise of the tavern flowing around us without intruding. Uldrek didn't push for why I'd come, didn't demand explanation or reassurance. He simply waited, solid and patient beside me, occasionally raising his mug to the barkeep for a refill.

Finally, I set my half-empty mug down and turned to face him fully.

"I came to tell you I've decided," I said, the words coming out steadier than I'd expected.

Uldrek went very still. The casual ease drained from his posture, replaced by an intensity that was almost palpable. "Decided what, exactly?" he asked, his voice lower now, almost a growl.

I swallowed hard, fighting the instinct to look away. "I'm ready," I said. "For the bite.”

His expression shifted subtly—not quite a smile, something deeper and more complex. His eyes darkened, not with anger or lust, but with a fierce kind of reverence that made my breath catch.

"You're sure?" he asked, the question barely audible over the tavern's noise.

I nodded. "I've thought about it. About what it means. What it could mean." I took a breath. "I want this to be real."

For a heartbeat, Uldrek didn't move. Then, with deliberate calm, he lifted his mug and drained the last of his drink in one long swallow. He set it down and leaned closer to Bren, who was wiping glasses nearby.

"Need the upstairs room," he muttered. "Just for a few hours."

Bren raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. She reached beneath the bar and produced a heavy iron key, tossing it to Uldrek without ceremony. He caught it mid-air, his reflexes fluid despite the drinks he'd had.

"Third door on the right," Bren said, her eyes flicking briefly to me before returning to her work. No judgment in her gaze, just the practiced neutrality of someone who'd seen it all before.

Uldrek stood, pocketing the key. He left a few coins on the bar—more than our drinks would have cost—then turned to me. He didn't offer his hand or make any grand gesture. He simply placed his palm lightly against the small of my back, a question that was also an invitation.

"Come with me," he said softly.

I slid from my stool, my legs steadier than I'd expected. This was happening. I was choosing this—not out of desperation or fear, but because something in me recognized something in him. Because I wanted, finally, to claim something for myself rather than being claimed by circumstance.

We crossed the tavern toward a narrow staircase at the back. The second floor was quieter, a long hallway lit by wall sconces that cast flickering shadows across wooden doors. Uldrek led me to the third door on the right, fitting the key into the lock with a soft metallic scrape.

The room beyond was simple but clean—a narrow bed with a wool blanket, a small table with a single chair, and thick curtains drawn across a window that presumably overlooked the street below.

A single oil lamp burned on the table, casting the room in soft, amber light.

It wasn't luxurious, but it was private. Safe.