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CORA

T he Silver Fang looked like the sort of pub bards wrote about.

Its stone walls wore ivy like jewelry, and every pane of leaded glass spilled buttery light onto the cobbles.

A hand-painted sign bearing a stylized lion’s head creaked overhead while wood-smoke drifted through the dusk.

Cora paused on the threshold, tugging her braid forward, nerves dancing along her skin.

Inside, polished beams crossed a low ceiling.

Sturdy tables hugged a hearth where orange flames licked at cedar logs.

A wolf shifter strummed a weathered guitar in the corner, soft chords twining with murmured conversation.

Copper mugs clinked, laughter puffed warm as cinnamon, and the air smelled of blackberry mead and slow-cooked venison.

She spotted Maeve Cross at once.

The woman moved behind the bar like a sleek cat in dark jeans and a sleeveless leather vest. Short black hair framed tawny eyes that missed nothing. Even polishing a glass, Maeve radiated the same steady authority she had shown at the Council Glade, only here it mixed with easy hospitality.

Cora wove between tables, heart thumping. The last thing she wanted was to look like some lost tourist, yet curiosity tugged her forward.

Maeve’s gaze flicked up, sharp and assessing, then softened into a wry curve of lips. “Lilac girl in my doorway. Took you long enough.”

Heat bloomed in Cora’s cheeks. “I, uh, was exploring. Your tavern is lovely.”

“Flatter the décor all you like. I poured this place with my own two hands.” Maeve set the polished glass aside and pulled a stoneware cup from a shelf. “Blackberry mead or spruce cider?”

“The mead, please.” Cora perched on a stool, the worn leather warm beneath her palms.

Maeve filled the cup with plum-dark liquid and slid it across. “First drink’s on the house. Call it a welcome.”

“Thank you.” Cora tasted, lips quirking in surprise. Sweet berry burst over her tongue, balanced by a faint woodsy bite. “That’s incredible.”

“Family recipe. Fermented in oak barrels, kissed by moonlight, stirred with rumors.” Maeve winked. “Gossip makes everything ferment faster.”

Cora laughed, shoulders relaxing. “I guess rumors travel faster than I do. Folks already call me the fae who talks to brooms.”

Maeve snorted. “That broom of yours tried flirting with my cousin on patrol. Nearly swept his boots right off.”

Cora groaned softly. “I swear it was an accident.”

“Accidental charm is still charm.” Maeve leaned forward, folding sinewy arms atop the bar. “So, enchantress, what brings you prowling my den tonight?”

“I wanted to meet you properly.” Cora sipped again, gathering courage. “You seemed… formidable at the council.”

“Formidable is my day job. Night job too.” Maeve’s smile sharpened. “Someone has to keep the claws sheathed in here. Drink, bicker, flirt. Break my chairs and I break your nose.”

Cora believed her. Yet beneath the edge she sensed fierce loyalty, the same trait she’d seen in Callum. It made her braver. “I get the feeling you and your cousin share more than a last name.”

“Sharp eyes.” Maeve poured herself a finger of amber liquid. “Callum and I grew up like twins. Same pride, same woods, same lessons. He took the woods, I took the bar.”

Cora traced a knot in the wood grain. “He never says much about earlier years.”

Maeve’s gaze softened. “He used to, before the war took the light out of him.”

“The Shifter War,” Cora breathed. She’d heard whispers around town but nothing solid.

Maeve nodded slowly. “We fought off a rogue pride that wanted to rip the Veil open. Callum’s mate, Tessa, led the front line with him.” She paused, eyes losing focus. “A curse flare ripped through our ranks. Tessa shielded our elders, saved half the town, and paid with her life.”

Cora’s chest tightened. Suddenly Callum’s wary distance made sense. The constant scan of his surroundings, the way his shoulders tensed at any hint of danger—it was loss etched into reflex.

“He blames himself,” Maeve said quietly. “But there was nothing he could have done. We keep telling him that. He keeps not believing it.”

Cora swallowed, voice low. “I wish I’d known. I thought he just… didn’t like me.”

“Oh, he doesn’t like you,” Maeve teased, eyes glinting. “He’s too busy trying not to feel a damn thing. And you, sunshine, make him feel plenty.”

