Chapter 42
Thealina
Old wood, sour ale, sweat and damp stone clog the air. A few scattered drunks linger, hunched around battered tables, their faces turned down into jugs and tankards.
I move toward the corner booth, instinct tugging me to the seat against the wall, where I can see the room but Sam’s hand closes around my elbow, stopping me in my tracks.
“Not there,” he murmurs, “never know who’ll be rounding the corner.”
The way his fingers tighten, just briefly, reminds me of Rafe and the way he protected me. Especially during my erratic jumps, or to pull me behind him, covering my nakedness from the world.
Sam steers me to the other side, sliding in so he faces the room.
With lifting only two fingers he orders us drinks.
The server doesn’t blink when he places them down with a dull thud of wood on wood.
I wish I could carry his air of assurance.
Maybe if Sam survives, he could teach me.
I don’t touch my ale, I’m not a drinker; I touch my book instead, my quill already in my hand.
Sam watches, one brow lifting, the corners of his mouth quirking. “Writing me love letters already?”
I pay his flirtation no mind, letting the quill scratch my words, the page filling with a single line.
‘Don’t save Maxim Stow.’
I turn it toward him and his grin flickers.
“Sorry… what?”
I don’t give him a chance to brush it off. I keep writing.
‘If you do, you’ll die.’
He reads it, and his joyful mask slips. The silence stretches, pressing in as the alehouse hums around us with a burst of laughter from the far tables, the scrape of stools, a knocked over tankard.
He runs his tongue over his teeth, his eyes never leaving the page. It isn’t long before he slips that mask back over his features, putting his grin back in place.
“A hell of a thing to say to a man who’s trying to woo you.”
‘Remember his name, Sam. DO NOT save him in Sovo!’
“I already remember his name because he’s my friend!”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
“Who are you? And how you know I’m being deployed to Sovo?”
‘You enlisted under Rafe’s name. The battle happens in a few days. You find Stow on the south flank of the battle camp. Don’t drag him out.’
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Just stares at the page like it’ll bite him. His face drains of all colour. The words hitting sharper than any dagger, and I hate I’m the cause of his once joyful face now hard and cold.
“What are you? Seer? Spy? Some kind of ghost?”
Yes, kind of.
I rest my hand on the table, filling the space between us and flip it. I’m banking we’re compatible due to my compatibility with Rafe. Though if we aren’t, I must seem pretty foolish right now.
His breath escapes in a slow, shaky laugh. “Gods,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face before lifting his fist and placing it, palm up, right next to mine. Our constellations glimmering beneath the candlelight, the threads of our power branching out, seeking each other.
We’re travel companions too.
He sits back, dragging a hand through his hair, clutching at the root. The space between us shrinks. All confidence thinking I did the right thing evaporates at an alarming rate.
He opens his mouth, but a heavy, staggering figure appears beside the table. Sour breath, sweat and a meaty smell invades the air. A drunk with a ruddy face and droopy eyes wearing a necklace with a pendant associated with mages.
“Well, now,” he slurs, inching closer, his dirty eyes raking over me. “Been watchin’ you since you stepped in, pretty girl. Quiet, ain’t ya? Pretty thing like you… bet you make all the right sounds though, eh?”
A chair scrapes against the flagstones as Sam snaps up to his full height. My heart falls to my gut as I see the shift in his eyes. Tension coils tight in his shoulders, but his breathing is dangerously steady.
“Say that again.”
The paunched-bellied mage grins. “What you want me to say? Quiet girls know how to make up for it, don’t they?”
The room seems to narrow.
“Apologise.”
“Or what? Little lady gonna cry?” The drunk lifts his hand to stroke my hair, but Sam steps between us.
“You touch her, I’ll break your neck.”
“She might want me to…”
The last word doesn’t escape the drunk’s mouth before Sam rears his shoulder back, his fist landing square on his jaw.
A clean, sharp punch that snaps the mage’s head sideways, sending him crashing into a table. Tankards tip, someone shouts, another drunk lurches forward, but Sam’s ready. I on the other hand, am not. I don’t know what to do.
The tavern erupts—chairs scraping, women shrieking, voices rising.
Another man lunges, more men set upon Sam, but his fists fly in all directions and uses his water magic, keeping them back, though some folk land a few hits on Sam’s jaw and ribs and a cup gets thrown my way, narrowly missing my head.
I throw it back with a growl vibrating my throat. Then, I pick up my tankard and throw that too into the fray. It hits one on the head, causing him to stumble back, unleashing his fire, setting another patron up in flames. I tap into my magic, drawing out the oxygen to snuff the flames.
He collapses to his knees, breathing heavy, looking at me with thankful eyes, but I’m not done here yet.
Grabbing Sam’s tankard, I throw his too, and before I know it, I’m storming through the dank alehouse, sweeping jug after jug, cup after cup, tankard after tankard and launching them into the chaos, hoping to land a few hits.
It’s exhilarating. Carefree rebelliousness, throwing shit and letting off steam. No wonder males get themselves into so many battles.
Women would resolve conflict with tea and cake, if given the chance.
But this feels great.
The tavern keeper bellows, using vines to throw men out the door, bodies stumbling into the alley.
I dart to another table, snatch up another jug and swing around before a strong body curls into mine, launching me over his broad shoulder. An arm tightens around the backs of my thighs, my brain glitching as the world tips and jolts, the blood and ale-soaked room turning on its head.
“Let’s get out of here, Brawler,” Sam laughs, breathing rough and ragged. “Before the keeper slaps us with the bill.”
He barrels through the door, shoving it open with his free hand, the cold night hitting us both like a slap of frigid water. Shouts and curses echo behind us and a man groans in the dark alleyway somewhere.
Sam doesn’t slow. His grip firm and steady, blood from his split brow trailing down his cheek, and he’s still laughing—low and hoarse, like the whole damn thing’s the best fun he’s had in weeks despite looking like he belongs in one of those horror plays every full moon.
I thump against his back to remind him I’m not some sack of grain.
“Easy, Brawler,” he huffs, his grin wide, setting me on my feet. “Keep your tankards to yourself. Don’t want no trouble now,” he finishes, his palms held high in sarcastic surrender.
I laugh, jabbing his ribs with the back of my hand. It wasn’t hard, but he humours me anyway by keeling over, feigning being winded.
It makes me chuckle some more, before I shut my trap realising my garbled, throaty laugh isn’t for everyone’s ears.
Sam stretches to his full height, twisting his neck side to side, releasing a crack of tension and I go to reach for his bruised and bloodied face but pull my hands back quickly.
“Ah, just a flesh wound,” he says, prodding around his temple.
We stand in silence for a moment, catching our breath.
The absurdity of the situation hits us both at the same time, our laughter barrelling out with our faces turned to the sky. This time, I don’t care if he hears me.
My stomach hurts and I fight for breath.
“Tell me your name?”
‘Thealina. But call me Thea.’
“Who names their kid with two first names.”
‘Hence my disdain for it.’
“Why Thea and not Lina?”
I stall my quill for a moment…
‘Lina is reserved for someone else.’