Chapter 15: Trades and Spirits


    "What happened to your face?"


    James startled awake to find Dayne standing over him, already dressed and looking like he''d been up for hours. The herb paste had dried to a tight crust overnight, and his eye felt swollen shut.


    "Ran into some Northlanders," James mumbled, his jaw still tender. "Or they ran into me. Outside the tavern."


    Dayne''s expression darkened as he examined James''s face in the morning light. "Northlanders?"


    James tried to nod, but his neck had apparently decided to join the rest of his body in protest. "Two of them. One had a scarred lip, other had a braided beard."


    Dayne grunted, his fingers probing James''s jaw carefully. "Lucky it was just one hit."


    "Wait," James said, something occurring to him through the fog of his hangover. "Did you just get in? I didn''t hear you come back last night."


    "Got in before midnight."


    James blinked his good eye, trying to remember if he''d heard anything. Either the tavern''s spirits had been stronger than he thought, or Dayne moved more quietly than someone his size had any right to. Probably both.


    "Decent herb work," Dayne said, examining the dried paste. "Need something stronger before market."


    "I did lose a fight," James pointed out.


    "Not a fight. Got punched. Fight means you had a chance to hit back." Dayne''s tone was matter-of-fact. "Get up. Know someone who can help."


    James winced, and not just from the pain in his face. Dayne had a point, you couldn''t really call it a fight when one person did all the fighting and the other did all the losing. His pride, he decided, was just as swollen as his eye.


    James pushed himself up from the bed, his body complaining about every movement. Morning light streamed through the small window making his head throb. The herb paste crackled on his face as he moved.


    "How bad is the market going to be?" James asked, running his tongue over his tender lip.


    "Busy. Traders staking claims early after the storm." Dayne was already gathering his gear. "Need you looking like you hadn''t just lost a fight. Hard to bargain when you look weak."


    "Thought you said It wasn''t a fight."


    Dayne''s look could have dried up the storm they''d ridden through. "Jokes later. Healer first."


    James followed Dayne down the tavern''s stairs, each step jostling his various aches. The common room was already filling with early risers, and he felt their eyes tracking his swollen face. Serra was nowhere to be seen, probably resting after her late night of patching up foolish people.


    The morning air hit his face like a slap, the dried herb paste pulling at his skin. Storhold was already awake, its streets filling with people heading to market or work.


    Dayne led them down increasingly narrow streets until they reached a three-story building wedged between a leather worker''s shop and what smelled like a bakery. Dried plants hung in bunches from the upper windows, their shapes unfamiliar to James. A sign above the door showed a mortar and pestle carved in relief.


    Inside, the shop was a study in organized chaos. Shelves lined every wall from floor to ceiling, packed with jars, boxes, and bundles. Glass containers caught the morning light, their contents ranging from powders to liquids in colors James had never seen before. The air was thick with competing smells, sharp herbs, sweet roots, and something that reminded him of his mom''s garden after a rain shower.


    A counter divided the space, its scarred surface covered in measuring tools and small brass weights. Behind it stood a woman who made James revise his definition of "ancient." Her skin was the color of old parchment, mapped with so many wrinkles it looked like dried leather. But her eyes were sharp and clear, and her hands moved with precision as she measured powder into small paper packets.


    "Dayne," she said without looking up. Her voice was surprisingly strong. "Brought me something interesting?" Her accent was different from anything James had heard in Storhold, with harder consonants and drawn-out vowels.


    The old woman finally looked up, her eyes fixed on James''s face with uncomfortable intensity. "Quite a mess someone made of you," she said, lips pursed critically. "That''s going to need more than herb paste. Come here, boy."


    She moved around the counter with surprising agility.


    "Sit," she commanded, pointing to a stool. Her fingers were stained with years of working with herbs and powders, but they were steady as she tilted his face toward the light. "Serra''s work?" she asked, examining the dried paste.


    James blinked in surprise. "How did you-"


    "I taught her grandmother. The girl snows her herbs." The old woman sniffed. "Did well enough for first aid. Now let''s see what we''re dealing with."


    The healer''s fingers probed James''s face with practiced efficiency, each touch precise and purposeful. She scraped away Serra''s dried paste with a small bone tool, clucking her tongue at what she found underneath.


    "The swelling''s deep and the bruising will be worse by nightfall." She turned to one of the countless shelves, selecting jars with quick certainty.


    She worked at her counter, grinding leaves and powders in a worn stone mortar. The pestle moved in quick circles, releasing sharp, astringent smells that made James''s eyes water. She added liquid from a blue glass bottle, turning the mixture into a paste that looked nothing like Serra''s remedy.


    "This will hurt," she warned, returning with her concoction.


