14. Buried Paths #3
Her voice didn't shake, but her hands betrayed her, curling into fists in her lap, nails pressing half-moons into her palms. The figure said nothing. Didn't nod or smile. Just sat in silence, studying her as though she were an insect pinned beneath glass.
"When you sleep, do you dream of the world you left behind or the Awyan you can't escape?"
The words fell heavy, sinking into the fragile quiet between them.
Allora's lips parted, but no answer came at first. Her eyes dropped to the scarred wood of the table, tracing the thin crack with her thumb as if it might open and swallow her whole.
"I don't dream often. It's rare," she said finally, her voice low and brittle, defensive. A pause. Then, softer, like the admission cost her: "But when I do, I'm always running. Doesn't matter if it's Earth or here. The same shadows."
The figure stayed immobile, the absence of response was quicker than judgment.
Then came the third question, calm and cutting.
"Do you believe you are hunted because of what you are or because of what you represent?"
Instinct urged her to deflect, to smother it in sarcasm, but the words wouldn't come. Not this time. Her frustration bubbled over. "Man, why the hell are you asking me such stupid questions?"
The figure didn't move. Only their hand shifted, one gloved finger tapping the white coin with deliberate precision.
The sound echoed in the space between them.
Allora huffed, her jaw clenching. She glared at the coin, then back at the shadowed face beneath the hood. "Fine."
A beat of stillness.
"I think I'm hunted because he doesn't know how to let go." Her shoulders straightened, her voice gaining steel. "Because power that pretends it's love will always chase you the moment you stop kneeling."
The figure leaned back, folding their hands once more. "You've earned it," they said softly, and slid the white coin across the table.
Allora didn't touch it. Instead she leaned forward, her voice clipped and jagged. "My turn."
A small nod.
"Why are you following me?"
The hood tilted slightly. "I told you. I observe."
Allora's eye twitched. "That's not an answer."
The pause stretched long enough to scrape her nerves raw. Then the voice returned, measured and calm, unbothered.
"I am here to see which path you choose. And the path you choose will determine what I do next."
That was it.
Her temper broke. She slammed her palms on the table as she shot to her feet, the sound cutting through the tavern. Heads turned.
"What the fuck? Why do you all talk in riddles and cryptic bullshit?! Just tell me why you're here, asshole!"
The figure didn't flinch. Instead, they laughed.
The sound wasn't mocking or cruel but full and genuine, as though she had told the greatest joke without realizing it. The laugh faded, a hushed tone closing in again like a door eased shut on a crowded room. Then the figure lifted their chin.
The scarf shifted, just enough for her to see a pair of eyes. Ghostly nude-sienna. Pale tan. Piercing, otherworldly. A color so rare it belonged to only one memory she carried.
Those eyes had haunted her. Burned her, chained her.
The tavern noise crept back as the figure leaned forward, as though to say more.
But the door groaned open. The air shifted instantly.
Three tall Awyan soldiers stepped inside, water dripping from their cloaks, silver fox emblems gleaming on their shoulders like brands in the firelight. The warmth of the tavern seemed to snap cold. Conversations died. A single log cracked in the hearth.
Allora froze. The figure did too.
Her wide eyes flicked toward them, then back to the stranger. Suspicion flared biting in her chest. Did you call them here?
The hooded figure's gaze met hers, calm but edged with finality. Their look said what their lips did not: the jig is up. They leaned in slightly, voice low, threaded with smoke. "It's time for you to go. Good luck, Canariae."
Before Allora could reply, they pushed away from the table and slipped into the crowd, cloak vanishing into the noise and shadows as if they had never been there at all.
Allora yanked her hood lower, dragging her cloak tight around her body to hide the curve of her belly. Her heart hammered, breath shallow. She forced herself small, faceless, just another weary traveler warming by the fire.
The soldiers paused near the doorway, scanning the room with the cold precision of hunters. And Allora sat very still.
The tavern fell silent as the soldiers spread out, boots heavy on the floorboards, barking orders.
"Remove your hoods. Show your faces. We're hunting a runaway Canariae."
Chairs scraped. Cloaks were lowered. Faces lifted, pale in the firelight. One by one, the patrons obeyed. All but one.
Allora.
A soldier's shadow fell across her. His hand clamped down hard on her arm and yanked, dragging her upright with a jolt. Her chair skidded back, nearly toppling. He loomed over her, breath hot with smoke and ale. "You. Scarf off. Now."
