The next morning, Towan packed in silence.
The rising sun filtered through the tavern window in thin, golden threads, painting long shadows across the wooden floor. His small bag sat half-full on the bed, clothes folded with the kind of clumsy care only someone used to traveling light could manage.
It hadn’t even been a full week.
And yet, it felt like months had passed.
The quiet mornings with bitter tea.
The rumors and the noble girls.
The dumb nickname “Lord Hound.”
Len’s flushed glare.
Sera’s smirk.
The explosion.
The crescents.
So much had changed—and most of it in ways he didn’t know how to explain.
He tightened the straps on the satchel, then glanced around the small room. Familiar now. Familiar in the way places become when you’ve healed in them.
When he stepped downstairs, Herb was already waiting with a cup of that same herbal tea—bitter as memory, warm as comfort.
“Didn’t sleep in,” Herb said, handing him the mug. “Proud of you.”
“Didn’t sleep much either,” Towan replied, taking it.
Rellie sat at the counter, already dressed, legs tucked under her on the stool. She looked at him but didn’t say anything—just offered a small nod. The silent kind that meant ‘be careful’ and ‘I’ll know if you’re lying when you come back.’
Cassia was behind the bar, doing absolutely no work. She leaned her chin on her arms and said:
“You sure you don’t wanna stay a few more days? There’s a noble duel scheduled this afternoon. You’d love it—some idiot challenged Len over your dance.”
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“What?!” Towan blinked.
“Yup. Told the paper you bewitched her with rustic charm.” Cassia smirked. “I didn’t know you had rustic charm.”
“I don’t.”
“Then it must’ve been blackmail.”
Rellie sipped her tea. “Or fate.”
Towan rolled his eyes. “I’m leaving before any of you write that down.”
He turned to Herb. “Thanks. For everything.”
Herb gave him a long look—the kind that said he’d miss him, even if he wouldn’t say it.
“You’re welcome back anytime, kid,” he said. “As long as you bring news. Or at least a clean shirt.”
Towan grinned.
The bag went over his shoulder. The door creaked open. And just before he stepped out into the mountain-bound morning, Cassia called after him:
“Don’t forget! When you meet Eryndar—bow once, speak second, and do not flinch if he tests you.”
“What kind of test?”
Cassia grinned like someone who knew, but refused to elaborate.
“One that either breaks your bones or your pride. Good luck, Lord Hound.”
That night, the Drunken Hound buzzed with unfamiliar energy.
The tables were packed with well-dressed nobles slumming it “for the experience,” curious merchants whispering about stolen invitations, and commoners just trying to enjoy their ale while their favorite tavern got turned into a theater.
Rumors had bloomed like wildfire since the ball.
“They say he danced with Lady Len and made her blush.”
“I heard he saved the Governor from a flaming chandelier.”
“He’s a noble in disguise, I’m telling you. That suit? House Elaren—ancient bloodline.”
The tavern’s regulars just sighed and sipped.
Cassia wiped a mug behind the bar, unimpressed. Rellie leaned against the wall, pretending not to listen, but her eyes scanned every new arrival like a bodyguard at a royal gala.
The bell above the door chimed.
And then—
Len Verestra stepped inside.
Cloak swirled. Fan tucked neatly at her waist. She walked with deliberate grace, head held high—like this was just another room full of servants and subjects.
Except she was smiling.
The faint kind of smile you only wear when you're trying not to look like you're smiling.
She made it halfway to the counter before Cassia looked up and said, dry as sandpaper:
“Yeah. He left this morning.”
Len blinked.
Just once.
Then her expression shifted—barely. A blink of surprise smoothed into a polite nod, her fan snapped open with one elegant flick, and she turned on her heel without a word.
Behind her, whispers flared louder.
“Was that her?”
“The Lady Verestra?”
“Was she looking for him?”