Chapter 18
As the hour grows late, the ache sets in.
It starts in my calves, a dull, insistent throb from being folded into the same position for too long, then creeps up into my hips and spine until even breathing feels stiff.
I shift, stretch my toes inside my boots, roll my shoulders carefully, and wince.
If I feel this cramped, I can only imagine how Lord Luceran must feel, long-limbed and confined to the narrow space of the carriage, forced into stillness for hours on end.
The Wayside comes into view, lanterns glowing warm and gold against the falling snow, thick plumes of smoke curling from the chimney. My stomach growls loudly enough to embarrass me, and I laugh under my breath, suddenly ravenous.
Luceran’s eyes narrow as he studies me. “Did that sound come from you?”
“We have been in this carriage a long time,” I say. “And I do not think I ate anything before we left the castle.”
“So you are hungry, then. That is what that sound was.”
I frown. “Yes. What else would it be?”
“At first I thought an earthquake,” he says mildly. “Or perhaps a feral animal howling for blood.”
“Do not exaggerate,” I grumble. “I think it is perfectly normal to be hungry.”
My eyes flick toward The Wayside, standing just off the main road.
Luceran notices.
“I suppose you intend to inconvenience me by stopping at this human establishment,” he sighs.
I tilt my head. “You did not have to come with me, Lord. You could have sent one of Atilia’s riders.”
He lifts his chin, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Would you have preferred one of them? Which did you like better, the dark haired one or the blond?”
The question catches me off guard. I swallow, my shoulders stiffening. “I preferred neither. I only meant…”
“Do you wish they were here instead of me?” he asks bluntly.
I hesitate, weighing my answer. If I say yes, I offend him. If I say no, I admit something I am not ready to name.
Thankfully, my stomach offers its own opinion, releasing another loud growl.
Luceran startles, then his lip twitches. “Let us stop,” he says. “Before whatever is in your stomach escapes.”
Relief washes over me. At the thought of stopping at The Wayside, yes. But also at not having to answer his question.
The carriage turns off the main road and then jolts to a stop. I’m already scrambling forward and opening the door as the sprites hurry to shove the step into place just in time for me to hop down.
I land with a grateful stretch, boots crunching into the snow, and roll my shoulders again as the cold air bites pleasantly at my skin. Warmth, food, a chair that doesn’t sway beneath me. It all feels dangerously appealing.
I head toward the door of the inn, already imagining stew and fresh bread. But halfway there, I pause and turn back.
Luceran is still inside the carriage.
I frown slightly and step back toward him. “Aren’t you coming in?”
He lifts his gaze to me. “I will remain here.”
I blink. “You’re not… hungry?”
He shakes his head.
“And rest?” I press. “You have been sitting for hours. Someone your size must at least need to stretch.”
He raises an eyebrow, and my cheeks immediately burn.
“I do not mean your size,” I rush on. “It is just that you are so big. Your arms. I mean…”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as the heat climbs up my neck.
“I mean,” I try again, floundering.
He waves a hand dismissively. “If it will stop you talking, then yes. I will come inside.”
The carriage rocks beneath his weight as he rises, ducking his head so he does not drive it straight through the roof.
He does not bother with the step, simply drops down into the snow, and yet, for all the thickness of his boots and the sheer power of his body, he does not leave so much as a dip behind.
Fascinating.
I can already feel the music and chatter vibrating through the air as I approach the door, a low hum that seeps into my bones.
The moment I push it open, the sound crashes over me all at once.
Laughter, voices, the scrape of chairs and the thrum of music spill into the space around me.
It is a welcome shock after the long, cold, lightless hours spent in Castle Frostwyn.
I barely manage a step inside before the innkeeper is upon me, already smiling, hands reaching for my coat.
I hesitate. I do not often take off my coat.
The bitter chill of Castle Frostwyn means I wear it almost everywhere, all day, every day.
But my gaze drifts to the massive hearth at the center of the room, the fire within it blazing bright.
Around me, the other guests move with easy comfort.
No long coats. No heavy furs. No one looks as though they are freezing to death.
So I ease the coat from my shoulders and release a quiet, contented sigh as warmth blooms against my skin.
I hand over my coat, and the innkeeper smiles.“Staying the night?”
“No,” Luceran says firmly as he ducks beneath the low lintel and steps inside.
