3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Evandra
I traced absentminded circles on the oak bar with my rag, the wood beneath my fingers worn smooth by decades of use. My thoughts drifted somewhere distant, far beyond the stale confines of the inn. The copper bell above the door chimed, pulling me back to the present.
I glanced up, expecting the first customer of the day. Instead, I was met with a sight that immediately flooded me with irritation.
“Hello, Evandra,” came the familiar, oily voice.
Colin Junior.
He strode in with his usual entitlement, his polished leather shoes clicking against the floorboards in time with the tap of his decorative cane. His crooked, practiced smile was plastered across his face, but behind it was no warmth.
“Colin,” I replied, not bothering to mask the irritation in my tone.
“There’s that charm I love,” he said, his voice laden with sarcasm.
I rolled my eyes, letting the gesture speak for me as I continued pretending to wipe down the bar. Colin Junior was one of the few men in Winshire close to my age, which might have been appealing if he weren’t such an unbearable ass.
His father, Colin Sr., was the owner of The Winshire Stables, which was the primary source of work in town and the only thing (if at all) that put us on the Aberdeen Kingdom map. Or so the Colin’s seemed to think.
The business bred and broke horses for The Royal Army, which gave them an ego the size of the kingdom itself.
As children, Junior and I had been friends—or as close to friends as two kids could be when one was insufferably spoiled.
But somewhere along the way, he’d traded mud pies and tadpoles for coins and condescension.
“Eva, be a dear and fetch me a drink,” he commanded, leaning his cane against the bar and sliding onto a stool.
His grin was full of self-satisfaction. I turned to pour him an ale, biting back one of the many insults I had prepared.
His pointed jawline and well-tailored coat did little to distract from the emptiness in his pale blue eyes.
For a fleeting moment, I almost wished he were better—someone worth the company.
But no amount of loneliness would make Colin Junior tolerable.
I set down his mead as he launched into a monologue about a new horse that would be “the king’s prize mare” and “fetch mountains of gold,” I let my mind drift away as he prattled on. My gaze wandered to the window, a usual reprieve from his droning voice— but this time, something felt off.
The woods across the street were silent. No sparrows flitting between the branches, no squirrels darting across the mossy floor. The familiar sunlight filtering through the canopy was absent, replaced by an unnatural darkness that seemed to seep from the trees like ink. My stomach twisted.
“Evandra? Are you listening?” Colin snapped, his voice cutting through my unease.
“Uh, yeah. Great about the horse,” I mumbled, already stepping away from the bar. My dress brushed against the stools as I moved quickly between the empty tables and out the front door.
The cobblestone street was eerily still as I crossed it, my eyes locked on the tree line. The woods had always been my haven, my escape. But today, they loomed like a predator waiting to pounce. I had to investigate.
I stopped at the edge, the familiar scent of earth and pine doing little to calm the chill creeping up my spine. The trees seemed alive, their twisted branches leaning toward me, whispering a warning I couldn’t understand.
The sunlight that should have dappled the mossy floor was gone. In its place was shadow—thick, impenetrable, and suffocating. It wasn’t just darkness. It was… alive.
Alive and… Watching me.
My breath quickened as I backed away, unwilling to turn my back on the void. By the time I reached the inn, I was practically running.
I caught my reflection in the window and froze. I hadn’t really looked at myself in days. My dress—once a soft, lovely blue—was stained and patched. I wore tangled red hair in a bun and deep bruises under my eyes. Exhaustion was etched across my face.
Then I saw it.
Behind me, in the woods, a figure stood a few feet into the forest. A shadow clung to it like a living thing, bleeding into the surrounding trees, consuming what little light remained. I couldn’t make out its features—only its presence, dark and oppressive. A chill skated down my spine.
I whirled around so fast I almost gave myself whiplash, but saw… nothing.
The figure was gone, swallowed by an unnatural void.
I stared into the forest for what felt like an eternity, my pulse racing, searching for the figure.
Though, even if the figure had vanished, something in the air still felt wrong - like the silence was watching me.
After a moment, I turned and hurried back inside, the copper bell above the door jingling weakly in my wake.