Before she could react, Kalemon shoved her way through the crowd, her broad shoulders cutting the air like a blade. She planted herself between Allora and the soldier, her voice mundane and steady. "She's my niece. A burn victim. She covers because of disfigurement. Leave her be."
The words rang out, crisp and believable. For a moment, the soldier hesitated.
But then another stepped forward, a shorter, older man with salt-and-pepper streaks in his hair, eyes keen with suspicion. He came up behind Allora, rough fingers tugging her hood back before Kalemon could stop him.
The firelight struck her face.
The soldier's eyes went wide. Recognition flared. "Well, well," he rasped, a slow grin spreading. "This one does look burnt, but not disfigured."
The others burst into laughter, harsh and triumphant, the sound filling the room like the crack of a whip.
Kalemon's gray eyes slid to Allora. She saw the shift in her at once: the tightening jaw, the fire flashing in her dark gaze, the unmistakable flare of that infamous temper.
And Kalemon thought grimly to herself, Oh, here we go. She braced for the storm.
The soldier holding Allora had her up on her toes, his iron grip bruising her arm. He turned his head toward his companion, laughing, smug in his triumph.
That was his mistake.
Allora dropped her full weight to the floor in one fluid motion, dragging herself down until her face leveled with his groin. Then, fast and brutal, her right fist shot upward. Her knuckles slammed into the soft target between his legs.
The soldier let out a strangled howl, his entire body folding forward in agony as his hands shot to his groin. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.
Kalemon didn't waste the opening. She swung her massive traveling bag in a clean arc, the weight of herbs and jars turning it into a weapon. It cracked against the short soldier's temple with a sickening thud. He crumpled instantly to the floor.
The tavern erupted with cheers, laughter, and pounding fists on the tables. Patrons shouted encouragement, their voices filling the rafters. The third soldier's courage broke. He turned and bolted through the door, shouting for reinforcements.
"Allora, what the hell are you doing?" Kalemon barked.
Allora was crouched over the groaning soldier, rifling through his belt pouch with quick, furious hands.
"Are you hijacking his pockets?!" Kalemon roared, grabbing her arm.
The soldier writhed helplessly, too consumed by pain to stop her. Allora pulled a dagger free from his sheath, then a small purse of coins, before Kalemon yanked her upright.
"We need to leave now! They're going to bring your boyfriend here, and then we'll both be screwed!"
The two women sprinted out of the tavern, bags slamming against their sides, the cheering fading into chaos behind them. They tore through the snow, breath pluming white, rounding the corner toward the stables.
And slammed into someone.
Allora stumbled back as the figure hit the ground, snow spraying up around them. She barely glanced down before a voice rang out, loud with a familiarity she had long missed.
"Allora!"
Her heart stopped.
She turned and saw them. A familiar pair of gold eyes glinting behind large-rimmed glasses.
"Luko," she breathed. Shock stole the air from her lungs.
He pushed himself up, brushing snow from his long fur coat. His face broke into relief as he reached for her. "Allora?—"
But she stepped back, pulling away from his embrace.
Kalemon moved instantly, her broad frame sliding between them like a shield. Her gray eyes narrowed. "Friend or foe?"
Luko's brows shot up. Offense colored his voice. "I am her friend and always will be." His gaze shifted back to Allora, soft with pleading. "Please, come back. Malec is looking everywhere for you. We can talk about this."
Allora's face twisted. Her voice cracked barbed and cold. "You were my friend. Until you helped drug me and helped your master violate my consent."
Luko's eyes widened, his face blanching. He shouldn't have been surprised, but still, the truth gutted him. His voice came defensive, too soft to carry weight. "You drugged the whole house to escape."
"There's a difference," Allora snapped, her eyes burning. "Between drugging someone to force your will on them and drugging a house full of captors to take back my freedom."
The words cut deep. Luko flinched, his throat bobbing as if he'd swallowed glass. She was right. He knew it. And the knowing destroyed him.
Her voice dropped, heavy with grief. "I love you like a brother, Luko. But you will always be Malec's henchman. And that means we can never be true friends."
His lips parted, but no words came. He only whispered her name, broken and heavy with sorrow.
And then he did what Malec never could.
He lifted his hands in surrender as he looked around to see if any guards saw them. "Go. Leave now. Malec is here. Someone tipped him off that you were headed this way. If you don't run now, you won't get another chance."