Page 39

B y the time we reached the Broken Spoke, the windows glowed gold with lamplight, and the sound of laughter spilled out into the street. I paused just outside the door, the warm press of voices and music a jarring contrast to the quiet gravity of the Council chamber that morning.

"I still don't think we need to do this," I murmured, glancing up at Uldrek.

He shrugged. "Gruha's orders. And I'm not brave enough to argue with her."

It hadn’t been our idea. After the hearing, we’d gone straight to the cottage—expecting quiet, maybe a bowl of stew, maybe a fire.

Instead, the living room was full: Dora, Leilan, Fira, Gruha, and even Edwin, looking slightly overwhelmed in a corner.

Ellie had been passed from arm to arm, babbling contentedly, her curls mussed from all the kisses.

Dora had offered Tinderpost as the obvious place to gather and celebrate, but Gruha had waved her off.

“Too quiet,” she said. “Tonight needs noise and spiced drinks.”

Before I could protest that I didn't need a celebration at all, plans were already being made. The Broken Spoke. An hour after sunset. Everyone would be there. Dora was already out the door to spread the word.

It seemed easier to accept than to explain that what I really wanted was quiet—just Ellie in my arms and Uldrek beside me, the three of us safe in our little cottage. But I nodded and smiled, and now here we were.

Hobbie had insisted on staying behind with Ellie. "Public noise causes infant skull shrinkage," she'd muttered, which I was fairly certain wasn't true. But the relief of knowing my baby was safe at home with the fiercest protector I knew made it easier to step through the tavern door.

"There she is!" Dora's voice cut through the noise, and suddenly, a dozen faces turned toward us. I fought the urge to retreat. These were friends—or at least friendly faces. I had nothing to fear here.

Fira appeared at my elbow, a tankard already in her hand. "About time," she said, her usual gruffness softened by a genuine smile. "Everyone's been waiting to toast you."

"Toast me?" I echoed, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "That's really not necessary."

"Oh, shut it," she said cheerfully. "You faced down an ex-husband with dark artifacts and lived to tell about it. If that's not worth a drink, what is?"

Before I could respond, she was steering me deeper into the tavern, toward a corner where Thok and several of his guardsmen had pushed tables together. Gruha sat at one end, looking distinctly out of place yet somehow exactly where she belonged.

I glanced back to make sure Uldrek was following, but he had already been intercepted by a pair of soldiers I recognized from the barracks.

He clapped one on the shoulder, laughing at whatever had been said.

The sound of it twisted something in my chest—not because it wasn't genuine, but because it felt.

.. separate from me. As if we'd walked through the door together but were already drifting to different corners of the room.

I pushed the thought aside. We'd had a long, intense day. Of course we needed space to process it in our own ways.

"Sit," Fira commanded, shoving me onto a bench beside Gruha. "Drink."

A tankard materialized in front of me. I took it automatically, though I had little appetite for ale. The liquid inside was darker than I expected, with a hint of something sweet.

"It's the spiced mead," Gruha explained, noticing my hesitation. "Less kick, more taste. Better for thinking people."

I smiled gratefully and took a sip. The warmth spread through me, cinnamon and clove chasing away some of the chill that had settled in my bones.

I caught a flash of silver braid as Leilan slipped through the crowd, carrying two mugs of cider above her head like a tavern regular twice her age.

She spotted me and gave a quick nod—half grin, half salute—before ducking toward the firelit corner where Edwin sat recounting something to a cluster of junior scribes.

"So," Gruha said, her voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the din, "it's done then? He's locked away?"

I nodded. "For now. The Council upheld the claim of magical coercion. They took the Seal into custody."

"Good." She didn’t smile, but her shoulders eased slightly. “Always nice when the bastards listen.”

“They were fair,” I said, surprising myself. “Once they saw the evidence… they didn’t hesitate.”

Gruha gave a short grunt, not quite disbelief, more like experience. “Takes a pile of paper to prove what a bruise already knows.”

I met her gaze, and there was no challenge in it—just understanding. She hadn’t known Gavriel. She hadn’t needed to. She ran Tinderpost House, after all, where women like me washed ashore after storms.

“To Issy!” Dora’s voice rang out, bright and bold, her tankard raised high. "Who kicked that bastard right where it counts!"

