Pewter mugs clamored against old oak tables, beating out a steady rhythm. Lina scrubbed at an invisible stain on the bar, her movements sharp with restless energy. Behind her, Fin glared into the stew cauldron as if it might offer escape from the chaos.
Soldiers roared along with the bedraggled bard's jaunty tune—a frantic attempt to keep the crowd from tearing itself apart. Ale sloshed from mugs, spattering the once-clean floor.
Fin muttered, stirring harder, "So much for peaceful Tuesdays."
"The cow's already dead," Lina teased.
"I'm counting the hours till closing."
"Can't do that. All these soldiers need somewhere to sleep tonight. And unfortunately for both of us, this is the only Inn in Stonecross."
Fin's wooden spoon smacked the side of the cast-iron pot with a thwack.
"Ask the bard to leave. Without music, they'll sleep," Lina suggested.
Fin snorted. "Then they'll pass out in the stables and track hay everywhere."
A soldier hurled his half-full mug, sending it skittering across the floor. Fin's shoulders hunched in a wince. Usually, he welcomed the rare wayward traveler or farmer craving stew and ale, but tonight the Golden Goose Inn heaved with guests. Men perched on empty potato crates. Sweat beaded along Lina's neck as she swept up shards, pressed in by the crush of bodies. Lina stretched, unfurling the knots in her back. The small town of Stonecross straddled the edge of two hostile kingdoms, Eryndor and Avelis. Always at war.
"Lina!" a customer roared with a bushy beard and a scar across his eyebrow, "More ale, girl. Is this how you treat Eryndor's army?"
Lina stepped around the counter, wove between other patrons, and stooped to collect the man's cup off the floor. She glanced at the insignia on his shirt—a rearing stallion—then let a wry grin play on her lips, recognizing the emblem as belonging to the newest king, all while keeping an eye on her surroundings.
What was the king's name again? Rodrick. Rodrick... something. How long until the necromancer killed this one? The last one he'd reanimated was now a General in his army.
Lina didn't know the necromancer king's name, but the soldiers called him Wrath. No one living seemed to know his real name. With how neat their uniforms were, they were on their way to the front. She'd seen men leave the front. Broken and unwilling to whisper the necromancer's name. No soldier lost at war ever returned home for burial. Men muttered at having to cut down their fellow soldiers—friends—over and over again.
She spun around with the mug in hand and took a step toward the bar, keeping her path wide to avoid the soldier, but his hand reached out from behind and brushed the fabric of her skirt as she passed.
Lina pulled a butcher's knife from the sheath on her hip. Once, in another town, a drunken merchant had grabbed her by the wrist behind a tavern much like this one. Remembering how that night ended—her mother's voice in her ear, telling her to always carry a blade, to never be caught unprepared—an old, familiar steadiness settled into her grip.
"Careful, Sir. I carry sharp kitchen tools," she smiled. "I'll get your ale."
The soldier looked like he'd swallowed a vat of vinegar. His face flushed red as he reached for his own sword.
A comrade of his nudged him with his shoulder, shook his head, and whispered, "This is the only inn a day's ride away from the border."
"Fine. Hurry with that ale."
He waved her away.
Best to be prickly enough that no one came wandering to her attic room later.
Lina filled a new mug and slid it across the counter toward the bushy-bearded man. He opened his mouth as if to complain, but another soldier cut in, approaching the counter with his mug held out for a refill. Without looking back, Lina left his cup where it was, forcing the bushy-bearded soldier to walk over and claim it himself, which prevented him from using her proximity as another chance to grope her.
Mug after empty mug landed before her. She drifted into a trance, collecting coppers and pouring ale.
The bard's tune shifted. A lulling ballad of love and heartbreak.
Lina paused, letting the notes wash over her. For a moment, the noise and clatter of mugs faded behind the melody. The song tugged at something quiet and aching inside her—half-remembered glances, promises never spoken. For a moment, she let herself imagine it. Someone waiting. Someone who understood.
She pressed her lips together, holding the feeling just long enough to hurt. What a beautiful song.
'What song?'
The cup slipped from her hand and cracked.
"Excuse me?" She asked aloud.
The soldier before her stared at her. The inn fell silent as if spellbound by the bard's song. They may've been if the runes on her lute were any indication.
Lina shook it off.
'I imagined it,' she laughed.
'Imagined interrupting my sleep?' the voice rasped.
She froze.
"Fin, I need to check the storeroom for more ale!"
"If we're out, we close. No more deliveries till Friday," Fin sighed, shuffling to the keg.
With one last look at Fin, who was struggling to serve soldiers, Lina ducked through the kitchen door, leaving behind the press of bodies. The storeroom's door closed behind her, instantly swallowing the tavern's noise.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She stood just inside the storeroom doors, breathing in the scent of root vegetables and spilled ale before noticing the mess—potatoes rolling free where their crates lay overturned. The contrast from the noisy inn outside made the solitude feel unsettling.
'Why are you in my head?' Lina asked and paced the room.
'You're the one talking to me in the middle of the night, witch,' the man grumbled.
'Then leave.'
'You're the one doing this.'
'I don't have any magic. I only know how to use the small runes that you buy at the market.' Lina pulled a rune from her pocket and laughed, 'Unless a warmth rune is strong enough to do this.'
She eyed the slender carved stone in her palm, sensing its faint hum. Anyone could use runes—heat, light, sealed doors—so long as they knew the symbol. True mages carved their own, forging power from the world itself.
The ones Lina carried were simple. Bought. Harmless. 'Witch, I need to sleep, not discuss purchasing a warmth rune from the market.'
'I don't know how to fix this.'
'Stop talking.'
'No. These are my thoughts!'
'Little witch, I need some silence to see if I can close this connection.'
'Oh.'
Lina stopped pacing and stood still, focusing on silence. She tried not to think, but her mind kept returning to the stranger's possible appearance, whether he was in the tavern, and if he could use magic.
The man sighed.
'I can still hear you, you know.'
'I can't hear your thoughts,' Lina admitted.
'Thank the goddess for small mercies.'
She tapped her foot on the storeroom's worn floor. Dust puffed up in protest. Lina coughed and fanned the air before her face.
'None of my runes are working,' he growled.
'If you're the one who can use magic, then maybe you forged this connection?' Lina suggested.
'I don't bind myself to tavern girls,' the man drawled. 'You shouldn't be able to hear me.'
Lina bristled at his words.
'Then why can I?'