“Maeve,” Cora protested, warmth rushing to her cheeks. “I’m?—”

“You’re trouble,” Maeve finished. “And that’s good for him.”

Cora studied the deep red mead, whirlpooling the liquid with a slow tilt.

She pictured Callum’s stormy blue eyes, how they’d flicker gentler when he thought she wasn’t looking.

She felt the weight of his hand steadying her after the Veil backlash, the rough yet careful touch that had told her she wasn’t alone.

“I know a wounded heart when I see one,” Maeve continued, softer now. “Just… tread carefully. He lost more than a mate that day. He lost the belief that fate isn’t cruel.”

Cora nodded, words thick in her throat. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Then be honest with him. And yourself.” Maeve straightened, the brief vulnerability tucked back under calm strength. “Enough heavy talk.” She clapped once. “Tell me something ridiculous about yourself.”

Cora blinked. “Ridiculous?”

“Balance.” Maeve grinned. “Pain needs laughter. Spill.”

Cora thought, then laughed. “I once enchanted a loaf of bread to sing opera. It refused to go stale for three months.”

Maeve threw her head back, laughter bubbling warm and hearty. “See? That’s brilliant. You’ll fit right in.”

The tavern door swung open, letting in cool night air. Cora’s pulse skipped as Callum stepped inside, scanning the room with typical caution. His gaze landed on her at the bar, and his expression faltered—just a flicker—before settling into familiar stoicism.

Maeve tipped her glass toward him. “Speak of the lion.”

Callum approached, boots thudding softly across the plank floor. “Evening, Maeve. Cora.” He inclined his head, eyes flicking between them. “Everything alright?”

“Perfect,” Maeve drawled. “Your enchantress here was just educating me on opera bread.”

Cora’s mouth twitched, embarrassment mixing with amusement. Callum raised a brow. “I don’t want to know.”

Maeve shoved a mug of water toward him. “Hydrate. You look tense.”

“He lives tense,” Cora said before she could stop herself, the tease sliding out unfiltered.

Callum’s lips quirked, almost a smile. “Someone has to guard the town while you two trade recipes.”

“That’s not all we traded,” Maeve said lightly. “I shared some history.”

Callum stilled, eyes darkening slightly. Cora’s heart tugged at the guarded pain that flashed across his features before he smoothed it away.

She touched the rim of her cup, voice gentle. “I’m sorry about Tessa.”

He inhaled, gaze locked on hers for an endless moment. Then he lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “War takes.”

A simple statement, heavy as stone.

Maeve busied herself with another customer, giving them space. The tavern dimmed under the hush of quiet music and crackling flames.

Cora slid from the stool, stepping closer. “Loss takes many things. Doesn’t mean it gets to take all of you.”

Callum studied her face, something fragile flickering behind his eyes. “You talk like you know.”

“I do.” She lifted her hand, almost touching his arm, then thought better of it. “I’m still here, trying to be whole. So are you.”

The silence between them softened. Callum exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders. “Drink your mead. Maeve will lecture me if you walk out sober.”

Cora smiled, a quiet warmth settling under her ribs. “Only if you promise to sit.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “For a minute.”

She reclaimed her seat, heart light and aching all at once as Callum settled beside her. Maeve slid two berry tarts across the bar without a word, a conspiratorial grin tugging at her mouth.

Cora bit into flaky crust, sweet filling melting on her tongue while Callum sipped water, shoulder brushing lightly against hers. He didn’t move away. The small contact buzzed beneath her skin, hopeful and new.

She stole a sideways glance. The lines around his eyes looked softer, the stoic mask shifted just enough to hint at the man beneath—the poet Miriam had mentioned, the protector Maeve loved fiercely, the grieving soul still learning to breathe.

In that cozy tavern glow, Cora’s view of the snarly guardian changed. Maybe he was rough edges and rumbling warnings, but he was also loyalty carved deep, and bravery that walked wounded but upright.

She lifted her mug toward him. “To Hollow Oak and its stubborn lions.”

His lips twitched, and this time the smile broke free, small but real. He clinked his water against her mead. “And to enchantresses who make brooms flirt.”