Chapter 12 Fleur
The sound wakes me all at once.
Not a crash, not the groan of old wood or the sigh of wind pressing against the shutters. It’s softer than that—smaller. A scrape, a whimper.
Scratching.
At first, I think I dreamed it, the kind of noise that only exists in that sliver of sleep before waking fully. I hold still beneath the quilt, breath shallow, ears straining in the dark.
There it is again.
Faint, irregular, a dragging sound, then another scratch. It’s coming from downstairs—or no, not quite. From the side, the tavern’s left flank, the disused door.
My heart stutters. Not with fear exactly, but a thrum of something older, instinctual.
I throw the blanket off and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The air is sharp, biting at my bare skin as I tiptoe across the floor, careful not to let the boards groan and wake Winnie. I heard her finally go to bed about an hour after I did; it took me forever to fall asleep.
I don’t light a lantern. The tavern is dark, but not blindingly—shadows stretch familiar across the walls, and the last embers of the hearth in the main room downstairs glow just enough to guide me.
The cold deepens as I descend the steps, slow and silent. The kind of cold that doesn’t come from drafty windows or snow creeping beneath the threshold, but rather settles behind the bones. It feels…wrong.
The scratching comes again.
I pause at the foot of the stairs, pulse high in my throat. Not just because of the sound, but because of the feeling. Like something is pulling me toward it—not demanding. Just…calling.
I cross the tavern floor, keeping close to the hearth’s warm reach. The shadows here are longer, the corners darker. Even the rafters seem to lean inward, like they’re listening too.
The sound is louder now. Not frantic, but urgent…weak.
I know before I touch the latch. Somewhere deep inside me, I know.
It’s him.
The side door resists my tug, the old iron stiff with cold and disuse. I lift the latch with both hands, the cold metal biting at my fingers. The wind pushes in around the edges, damp and sharp.
And then—movement.
A flash of fur, low to the ground, stumbles through the gap the second I get the door open.
“Jinx.”
His name tears out of me, half-breath, half-prayer.
I fall to my knees.
He’s soaked, trembling, and filthy—his paws caked in black slush, his fur matted and clinging to his frame. He doesn’t bolt or yowl or glare like he usually does when he’s in a mood. He just curls against my thighs, wet and shivering, and lets out a sound I’ve never heard from him before.
A broken, exhausted mewl.
“Oh, stars,” I whisper, cradling him against my chest. “Where have you been?”
He doesn’t answer, of course. He presses his cold nose to my collarbone and lets me hold him, which is a rarity in and of itself.
And just like that, the pull in my chest fades.
He’s here.
But he shouldn’t be.
He’s soaked through, shivering from whiskers to tail tip, paws caked with mud and gods-know-what else. His ears are flat, and he lets out a low, pitiful sound as I scoop him into my arms.
“You ridiculous, impossible thing,” I whisper, pressing my face to his damp fur. “You came all the way here?”
He smells like riverbank and wood smoke and old leaves. Like deep forest and frost and something older still. My old cottage is quite the trek from here, tucked at the edge of the trees—through thickets and winding paths, past the rise where the snow drifts are too deep to cross even in daylight.
He crossed all of it, in the dark, alone, through the storm.
Whatever sent him was stronger than instinct.
I carry him straight to the hearth, feeding the fire back to life with shaking hands. My breath fogs in the chill, but he’s the one trembling.
Whatever drove him here, through that storm, through snow deep enough to swallow him whole, it wasn’t instinct. It was something older. Urgent. Guided.
Somewhere above me, a floorboard creaks.
A pause.
Then footsteps.
Winnie appears at the top of the stairs, her blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders, hair tangled from sleep. She blinks in the firelight.
“Fleur?” she says, her voice rough with sleep. “What’s—”
She stops when she sees me kneeling by the hearth, a soaking wet bundle cradled to my chest.
“Is that a cat?”
“My familiar,” I say softly. “His name’s Jinx.”
She crosses the room in a few quick steps and kneels beside me. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.”
She reaches for one of the towels stacked near the door without asking and holds it out. I take it and begin rubbing gently along his back while she grabs a second and works on his legs, her touch careful but sure.
Jinx doesn’t protest. He presses close to my ribs, letting out a weak, rasping sound.
“I haven’t seen him since I left my house to head into town,” I explain, eyes locked on his fur. “He stayed behind, like he always does when I travel. He’s picky…and stubborn.”
Winnie doesn’t say anything, just listens.
“My house is near the woods,” I continue. “Quite a journey to here. Across the ridge trail. Over the creek bed. He shouldn’t have been able to make it through the snow.”
“He came from there?”
I nod. “In this weather? Alone?” I shake my head slowly. “There’s no reason he’d leave unless something was very wrong, or unless something was calling him here.”
Winnie shifts closer, helping me wrap him tight. “Is that something he’s done before?”
“No,” I whisper. “Never.”
She goes still.
The wind outside groans again, soft and long, as if in response.
So much for the hope that the storm is dying down any time soon.
I’m about to gather Jinx fully into the towel when I notice it—a change in the hearth beneath my knee, a subtle give in the wood.
“Wait,” I murmur, brushing the edge of the rug aside.
The tavern floor is cool under my palm, smooth in some places, splintered in others. I press my fingers to the uneven boards, feeling for it again, that subtle shift, that give.
Winnie stays quiet beside me, towel still draped across her lap, Jinx now curled up between us, trembling still.
My fingertips catch a seam.
It’s faint, nearly invisible unless you know what you’re looking for.
The wood here is older than the rest—blackened a little deeper from years of hearth heat, the grain more brittle.
But beneath the soot and wear, I can feel it: a shallow groove, not made by accident or time, but by hand. Someone carved this.
Someone hid something here.
My breath catches. I press, slowly. There’s resistance, like the floor doesn’t want to let go, but I push anyway.
With a soft creak, then a dry snap, the board gives way.
It lifts in my hands with the reluctant ease of something long undisturbed. Cold air rushes up from the hollow space beneath, tinged with the scent of old ash and something faintly sweet, like dried herbs crushed long ago.
I lean closer.
The compartment is shallow, no more than the width of a hand, lined with a thin scatter of dust that swirls faintly as I exhale.
It’s carved from the stone beneath the wood, possibly by whoever left it.
And nestled in the center, perfectly placed, perfectly preserved, is a letter.
Bound with fraying twine, sealed with deep, crumbling red wax. The seal is cracked along one edge, but the impression is still there. Not a crest. Not initials. A mark—curved lines, elegant and sharp, like stylized flame curling in on itself.
My pulse stutters.
The air shifts.
Winnie inches closer. “What is it?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because now I see the writing.
Faded, delicate script, almost worn to the fibers of the paper.
But still legible.
To the Descendant of Fire.
I stare at it, mouth suddenly dry. The phrase rings through me like an echo, old and known and meant.
Winnie’s voice is softer this time. “Fleur?”
My fingers hover just above the letter. “It’s addressed to me.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod once, slowly. “It’s not a title many people would know to use.”
And even if they had…no one would’ve left this here without knowing it would be me who found it.
I glance at Jinx.
He’s stopped shaking; he’s watching the letter.
So is the tavern.
I swear the walls lean a little closer.