The innkeeper’s gaze lifts slowly, color draining from his face inch by inch as he takes in the towering figure now filling his doorway.
The Wayside goes still.
Music falters and dies. Voices trail off. Even the hearth seems to dim, its flames guttering low as if unsettled by the sudden shift in the room.
The innkeeper swallows. “L-L-L-Lord Luceran,” he stammers. “What an honor.”
Luceran does not acknowledge him.
“Can I take your coat, my lord?” the man asks.
What he receives in answer is a sharp scowl and a low, reverberating growl as Luceran yanks the fur coat out of reach.
“Just food,” Luceran says coldly. “Just drink. Now.”
The innkeeper does not hesitate. He abandons my coat where it falls and bolts behind the bar, vanishing through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Voices rise at once, urgent and hushed, before a woman, his wife by the look of her, peeks out, gasps, and retreats again.
The crash of pots and hurried movement follow.
I turn slowly, taking in the room.
Two dozen patrons stand frozen mid-motion, mugs halted halfway to their lips, faces pale and eyes wide as they stare at Luceran Frostwyn, Lord of Brunemar, standing among them like a living embodiment of winter.
I step forward and offer a careful smile. “It’s all right,” I say. “We’re only passing through. Please don’t let us interrupt.”
No one answers.
No one even seems to register my presence.
“She said, carry on,” Luceran growls, teeth clenched, the pale gleam of a canine showing beneath his lip.
The room erupts back into noise and motion at once, though it is all more timid now, more restrained. From the corners of their eyes, they continue to watch Luceran, wary and afraid.
But of course they are.
He is a Fae in their midst. A Fae with a terrible past, slick with blood, and that is even before the horrors that unfolded within his castle walls.
Back when he was a warrior. The Frostwall.
He may wear fine silks and heavy furs now, but there was a time when he wore silver armor instead, and the Sundered Kingdoms learned a very different kind of dread at the sound of his name.
I glance up at him. “Perhaps you should have waited in the carriage after all, Lord.”
He exhales slowly, something tired threading through the sound.“Just do what you need to do,” he says, “so we can return to the road.”
I roll my eyes, though I don’t disagree. I am far too eager to see my father to argue.
I head for the bar, curious if Luceran might follow, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns away from the warmth and noise and moves toward the darkest corner of the room, claiming a chair tucked deep in shadow.
He wraps his coat around himself and stills, becoming little more than a suggestion of pale hair and silver fur at the edge of the firelight.
It is clear he has no desire for human company. Mine included.
I take a seat and tap my fingers lightly in time with the jaunty tune spilling from a small stage near the back, where a pair of musicians, one with a lute, the other a flute, play with fervor. A small crowd gathers around them, and slowly, tentatively, the revelry we disrupted begins to return.
Couples swirl and stomp across the wooden floor, laughter ringing out as boots strike hard enough to make the boards vibrate beneath my stool. Those watching clap along, mugs raised, voices lifting with the music.
I do cherish the quiet. It is the best accompaniment to a good book. But this noise, brimming with joy and life, feels like something I needed just as much as the food I am waiting for.
I do not wait long.
The innkeeper bursts through the swinging door, nearly tripping over himself before catching his balance.
He straightens hastily and holds the door wide as his wife steps out, her cheeks flushed, lips painted a cheerful red, her arms laden with a steaming bowl of stew and a plate piled high with fresh bread.
She sets the food before me, smiling broadly, while the innkeeper places a mug at my elbow and fills it with golden ale. Then they retreat together, bowing as they go, grins fixed too wide, too bright, as if I am someone important.
I don’t miss the way their eyes dart toward the shadowed corner of the room.
“Thank you,” I say quickly, hoping my sincerity reaches them before they vanish back into the kitchen.
They do not linger.
Well. No sense letting it go cold.
I tear the bread in half and plunge it straight into the stew, scooping up meat and vegetables before shoving an indecent amount into my mouth.
I groan softly when the warm, savoury flavour hits the back of my throat, rolling my eyes as if offended by how good it is.
I barely finish chewing before washing it down with a generous gulp of ale.
By the end, I’m holding the bowl to my lips, slurping the last of the broth, scraping the sides clean with the final crust of bread. When there’s nothing left, I slump back on my stool and drag in a deep, satisfied breath.
I haven’t eaten food like that in far too long.