    The paste felt like fire on his skin, making Serra''s ''angry bees'' sensation seem gentle by comparison. James gripped the stool''s edges as the healer worked the mixture into his bruises with practiced fingers.


    "Hold still," she commanded when he flinched. "The burn means it''s working." The phrase reminded James of some old commercial from back home, and the familiar words in this alien place almost made him laugh despite the pain. She applied more around his eye, the burning sensation spreading across his face. "Keep your mouth closed. Don''t want to taste this."


    Dayne watched from near the door, his expression unchanged as James tried not to squirm. Something in his stance suggested he''d been through this treatment himself.


    The burning gradually faded into an odd numbness. James could feel his face tightening as the mixture dried, pulling at his skin like a mask. The healer stepped back, examining her work with critical eyes.


    "Give it an hour," she said. "The swelling will go down and the bruising will fade soon enough." She began cleaning her tools with methodical precision. "No drinking today and no fighting!"


    Dayne counted out metal pieces onto the counter, more than James had expected for a salve and some herbs. The healer swept them into a leather pouch without counting.


    "It''ll hurt again once the numbness wears off," she said, handing James a small packet of dried leaves. Brew these tonight. They help with the healing."


    The morning air felt cool on his treated face as they stepped back into the street. The numbness was spreading, making it feel like his cheek belonged to someone else. Market crowds were thickening, the noise level rising as more traders set up their stalls.


    "That stuff''s not cheap," Dayne said as they walked. "Cost of doing business in Storhold these days."James touched his face gingerly, feeling the tightness of the dried mixture. "Worth it if it works."


    He hesitated, watching Dayne pocket his remaining marks. The man had just spent a significant amount on healing a stranger''s black eye. "Thank you. For this. I''ll find a way to pay you back."


    "Save it," Dayne said, already moving through the crowd. "Can''t sell Shellbacks looking beaten. Makes sense for both of us."


    James followed, wanting to say more, but Dayne''s stride suggested the topic was closed.


    "Should hold through market. Might even scare off some hard bargainers." There was that dry humor again. "Come on. Need to check the Shellbacks before the buying starts."


    The market had transformed overnight. Where yesterday saw scattered traders setting up, today brought a sea of activity. Stalls lined every available space, their awnings creating a patchwork of colors above the crowds. The air filled with the sounds of bargaining and the smells of cooking food, livestock, and too many people pressed together in the summer heat.


    "I''ve been thinking," James said as they approached the stables. "Eight Shellbacks seems like a small haul. Barely worth the journey for the meat."


    Dayne gave him a look that made James feel like he''d just tried to trade marks for weights. "Not for meat. These are breeding males. See the shell patterns?" He pointed to the distinctive markings on the nearest Shellback. "Good bloodlines. Strong traits. Breeders pay more for that than butchers ever would for meat."


    The stables were already busy, handlers moving different creatures to their assigned market spaces. Their Shellbacks had been cleaned and fed, their shells gleaming in the morning light. James noticed now what Dayne meant, their patterns were more distinct than the ones he''d hunted, the colors deeper.


    "One good breeding male is worth ten for meat," Dayne continued, checking each Shellback carefully. "These eight could start whole new herds. That''s what you''re really selling, potential."


    James watched the Shellbacks with new understanding. He''d been thinking like a hunter, seeing only food. Dayne thought like a trader, seeing bloodlines and future profits. It struck James that this was how all commerce must have worked before big box stores and online shopping changed everything, thinking generations ahead instead of just grabbing whatever was on the shelf.


    The stables'' handlers helped move their Shellbacks to the assigned market space - a raised platform that displayed the creatures'' shells to best advantage. Dayne arranged them carefully, making sure the morning light caught their spiral patterns.


    "Keep them calm," he instructed, showing James how to stroke the edge of their shells in a way that made them settle. "Agitated Shellbacks mean poor breeding. Costs you marks."


    The market space around them filled quickly. A cloth merchant to their left hung intricate tapestries that rippled in the morning breeze. In front of them, a livestock trader was setting up pens of creatures James had never seen before, something resembling goats but with scaled legs and split tails, to their fright the same metalwork stall from yesterday.


    Buyers began moving through the aisles, some stopping to study the Shellbacks'' patterns. Dayne acknowledged their interest with slight nods but didn''t engage.


    The healer''s salve had reduced his swelling enough that James could now open both eyes fully, though his face still felt oddly tight. He noticed how some buyers glanced at his injuries, then at Dayne''s solid presence, before moving on. Hopefully it was just keeping the casual browsers away and not scaring off serious customers. In a market this busy, anything that filtered out the merely curious might actually be a blessing.


