People were pointing and staring. Whispers hissed through the rain, sharp as the cold biting into his skin. Sweat mixed with water as it dripped down James' face, but he barely felt it.

  He sheathed his sword smoothly, yanking his cloak around him, trying to disappear into the storm.

  I need to get to the tavern. I need to tell Ser Edwin—

  "James!" The bellow cut through the crowd, crashing into him like a wave. Ser Edwin's voice was loud, and frantic.

  His broad frame towered above the shifting bodies, his short grey hair plastered to his forehead, rain cascading off his shoulders. His cheeks were ruddy from drink, but the panic in his eyes was unmistakable. "James, where are ya, boy?"

  "Here!" James shoved through the mass of people, nearly slipping on the mud-slicked ground. He grabbed the bag of supplies, and it knocked against his leg, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I'm here!"

  The second Ser Edwin saw him, the tension in his face broke, but only slightly. He was on James in an instant, gripping his shoulders and giving him a rough shake.

  "Are you hurt?" The words were nearly lost in the rain.

  "I'm fine, just a scratch." James gestured vaguely to the blood soaking into his already-wet shirt.

  Ser Edwin's jaw tightened, but he didn't press. "Inside. Now." His arm wrapped around James, half shielding him from the rain—from the whispers.

  "A satyr."

  "The boy fought them."

  "What did they want?"

  Ser Edwin's grip tightened, his steps quick and purposeful as he pushed James forward.

  The tavern loomed ahead, a sanctuary against the storm.

  It was probably the second-tallest building in Oakwood and certainly the oldest, as though carved from the very foundation of the town itself. The walls were hewn from interlocking logs, each as thick as a man was tall, the wood darkened by time and countless winters.

  Stained-glass windows framed the entrance, and mosaics depicted proud elks standing watch beneath the boughs of ancient trees. The lantern light from within made them glow, the colors casting strange patterns against the rain-slicked street. A single iron sign swung above the door, creaking against the wind—The Rusty Kettle.

  A blast of heat, smoke, and the heavy scent of spiced cider hit James as Ser Edwin threw open the doors.

  "Oi! There you are!"

  Sebastian, the innkeeper, hollered across the room. A portly man with a head shaved smooth but for a thick, gold beard braided with ribbons of scarlet and violet. His voice carried over the hum of conversation, rich and warm as the fire crackling in the great hearths.

  The Rusty Kettle's common room stretched wide, three long rows of tables set end to end, crowded with townsfolk seeking refuge from the storm. The twin hearths roared at either end of the hall, massive enough to roast a whole elk and still have space to spare. The scent of meat and fresh bread mingled with woodsmoke, the air thick with laughter and murmured conversation.

  Ser Edwin guided James through the packed hall with steady hands, keeping him close as they weaved between damp cloaks and heavy boots. No one inside paid them any mind. The ones who had cared enough to gawk had already gone outside. The rest had returned to their drinks and conversations—weathering the storm the only way they knew how.

  James let himself be led, his mind still tangled in the fight, the rain, and the satyrs. His fingers tightened around the strap of the wax-sealed bag as they approached the long bar stretching across the far wall. The wood was dark, polished smooth by years of hands, mugs, and coins.

  Behind it, Sebastian worked with the effortless efficiency of a man who had spent his whole life running this place. He slid a steaming plate to a waiting hand, wiped his palms on a rag tucked into his belt, and, with a sharp eye, checked the level of every mug within reach.

  Beside him moved his wife, a small woman, light on her feet, weaving between barrels and shelves with effortless grace. Her long blond hair, braided so many times it looked like spun gold, was pinned in a crown around her head, though wisps had begun to fall loose with the kitchen's heat. She barely spared them a glance as she balanced a tray of steaming meat pies, the rich scent of smoked venison and thick gravy curling through the air.

  James pulled himself onto a stool, shaking the water from his cloak. The warmth of the hearths pressed against his back, seeping into his chilled skin, but the dampness clung stubbornly to his clothes.