“Did you see that?” I blurted, breathless.
Colin barely looked up from inspecting his nails. “See what?”
I hesitated. Realizing he’d never believe me, or worse, tell his father to have me shipped off to castle city to be committed, “Never mind.” I muttered, grabbing his glass and topping off his mead.
“Anyway, Eva,” he began, his tone too casual, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I came here this evening. The truth is, we’ve known each other for a long time. You’re not seeing anyone. I have prospects. It just makes sense, doesn’t it?”
I sighed, bracing myself. Gods, this man never gave up! “Coli?—”
“Just think about it,” he interrupted, flashing me the same practiced grin. His egotism took me aback. “I’ll stop by in a few days. Maybe we can get a drink somewhere that isn’t… this place.” He gave a judgmental glance around the room.
Before I could respond, he was gone, the bell chiming in his wake. I stood there, staring at the door, wondering if I even had a choice.
The rest of the evening slipped by in a blur.
I tried to immerse myself in preparing the next day’s meals, hoping the familiar rhythm of cooking would quiet my racing thoughts.
Typically, it was one of my favorite tasks—a chance to create, to let my soul sing as I painted with spices and flavors.
I never followed a recipe, just trusted my instincts to guide me instead.
Tonight, I was slow-cooking a roast with sweet potatoes and pears, the rich aroma of sage, onion, and garlic filling the kitchen.
Sweet and savory notes mingled in the air, a symphony of comfort.
But no matter how much I tried to lose myself in the task, I couldn’t shake the unease creeping over me.
The dark windows at the front of the inn seemed to watch me. Once familiar, now they felt like empty eyes, peering into my space, exposing me. I shivered, the weight of an unseen gaze prickling at my skin.
Who—or what —was out there?
It was being ridiculous, I told myself, shaking off the sensation.
I stirred the pot absently, the scent of sage and pear doing little to soothe me.
The stillness beyond the glass continued to press inward, making the once-cozy kitchen feel like a stage.
My heart thudded in my chest as I forced myself to focus on the meal, but my hands moved slower, more deliberate.
Darkness had fully settled by the time I finished my preparations and set the roast in the crackling stove to cook overnight.
I piled up a plate with bread and cheese for Papa, grabbed a small lantern, and hurried up the creaking stairs to his attic room, relieved to leave the oppressive gaze of the kitchen.
Reaching his ancient door, I knocked gently, not wanting to disturb him if he was already asleep.
The pressure of my knock caused the door to creak open slightly, and the familiar sight inside brought a faint grin to my face.
Papa sat slumped in his worn chair by the fire; his head tilted back, mouth agape as quiet breaths escaped him.
Beneath the deep cracks and creases that lined his mouth and nose, echoes of the man that raised me lingered—a sharper jawline softened by time, a spark in his tired eyes that hadn’t entirely dimmed.
I still saw the man who read me stories of magic and kingdoms every night until I was old enough to read them for myself.
He had worked tirelessly to provide for me after the fire, sacrificing so much. It warmed my heart to think that now, in some small way, I could return the favor.
After making sure the blanket was tucked snugly around him, I slipped out of his room, taking one more short glance behind me.
This part of the day was mine. No strange men, no shadows in the trees.
Just the scent of my cooking and the quiet rise and fall of Papa’s breath.
I locked up the inn for the night, my footsteps echoing in the silent halls.
By the time I reached my bed, the unease from earlier had faded, replaced by an eager anticipation.
I wasted no time pulling out my new book, the scaled cover cool under my fingers. Settling into the comfort of my dusty yellow blanket, I devoured another chapter, each word feeding a hunger I hadn’t realized I’d carried for years.
Excerpt from On the Nature of Beasts and The Riftborn
by Professor Ameryn Valdain
In the annals of our world’s history, few beings inspire both awe and trepidation like the Beasts—humanoid creatures that embody the union of mortal and magical essence.
Unlike humans, whose magic is often channeled through their blood and innate senses, the Beasts are born with their powers woven into their very flesh, as if they are conduits for the arcane.