Chapter 8 Winnie
The tavern is too quiet, even for a storm.
It’s not a calming quiet. It’s the kind that waits, like the whole building is anticipating something happening, something it senses before we do.
The wind scratches against the shutters, trying to claw its way inside, but that’s not what has me on edge. It’s something else.
A creak, sharp and sudden, cuts through the silence, causing me to freeze. It came from the second floor, directly above us, but it’s not the sound of a branch hitting the roof or the usual settling groan of old beams. It’s footsteps. Slow. Just a few, then nothing.
I glance at Fleur. She’s still staring into the fire, unmoving, but her shoulders are tense, like she heard it too.
Another sound—a hum, maybe? Faint, low, like it’s coming from inside the walls. Like it’s being created by the walls. It builds and then vanishes, so quickly that I question whether I imagined it.
Just for a second, my gaze catches on the pewter serving tray hanging upright behind the bar. I swear I see something move in the reflection—a shadow slipping past the far end of the hallway. I turn to look, heart stuttering, but the hallway is empty.
“Tell me you felt that,” I murmur.
Fleur doesn’t answer. Her eyes are still fastened to the fire, but her hands are curled into fists in the blanket.
The tavern hums again, or maybe it’s the talismans calling from the hearth, already aware we’re near.
But the magic doesn’t feel like Fleur’s. From what I’ve seen of her magic, it is steady and quiet, rooted in intention. This feels…restless, reckless even, like something pacing just out of sight.
My eyes flick toward the serving tray again, hesitant. It reflects the flickering firelight, the curve of the bar—and, for one terrible moment, me, standing alone. No Fleur.
I blink hard. When I look again, she’s there, exactly where she was. Still, silent, tense.
“Tell me you felt that,” I say again, my voice barely above a whisper, a shake in it I can’t quite hide.
She nods once, slowly.
Something in the tavern shifts. Not physically. Nothing is moving, but I feel it. Like the bones of the building have leaned forward, listening. The kind of feeling you get when you realize a room isn’t empty after all.
Fleur finally looks at me. Her eyes are shadowed, the firelight making them look too bright. “It’s not dangerous,” she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “Just…awake.”
“Awake?” I echo.
She doesn’t explain. Instead, she reaches for the kettle, already warm beside the hearth, and pours herself some tea, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
I sit, but I don’t take my eyes off the mirror. I want to believe it was a trick of the light. That the footsteps were wind. That the hum was pipes.
But deep down, I know better.
Something here is stirring.