  The Rusty Kettle's walls stretched tall, adorned with tapestries and paintings—great, sweeping depictions of the valley. Stags standing sentinel in the mist. Bears lumbering through the brush. The ancient trees of Oakwood painted in deep, earthy greens and browns. The whole town's history and soul wrapped around the room like a second set of walls.

  To either side of the bar, the kitchen doors swung open and shut as Sebastian came and went, his arms full of plates—twisted bread with thick cheese sauce, bowls of stew so fragrant James' stomach clenched in betrayal.

  Ser Edwin sighed, settling in beside James, rolling his shoulders. He tapped the bar once, and without a word, Sebastian placed a steaming mug before him.

  James exhaled, rubbing his temple, trying to shake the lingering unease from his bones.

  "They were waiting for me," he murmured, half to himself, half to Edwin. "They knew who I was."

  Ser Edwin's grip tightened around his mug, but his expression remained unreadable.

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  "Well," the older man said after a moment, voice even, steady. "That's a problem."

  James swallowed.

  "Yeah, it is," James muttered, drumming his fingers against the bar. "What are we going to do about it?"

  Melody appeared before Edwin could answer, placing a steaming mug in front of James before dancing away with the same effortless grace. She hummed as she worked, a melody so soft and sweet it cut through the rolling tide of conversation, threading through the warmth of the tavern like sunlight through the trees.

  Edwin barely glanced at James. "How's the shoulder?"

  James peeked under his soaked tunic, rolling his arm. The silvery scar was already sealing shut.

  "Healing." He huffed, irritation creeping into his voice. "You seem awfully calm about all this."

  "I am calm. Stoic, even." Edwin smirked, eyes slightly unfocused as he sipped his cider. "Boy, you just fought off two satyrs—stronger, faster than any human. And all you got was a scratch that's already healing. That tells me two things. One, they didn't want you dead. 'Cause if they did, you would be. And two—" He took another long sip, then grinned, "—I trained you right."

  James scoffed, but before he could argue, Melody returned, her golden braids swinging with the motion.

  "Y'all look like you need food," she said, tapping her fingers against the bar. "Steak or stew?"

  "Steak." They answered in unison.

  Then, both men chuckled, shaking their heads.

  Melody just smiled and disappeared into the kitchen. Within moments, two plates appeared before them—thick venison steaks, seared to perfection, nestled beside greens and mashed sweet potatoes swimming in a buttery sauce. The scent alone made James' stomach clench painfully. He and Edwin wasted no time, grabbing their utensils as if the meal might vanish before they could dig in.

  "Satyrs in Oakwood." Sebastian's voice rumbled from behind the bar as he topped off their mugs with hot cider. "Can't say I've seen one in a decade or two."

  His gaze flicked to James, sharp and unreadable. The firelight caught his orange eyes, making them gleam like polished copper. James shifted under the weight of that look—humor, curiosity… knowing. But as soon as it had come, it was gone. Sebastian turned to Edwin instead, grinning wide.

  "Must be something a hoof around here." He snorted. "Get it? Ahoof?"

  James groaned, Edwin just shook his head, but Sebastian only laughed harder at his own joke, slapping the bar. Then, suddenly serious again, he leaned back, rubbing his chin.

  "My father knew a satyr," he mused. "Good fellow played the flute. Used to visit from time to time. That was long ago, though—before the Imperium before the orchard slept."

  James' fork hovered over his plate.

  Before the orchard slept.

  The words settled in his chest like a stone in deep water.

  Then, just as quickly, Sebastian was gone, moving effortlessly through the crowd, topping glasses and delivering plates with that same ever-present, mischievous smile.

  James forced himself to eat, chewing through the rich, gamey meat, but his mind kept circling back to the satyrs.

  They had been waiting for him. Watching.

  And he had no idea why.

  A quiet tension sat in his chest, pressing like a weight behind his ribs. The cut on his shoulder still ached dully, a reminder of how close they had gotten.

  They could still be out there.

  Waiting.

  He flicked a glance toward the tavern doors, watching the rain lash against the stained glass windows. The storm showed no signs of stopping. It poured in thick, endless sheets, the wind howling against the wooden walls like a living thing.

  He clenched his jaw. "They might come for me tonight."

  "Let 'em try." Ser Edwin didn't look up from his plate.