A cheer went up around the table, and my face flushed deeper. I raised my own drink in acknowledgment, though the victory didn't feel as clean or simple as their celebrations suggested.

As the night progressed, more people arrived. Some I recognized from the Archives—junior scribes who usually wouldn’t give me a second glance, now watching me with a mix of curiosity and respect. Others drifted in from Thok’s barracks, drawn by the promise of ale and celebration.

I found myself repeating the story in pieces—yes, the Seal was real; no, I wasn't afraid (a lie, but one that seemed to satisfy); yes, the Council had been thorough.

Each time, the details grew a little thinner, a little more polished, until I was reciting something that felt almost like someone else's tale.

Through it all, I kept track of Uldrek from the corner of my eye. He moved through the crowd with easy confidence, sharing jokes with guardsmen and accepting congratulatory claps on the back. He looked comfortable, at home in a way I never quite managed in crowded spaces.

But I noticed that he stayed at a distance from me.

Not obviously—he wasn't avoiding me. But where before he might have been at my side, his hand at the small of my back or his shoulder pressed against mine, now he circulated separately.

As if we were two guests at the same party, not two halves of the same home.

Once, our eyes met across the room. He smiled—the same warm smile that had become as necessary to me as air—but something in it felt slightly off. Too quick, perhaps. Or not quite reaching his eyes. He raised his tankard in a small salute before turning back to his conversation.

I rubbed absently at my collarbone, where the claiming mark lay hidden beneath my dress. It felt... cool. Not cold, not gone—I could still sense the link between us, the tether that bound us. But the hum that had become so familiar, the gentle warmth that flared whenever he was near, had subsided.

"You all right?" Fira asked, dropping onto the bench beside me. "You've got that look."

"What look?" I asked.

"The one where you're thinking too much." She nudged my shoulder. "Relax. You won, remember?"

Kestrel—one of the Archives interns—staggered past, loudly declaring his eternal admiration for "formidable women and proper shelving systems.” Fira rolled her eyes.

I forced a smile. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day."

Fira studied me, her shrewd eyes missing nothing. "And your big lug is over there instead of here. That's odd."

I started to protest, but Fira waved it away. "Don't bother. I've seen you two together enough to know when something's off."

I sighed, taking another sip of my cider. "I don't know if anything's off. We're just... giving each other space."

"Mmm." Fira's noncommittal hum spoke volumes. "Well, maybe that's good. He's been hovering like a mother hen since you two met. Bound to need some air eventually."

The words stung more than they should have. "He hasn't been hovering," I said, more defensively than I intended. "He's been protecting me."

Fira's expression softened. "I know. And he did a damn good job of it. But now the threat's gone. Maybe you both need to figure out what comes next."

Before I could respond, a new voice broke into our conversation.

"Mind if I join you ladies?"

I looked up to see Daric, the guardsman I'd sparred with—the cocky one I'd thrown to the ground.

Fira rolled her eyes but slid over to make room. "If you must," she muttered.

Daric grinned and set three fresh tankards on the table. "Thought you might need a refill," he said, sliding one toward me. "A tribute to the woman of the hour."

"Hardly that," I demurred, but accepted the drink with a nod of thanks.

"No?" Daric raised an eyebrow. "From what I hear, you took down a war mage with dark artifacts, and the Council actually listened. That's not something that happens every day in Everwood."

"She doesn't need reminding," Fira said dryly. "She was there."

Daric's grin widened. "Fair enough." He raised his tankard high. "To the Archivist's Aide who flattened me in front of ten men and just got a war mage thrown in chains. Stars help whoever crosses her next!"

Several nearby tables heard and joined in the toast, voices rising in a chorus of approval. I clinked my tankard against his, uncomfortable with the attention but not wanting to seem ungrateful.

"It's not that simple," I tried to explain. "The Council still has to—"

"He's their problem now, not yours," Daric interrupted, waving away the details. "Tonight's for celebrating."

His hand settled on my shoulder, a friendly gesture but one that lingered just a fraction too long. I shifted slightly, creating distance without being overtly rude.

Across the room, I caught Uldrek watching us. His expression was carefully neutral, but I saw the tightness in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes. Then someone said something to him, and he turned away, laughing at whatever joke had been made.