    A well-dressed merchant approached their platform, his clothes marking him as someone who dealt in quality rather than quantity. He studied the Shellbacks with practiced eyes, lingering on their spiral patterns.


    James opened his mouth to speak, but Dayne''s subtle head shake stopped him. Then, like watching someone put on a mask, Dayne transformed.


    "You''ve got a breeder''s eye," Dayne called out, his voice carrying a warmth James had never heard before. The usual gruff economy of words vanished, replaced by an enthusiastic trader who gestured expressively as he spoke. "Notice how the copper darkens at the center of the spiral? Signs of pure western mountain stockt. Three generations of selective breeding in those markings."


    James could only stare as Dayne, quiet, tersely spoken Dayne, launched into a passionate explanation of bloodlines and breeding potential. His hands traced the shell patterns as he spoke, pointing out subtle features James hadn''t even noticed. He weaved a story about genetic strength and future herds that had the merchant nodding with growing interest.


    "Of course," Dayne added with a knowing smile, "you''ll see inferior patterns in the eastern markets. Good from a distance, but look close?" He guided the merchant''s hand to feel the ridge work. "That''s the difference. Like comparing river stones to cut gems."


    James felt like he was watching some kind of performance art.


    The merchant mentioned something about eastern market prices, and Dayne let out a laugh that boomed across the marketplace. James actually jumped, several nearby traders turning to look. Even the stoic metalworker across from them startled, nearly dropping the hammer she''d been showing to a customer. It wasn''t just the volume; it was the sheer unexpectedness of such a jovial sound coming from Dayne, like hearing a statue suddenly break into song.


    "Eastern markets?" Dayne''s voice carried the leftover warmth of his laugh. "My friend, you''re too shrewd a trader to believe those pale imitations compare to mountain stock. Look at these growth rings - " he gestured to the shell patterns with flourishing confidence, "that''s three generations of selective breeding. You can trace the bloodline in every spiral."


    James found himself wondering if this was some sort of elaborate prank. The man who could make a grunt function as a complete sentence was now working the crowd like he''d been born on a stage. Other traders had stopped their own negotiations to watch, drawn in by Dayne''s unexpected showmanship.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    The merchant was nodding now, clearly caught up in Dayne''s enthusiasm. When he finally made an offer, Dayne launched into another performance about the rarity of pure bloodlines that had James struggling to reconcile this charismatic seller with the stoic man he''d been traveling with.


    Metal changed hands, a healthy stack of marks and weights that made James''s eyebrows rise. The merchant arranged for handlers to collect his three chosen Shellbacks, each bearing the deepest copper centers in their spiral patterns.


    As the buyer walked away, Dayne caught James''s eye and winked, his salesman''s smile fading back into his usual stoic expression like a candle being snuffed.


    "Who are you and what did you do with Dayne?" James asked, still trying to process the transformation he''d witnessed.


    Dayne''s response was a slight smirk and another wink before he turned to rearrange their remaining Shellbacks. Just like that, he was back to the man of few words, leaving James to wonder if he''d imagined the whole performance.


    The second buyer was older, her clothes plain but well-made. She spent more time examining the Shellbacks'' undersides than their patterns, checking their leg joints and shell flexibility. Dayne''s performer emerged again, though this time his pitch focused on health and hardiness rather than bloodlines.


    "Mountain stock," he explained, helping her examine the leg joints of a particularly active Shellback. "They handle the cold better. Bred for harsh environments, not just looks." The warmth was back in his voice, though slightly tempered to match her more practical demeanor.


    She selected one, a male with slightly less dramatic markings but stronger leg muscles. The negotiation was shorter this time, both parties recognized the other knew their business. When she left with her purchase, Dayne''s showman persona slipped away as smoothly as it had appeared. Four Shellbacks remained on their platform, their shells catching the mid-morning sun.


    The third buyer came with his own handler - a young man who clearly knew Shellbacks but tried too hard to show it. The buyer himself remained quiet, letting his handler do the inspections while he watched Dayne more than the merchandise.


    Dayne''s salesman persona adapted instantly. Instead of his previous showmanship, he matched the buyer''s reserve, speaking directly to the points the handler discovered rather than elaborating on bloodlines.


    "Good eye," he said when the handler pointed out the matching spiral patterns on two of the remaining four. "Brothers. Same clutch. Strong traits run deeper when they''re blood-paired."


    The buyer finally spoke, his voice carrying a new unfamiliar accent, vowels stretched like taffy and consonants clipped at the edges. "Take both. Fair price."


    The negotiation was brief, almost elegant in its simplicity. When they left with their pair, James noticed how Dayne had maintained his reserved demeanor until they were well out of sight before letting it fall away.