  "That's your grand plan?" James shot him an exasperated glare.

  Edwin waved his knife in a vague motion. "Aye. If they got through you once, they won't again. You're sharper now. Besides, you put up a good fight."

  "I got lucky." James frowned, poking at his sweet potatoes.

  Edwin snorted. "Luck ain't a thing in a fight, boy. You survived 'cause you're fast, you think on your feet. And because I trained you right." He smirked, sipping his cider. "You're welcome, by the way."

  James rolled his eyes but said nothing.

  The tavern had grown warmer, the fire crackling behind them, sending flickering shadows up the walls. The sound of laughter and conversation filled the space, drowning out the storm outside. A momentary pocket of comfort.

  Edwin leaned back, stretching his arms with a satisfied sigh. Then he winced, rubbing at his ribs.

  If he pushes himself too hard, he'll end up back in that bed. I can't let that happen again. Miss Silvia would kill me.

  "You're still hurting." James narrowed his eyes. Taking the last bit of sweet potatoes.

  "Course I am. Got in a fight with the meanest bastard in Oakwood." Edwin rolled his shoulder with a grunt. "Bones ain't what they used to be, lad."

  James watched him, stomach twisting. The bruises had faded, but the wounds still ran deep. The thought of walking home in the cold, pouring rain while still recovering…

  No.

  "You're in no shape to be walking back tonight." James set his fork down. "We should stay here."

  "I've walked home in worse." Edwin scoffed.

  "And look where that got you." James crossed his arms.

  "You getting lippy with me, boy?" Edwin gave him a look, one brow raised.

  "I'm getting sensible with you," James shot back. "And you know I'm right."

  Edwin opened his mouth, ready to argue—but then he hesitated. He glanced toward the doors, to the rain pounding against the glass, then back to James. His jaw tightened.

  After a long moment, he let out a slow breath. "Fine. One night. But only 'cause I ain't looking forward to trudging through mud up to my knees."

  "Right. That's why." James smirked.

  Edwin muttered something under his breath and took another long drink of cider.

  James pushed away from the bar, scanning the tavern. He caught Melody's eye across the room, raising a hand. She was already moving before he even spoke, grabbing a key from behind the bar.

  "One room, two beds," she said, pressing the key into his palm with a knowing smile. "Try not to track too much mud upstairs."

  "No promises," James muttered.

  Melody laughed softly, then turned back to her work.

  James pocketed the key and turned to Edwin. "Come on, old man. Let's get you off that bruised ass of yours before you start groaning about it."

  One night. Just one night to rest. Then we'll deal with whatever's coming. Together, when you're sober.

  Edwin snorted but didn't argue.

  James didn't relax, not entirely. The satyrs were still out there. He could feel it, a gnawing awareness crawling along his spine.

  But at least, for tonight, they wouldn't have to face the storm.

  James shut the door behind them, the heavy wooden latch sliding into place with a solid thunk. The room was simple—two sturdy beds, a washbasin, and a small iron stove glowing faintly with embers—but it was dry and warm, and right now, that was enough.

  Ser Edwin grunted as he eased himself onto his bed, boots still on, arms folded over his chest. His breathing was steady, but James could see the weight of exhaustion pulling at him.

  James sat on the edge of his own bed, rubbing at his arms, mind racing. The fight replayed in his head. The glint of steel in the rain, the way they moved, realizing with each attack that they weren't trying to kill, they were trying to capture.

  They weren't trying to kill me. If they had been, I wouldn't be sitting here. But why take me? Why not just leave when I fought back? And the one with the black horns. He looked... disappointed. As if he expected me to go with them.

  The thought made James' stomach twist.

  What if they come back? What if next time, they don't ask?

  He let out a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to relax.

  One night. Just one night to rest. Then we'll deal with whatever's coming.

  Sleep took him faster than he expected.

  CRASH.

  James jolted awake.

  Shards of glass sprayed across the floor, cold wind and rain knifing through the room. The candle by the bedside flickered wildly, casting frantic shadows against the walls.

  Someone—something—had just shattered the window.

  And James was sure they were not alone anymore.