Chapter 17: Another day at the tavern

The tavern sat at the heart of the village like a stone thrown into still water, its influence rippling outward through the community in ways both seen and unseen. It provided respite for the men and women who worked hard labour all day.

Built of the same granite that formed the bones of the mountains themselves, its thick walls had weathered countless storms and sheltered generations of villagers seeking warmth, companionship, and the kind of liquid courage that could only be found at the bottom of a tankard.

The snow-covered roofs and the cold air around the tavern seemed to only enhance the cosy glow emanating from within.

Jaenor pushed through the heavy oak door into the familiar warmth and clamour, the scents of roasted meat and brown ale washing over him like a comfortable embrace.

The common room stretched before him, its low-beamed ceiling blackened by decades of hearth smoke, the walls lined with rough-hewn tables where the village’s men gathered to discuss the day’s work and the world’s troubles in equal measure.

Taeryn and Baren had already claimed their usual table near the great fireplace, both looking considerably more human than they had the previous evening.

Taeryn’s face still bore the pallor of a man who had made too intimate an acquaintance with fermented barley, but his eyes were clear and his hands steady as he raised his mug in greeting.

“The conquering hero arrives,” Baren called out with a grin that spoke of mischief barely contained. The blacksmith’s powerful frame filled his chair, his leather apron replaced by a clean shirt that did little to disguise the breadth of his shoulders.

“We were beginning to think you’d found more interesting company than a pair of humble craftsmen.”

Jaenor settled into the vacant chair, signalling to Willem, the tavern keeper, for ale.

The grizzled veteran acknowledged the request with a nod, his wooden leg tapping against the floorboards as he made his way to the bar.

Willem had lost the limb in some distant conflict that he rarely spoke of, but his skill with both blade and brew remained undiminished by the years.

“Interesting is one word for it,” Jaenor replied carefully, though he could feel the weight of his friends’ expectant gazes. Village life left few secrets unturned, and he knew they would pry every detail from him before the evening was through.

Taeryn leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a pitch that would carry no further than their table. “The whole village is talking about your visit to the chieftess. Some say you were seen leaving her lodge at dawn, looking like a man who’d found religion—or lost it entirely.”

“And some say,” Baren added with deliberate casualness, “that you’ve developed a sudden interest in fence repair. Very civic-minded of you, helping a widow with her… structural problems.”

Taeryn narrowed his gaze on Baren and said, “Who are we talking about here again?”

The ale arrived, foam-crowned and bitter, providing Jaenor with a moment’s reprieve as he considered his response.

These men had been his brothers in all but blood since childhood, sharing adventures and secrets through the years when the world had seemed smaller and far less complicated. Yet the events of recent days felt too weighty, too fraught with potential consequence, to be discussed casually over drinks.

“Valara is… complex,” he said finally. “Let’s say that she was worried about me, as her daughter wasn’t paying attention to me.”

“Oh,” both of them said at the same time, insinuating more meaning in his words.

Baren studied Jaenor’s face with the intensity of a man reading the colour of heated metal. “Is it true then? Rena has lost interest in you. Are you not keeping her happy, Jaenor?”

Before Jaenor could formulate an answer that might satisfy his friends without revealing too much, the tavern’s heavy door swung open with a force that sent it crashing against the wall.

THUDD.

The comfortable buzz of conversation died as if cut by a blade, replaced by a silence so complete that the crackle of logs in the hearth sounded like breaking bones.

A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, cloaked and hooded in midnight black. The fabric seemed to drink in the light from the fire and oil lamps, creating a void in the shape of a person that hurt the eyes to look upon directly.

Even the cold mountain wind that howled through the open door seemed to quiet in the presence of this newcomer, as if the very air held its breath in anticipation.

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