Killian #2
I tried it. Warmth spread through my chest. I tasted the yeast in it, the fermentation, the mix of fruit and barley. “I thought wine would be popular in this region,” I said. “But this ale is crisp and delicious.”
“Crisp.” Ilaris snapped her fingers, taking another sip.
“I know where we are,” she exclaimed, setting down the pint.
“Caranhal. The farthest outpost and a popular trade route, surrounded by a ring of mountains. It’s difficult to build transportation out here, so no trains come this far out.
The merchants come overland. The land is verdant, the ale is delicious, and the people are friendly. ”
I leaned back, the desperate edges of hunger gone, the drink muting all urgency.
Around us, the inn hummed with life. Someone near the bar was singing off-key but cheerful.
The card players erupted in groans and laughter as someone won a hand.
At a nearby table, two men argued over politics while others whispered, nervously watching the windows and doorways.
Ilaris took another drink. Her guard was down, her internal conflict gone for the moment.
“Tell me about Caranhal,” I said, easing into the conversation.
“I heard stories about its beauty, its wealth, its attention to architecture. It’s not a place on my list to visit, no mysteries to lure a scholar, just historical elegance.”
“Would you rather have a paper to write, or a relic to find?”
Ilaris lowered her gaze to the pint, a faint smile on her lips. “No. Not after the Verdant Maw. It’s enough to be still for a night.”
“Is this what you’re used to? Is this what the city is like?”
She nodded. “Yes, the city is like this. It’s alive, buzzing, full of energy.
There are people everywhere, coming and going.
Focused and busy. It’s rare to take time to sit over a meal, to drink in peace, to take a moment to rest. Everyone is focused on themselves, on their goals.
It’s rare for anyone to look up, outside of themselves, except for places like this.
Inns. Taverns. Bars. You had them too, didn’t you?
The place where people came together for a meal, to laugh, to drink. ”
“We did. But they were not like this. Our celebrations would last for days, sometimes weeks. The fountains would overflow with wine, the streets overtaken by the festivities. There would be music, singing, dancing, performances. My people, we never did anything halfway.” I trailed off, remembering the past that didn’t feel so distant.
The woman returned with more food and refilled our pints.
Ilaris immediately started on the second one, and we fell into an easy conversation, just like the ones we’d had while on the train.
I told her stories, but she shared her own, revealing small details of life.
The taste of her favorite wine, a bright white from the west coast that reminded her of her first summer in the city.
She shared stories of her years studying, the chaos of sharing walls with dozens of other scholars, her best friend who eventually moved to the water to study sea life.
The odd habits of the woman she rented a room from, who reorganized her spice jars alphabetically each week, the little girl selling flowers, saving up for a new pair of shoes.
But she didn’t speak of her ambitions, or of the accolades she hoped to earn. Neither did I speak of what awaited ahead. We let those things rest. Tonight belonged only to this: the lamplight, the noise, the food, and the ease of trading stories back and forth.
After my fourth pint, I felt a slight buzz, the faint reminder of the heady rush of losing control.
While delicious, the pints weren’t enough to take me over the edge.
I had the feeling I’d need to drink an entire barrel before I felt anything more dramatic.
But Ilaris was already there. Relaxed, laughing, her fingers twisting a curl around one of them.
And then her hand moved. She set it over mine on the table. Light. Deliberate.
I went still, willing the fire in me not to flare. Actively repressing it. “Ilaris, what are you doing?”
She glanced at our joined hands as if seeing them for the first time, then cocked her head at me. “You’re warm, but not hot. And it doesn’t hurt.”
“Yet you are tempting fate.”
“Tempting you, not fate.” She didn’t move her hand. “You won’t burn me.”
Fire flared. I held it back. “Magic doesn’t always work that way. It’s dangerous, a tool to be controlled, not played with.”
Her gaze flickered to my face, lingered on my lips. “Are you always like this? So in control, never giving in, never letting go?”
That tug came from deep within, to relinquish control, to take her, consume her. “I have to be. Losing control means death.” I leaned closer. She mirrored me. “I would not lose you.”
For a moment, she didn’t answer. The inn moved around us, but I only heard the hollow echoes of it. She was so close, her breath so quick, I felt her pulse thumping against my fingers. Then, slowly, she slipped her hand away.
And there it was, that look in her eyes. “I’m right here, Killian. You’re not going to lose me.”
Was it her speaking, or the drink? We needed to have a serious conversation, but not right here, not right now. I preferred this lightness, this friendliness. And I wanted her.
I wanted to give in, to lean across the table, to cup her softness in my palms, to taste her lips. The desire was so intoxicating, so compelling, so tempting—I stood.
I needed air, to escape before I did something I’d regret.