Chapter 4: Everly

Chapter

Four

EVERLY

The moon peers down at me as the portly man shoves me into the cold night air, warning me I better be ready to spy for them in the morning.

I straighten my shoulders and gather my cloak around myself. The last thing I need is to freeze to death.

As I make my way through the streets, fear creeps into my heart—fear of failure, of ending up like that red-haired woman.

Earlier, I had thought these streets were so freeing, so different from Astarobane. Now, I wonder if they are truly that different. Maybe this city is even worse.

At least in Astarobane, no one ever kidnapped me. They abused me, turned away when I passed, and threw red poppies at me one day in the market, but they never kidnapped me or asked me to spy for them. Probably because they'd rather have a sewer rat spy for them than an outsider .

I shiver and curse the icy bite of this mountain city's nights compared to the warmth I'm used to back home.

Home.

The word pierces my heart as I reach for the bag tied to my waist and pull out Kassandra's fox.

Will I ever see her again? Ever sit by the fireplace, listening to Grandmother spin tales of the old days? Though lately, she keeps saying Hector is the rising sun, the one who will bring magic to our people, but I cannot bring myself to believe her.

Magic will never return to the Bloodstone tribe. The gods cursed us for a reason. Grandmother just refuses to see it.

Besides, nobody has seen Hector, Roland's son, in many summers. At least, I haven't seen him. Maybe Cenric has. After all, he's his cousin.

As I continue walking, my thoughts shift back to my current situation. I must survive and find a way back to the family I love, back to the life I knew before I came here.

I wander through the streets, unsure of my exact destination but knowing I need to put as much distance between myself and those men as possible. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't eaten since last night.

Food. I need food.

And a drink.

Or three.

I spot a sign hanging above a doorway that reads, Bottom of the Barrel .

Determined to drink enough to forget being kidnapped, I push open the door, and the smell of stale ale and sweat hits me like a punch of cold air .

The ale house is dimly lit by a few scattered torches. The wooden walls are grimy, and the floor is sticky with spilled drinks and who-knows-what else.

A fire crackles in the hearth at the far end of the room, casting an amber glow over the patrons hunched over their mugs. The low murmur of conversation fills the air, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the clink of tankards.

I make my way to the bar, weaving through the crowd of men and women. Some are dressed in the plain clothes of laborers, others in the finer garments of merchants or tradesmen. Yet, they all share the same look in their eyes—a resignation to the lot life has dealt them.

Unfortunately, I know that look. I see it in the looking glass every damn day.

Near the end of the bar, I lean against it, trying to catch the attention of the barkeep, a burly man with a thick beard and a scowl that could curdle milk.

"What'll it be?" he asks, not even looking up from the tankard he's wiping with a cloth.

"Ale, please. And whatever you've got in the way of food."

When he turns to fill a tankard from one of the barrels behind the bar, I take a moment to survey the room, my eyes scanning the faces of the other patrons.

That's when I see him.

Cenric.

My heart skips a beat. Well, almost. It feels like it's slipping, falling, pounding.

It's him! My beloved .

I keep my eyes trained on him as he continues to scowl into his mug of ale.

Damn, he's even more handsome than I remember.

He wears his long black hair tied back, revealing the sharp angles of his face. Torchlight flickers across his features, casting shadows that only highlight the strength of his jawline and the intensity of his gorgeous blue eyes.

His surcoat strains against the muscles of his chest and arms. For a moment, I imagine what it would feel like to be held in those arms, to have those hands on my skin.

The barkeep places a mug of ale in front of me, but I barely notice. Not with Cenric so close.

It's been six months since I last saw him. Six long, arduous months. He left Astarobane with his brother, Praxis, and now he's here in Karra.

I glance back at Cenric, and my heart pounds harder when I catch his stare. His eyes widen in recognition. I smile and raise my mug in a silent toast. He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what might be the beginnings of a smile.

I take a long swig of my ale, the bitter liquid warming my throat. Too bad it cannot numb the burning I feel for him, the ache that grows with each passing day.

Slowly, I trace the rim of my mug as I continue to drink him in. It's a cruel twist of Fate, really. To be born into a family that's been shunned, cast out like yesterday's garbage. And for what? Some ridiculous feud that happened summers before I was ever born.

It's not like I had a choice in the matter. I didn't ask to be an outsider. I didn't ask to wear this damn red circle on my surcoat.

Yet, here I am, stuck on the fringes of society like all of the other outsiders. And the worst part? Knowing that no matter how much I long for Cenric, no matter how much my body aches for his touch, it can never be.

Outsiders marry outsiders. And men like him marry beautiful women who don't have to wear ugly red circles on their surcoats.

I've seen the way the women in Astarobane look at him, with their batting eyelashes and coy smiles. They'd give anything to be on his arm, to bear his children.

And why wouldn't they? He's handsome, brave, and loyal. A true warrior in every sense of the word. He's everything I've ever wanted, everything I know I can never have.

"Hello, Everly."

I jerk my attention to Cenric as he slides into the seat next to me.

Olah, have mercy!

"I..." I swallow and start over. "Hello."

"What are you doing in Karra?"

"I'm looking for work. Things are tough in Astarobane, and I thought I could find something here to help my family."

He nods. "I'm sorry to hear that. How is your family doing?"

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, even though the mere sound of his voice makes my belly tighten.

Olah is my witness. I could listen to this man talk for hours.

"They're all right. Kassandra has taken up sewing, and my grandmother is still telling her stories to anyone who'll listen. But it's not easy—being an outsider."

Something sparks in his eyes. Anger? Frustration?

"I know," he says softly. "Believe me, I know."

Does he?

He's the nephew of the chieftain. He's never been shunned a day in his life. Still, he has always been empathetic toward me, my family, and other outsiders. Always kind.

However, I don't want his kindness anymore. I want his mouth on mine!

"So, what kind of work are you looking for?" Cenric asks.

"Anything. I'm not picky. I can sew, cook, clean. I'll even muck out stables if I have to."

Cenric raises a dark eyebrow. "I can't picture you mucking out stables."

"Why not?" I ask, feigning offense. "You don't think I'm capable of shoveling horse shit?"

He laughs, the sound sending warmth through my chest. "I have no doubt you're capable. I think you're meant for bigger things than shoveling manure."

I tilt my head to the side, studying him. "And what kind of bigger things do you think I'm meant for?"

The door to the ale house swings open with a loud creak, and my stomach tightens into a hard knot when I spot the tall newcomer with those strange gold eyes.

He glances briefly in my direction before striding over to a table near the back, where a young woman with pale blonde hair sits. They converse, and I take a quick sip of ale to steady my nerves, though it hardly helps .

Does Cenric know there are rebels in Karra? Does he know they want to kill him?

Cenric shifts in his seat, drawing my attention back to him. "Is something wrong?"

"Cenric," I begin, knowing that if anyone can help me escape the gold-eyed man and his band of rat-smelling thugs, it's him.

Before I can say more, the door swings open again, and a group of rowdy mercenaries bursts in, their loud laughter echoing through the room.

A giant of a man with scars all over his face stumbles into a table, knocking over a mug of ale. The liquid splashes across the floor, and a patron leaps up, his cheeks flushed with anger.

"You clumsy oaf!" he roars, shoving the scarred man back.

Fists fly, and the ale house erupts into chaos. Chairs topple, glass shatters, and patrons scramble to escape, some joining in the brawl while others shout for order.

Cenric stands up. "We need to get out of here."

He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. I follow, knowing I'm safer with him than with anyone else.