Droza
She moves through the inn like she belongs to it now, and I move three steps behind her like something feral and only marginally civilized.
I am aware of how it looks. I do not particularly care.
Selah crosses the common room to refill a water pitcher from the kitchen barrel, and I track her from the far wall without pretending to do anything else.
She glances back once, catches me watching, and turns away without comment.
The tether hums low and steady between us, warm in a way it was not before last night.
I feel more settled after the watchtower, like a mechanism that had been grinding wrong for a century finally found its proper groove.
I do not intend to let her out of my sight.
“You know,” Brinna says from directly beside me, materializing out of nowhere the way she always does, “most men at least pretend they’re not doing exactly what they’re doing.“
“I am not most men.”
“No.” She tips her head, studying me with sharp, dark eyes. “You’re a seven-foot stone creature who followed a woman across an inn at six in the morning to watch her pour water. Which is honestly more romantic than anything I’ve witnessed in thirty-one years, but also slightly unhinged.”
“Go away, Brinna.”
Across the room, Selah has stopped to speak with one of the dock runners Corvin keeps on the inn’s informal payroll. The man is young and smiling too widely, and I straighten off the wall before I have consciously decided to move.
Brinna puts one hand flat against my chest. She is roughly the size of one of my arms, but she does it without flinching.
“She’s asking him if the southern road is still being patrolled,” Brinna says. “Not flirting. I can tell the difference, even if you can’t.”
The young man laughs at something Selah says, and the tether sends me nothing alarming. It feels only her mild focus, a thread of impatience, and the particular feeling I have come to recognize as her working a problem. No fear. No distress.
I settle back.
Brinna lowers her hand and looks deeply satisfied with herself.
Mother Sevra is waiting for us in Corvin’s back room when Corvin calls us together mid-morning. She sits with her silver braids over one shoulder and her clouded eyes aimed at nothing in particular. The shells and charms on her dark robes click faintly when she moves.
Selah takes a seat across from her. I remain standing.
“Tell her what you told me,” Corvin says, his voice even.
Mother Sevra folds her hands. “The relic you carry was made from gargoyle magic. Ancient work, cast generations before any living creature on this coast drew breath. It was designed to find hidden bloodlines that crossed where bloodlines were forbidden to cross.“
“I know that much,” Selah says.
“You know part of it. What you do not know is that your bloodline is not simply mixed.
It is the originating line. It is the first recorded union between a gargoyle and a dark elf noble family from centuries ago, when such a thing was not yet understood to be the catastrophic political liability it would later become.
The relic does not merely respond to your blood because you are mixed.
It responds because you are the source of the pattern it was built to follow. “
The room goes quiet enough that I hear the harbor wind working at the shutters.
Selah sits very still. I feel what is moving through her, but it’s not surprise. It’s as if something she suspected was being confirmed.
“The dark elf houses hunting me,” she says. “They want more than the relic.”
“They are trying to erase the proof that the bloodlines they have built their power on were never pure. Several of the oldest noble families in Protheka carry traces of the same crossing. If your existence became known and documented—if anyone with influence understood what your blood actually represents—it would not merely embarrass them. It would dismantle the legal and religious foundation of their caste authority. Bloodline purity is law. It is the source of their magic claims. It is everything.”
Selah exhales slowly through her nose. “So they need me dead.”
“They needed you dead the moment you were born. They simply did not know you existed until you took the relic.”
The door opens, and ee all look up.
Ilyra stands in the frame, traveling leathers road-dusted, her white hair loose around her shoulders. She is our woman on the inside, one of Vaedrin’s cronies that has turned against him.
“Vaedrin is done being patient,” she says. “He has sent for reinforcements from the nearest noble garrison. Two days, possibly three. He intends to take the harbor town apart until he finds her.”
The room shifts. Corvin’s jaw tightens. Brinna stops moving.
I feel the tether flare hot for one moment—Selah’s fear, sharp and sudden—and then it becomes controlled and quiet. She is getting better at that. I am not sure if that is reassuring or alarming.
Ilyra glances at me once, assessing, and then back to Corvin. “I will not be here when it happens. But I wanted you to have the time.”
She leaves without waiting for a response. The silence she leaves behind is a different shape than the one before.
Every face in this room lives in Gullhaven.
Corvin has kept this inn for decades, protected people in it, and built something in this harbor town worth protecting.
Brinna runs her gambling operations through these walls.
The dock runners, the smugglers, the old women who buy dried herbs from the market stalls and complain about the weather, none of them chose this.
None of them knew what walked into their square in the rain two weeks ago.
The weight of it presses down the length of my spine.
I was sealed into stone to protect this coast. I woke into a world I do not fully recognize, tethered to a woman I did not ask for, and now the war I thought I had already fought is arriving at the same harbor where my rubble still sits in the square.
Selah is looking at me. She has turned in her chair, and her green eyes are steady. I feel through the tether that she already knows what expression I am wearing.
“I know what you’re about to say. You’re going to tell me I should leave.
That if I run, they follow me and the town stays safe.
” Her chin lifts. “I have been running for months. Every place I stopped, I left. Moved on before I could make it worse. But those families Vaedrin had killed didn’t get to run.
Those children—” She stops and swallows once.
“He’s been doing this for years, and the relic is the only proof.
If I run, he buries it. He buries all of it.
” Her hands close at her sides. “I’m not leaving this time. ”
The tether tells me everything she is feeling in that moment. She is full of fear underneath the resolve. There is grief locked behind her jaw and exhaustion brought on by surviving so long they almost forgot what fighting back felt like.
“Then we do not let him have the harbor,” I say.
It is not the answer I intended to give. It is, apparently, the only one I have.