    Two Shellbacks remained, their shells gleaming in the late morning sun.


    Several potential buyers came and went between sales. A merchant in expensive but poorly fitted clothes offered half the market rate, claiming the patterns weren''t pure. Dayne didn''t even bother with his sales persona, just turned away to adjust the Shellbacks'' positions.


    A woman with a silver-tipped walking stick spent nearly an hour examining each remaining shell, only to declare she''d "think about it" - a phrase that apparently meant the same thing in any world.


    The trouble started with a red-faced man whose breath already carried traces of morning ale. He jabbed a finger at one of the Shellbacks'' shells. "These are eastern stock. Been recolored. I know dye work when I see it."


    "No dye. Pure mountain stock," Dayne said, his warmth vanishing like morning frost.


    "Don''t lie to me, trader." The man''s voice rose, drawing attention from nearby stalls. "I''ll report you to the market guards for fraud."


    Dayne straightened to his full height, no trace of the cheerful salesman remaining. James noticed the markings on his arms seemed to shift, like ripples moving under his skin. The motion caught the angry man''s eye, and something in his face changed as he finally really looked at who he was threatening.


    "Market guards know me," Dayne said quietly. The kind of quiet that made James''s survival instincts pay very close attention. "They know me."


    The man''s bluster deflated visibly. He backed away, muttering something about having other stalls to visit, and melted into the market throng.


    James stared after him, his mind stuck on what he''d just witnessed. The markings on Dayne''s arms had definitely moved, not like the Haulder''s coat patterns shifting with emotion, but something more deliberate. Like muscles flexing under ink, except ink shouldn''t move like that.


    "Enough for today," Dayne said, his voice back to its usual measured tone. "We sell the last two tomorrow." He began securing the remaining Shellbacks for transport back to the stables.


    James wanted to ask about the markings but something in Dayne''s posture suggested now wasn''t the time. He helped with the Shellbacks instead, noticing how other traders gave their stall a wider berth than before. Whatever those markings meant, their reputation preceded them.


    The walk back to the stables felt different from their morning journey. Dayne''s shoulders carried a tension that hadn''t been there during his sales performance, his movements more controlled, deliberate. The easy confidence of the market trader had been replaced by something more alert, almost predatory.


    Even the crowds seemed to sense the change. Where this morning they''d had to weave through packed streets, now people unconsciously shifted to clear their path. James found himself watching Dayne''s arms, but the markings remained still, though no less unsettling.


    At the stables, Dayne supervised the Shellbacks'' return to their pens with the same tight focus. His instructions to the handlers were clipped, even by his usual standards. The easy rapport he''d shown with buyers was gone, replaced by the kind of wariness James recognized from their first days on the road.


    Something about that confrontation had shifted Dayne''s entire demeanor, turning the successful market day''s atmosphere sour. James had seen plenty of angry customers back at Electronics Paradise, but none had caused this kind of reaction in anyone.


    The tavern was filling with the evening crowd when they returned. Serra moved between tables with practiced efficiency, her eyes catching James''s face as they entered. She favored him with a pretty smile that made his stomach do an unexpected flip, clearly pleased with how well the healer''s work had held up. Then she was back to her duties, weaving through the crowd with practiced grace.


    Dayne chose a corner table, positioning himself to see both the door and the room. He caught Serra''s attention with a raised finger. "Two of the northern spirit," he said when she approached. "The dark kind."


    James watched Serra''s eyebrows rise slightly at the order before she disappeared toward the bar. The tavern''s usual ale was one thing, but whatever Dayne had just ordered clearly wasn''t standard evening fare.


    They sat in silence, Dayne''s eyes constantly scanning the room, his shoulders still carrying a tension. The markings on his arms remained still, but James could swear they looked darker than they had this morning, more defined against his skin.


    Serra returned with two clay cups filled with something that smelled like it could strip paint. She set them down with a slight raise of her eyebrows, her glance between them suggesting she was noting the unusual tension in Dayne''s normally stoic demeanor.


    James lifted his cup cautiously, the liquid''s aroma making his eyes water slightly. The first sip hit him like a punch from another Northlander, smoky and sharp, reminding him of those rare nights when Chris would convince him to do whiskey shots after their closing shifts. It burned all the way down, settling in his stomach with a warmth that spread through his limbs, though this was somehow rougher, more primal than anything he and his coworkers had ever dared to drink.


    Dayne took a longer pull from his cup, and James watched some of the day''s tension ease from his shoulders. With each drink, the careful alertness he''d maintained since the market incident seemed to soften slightly. His eyes still tracked movement near their table, but the predatory edge had faded.


    By the time their cups were half empty, Dayne had settled back into his chair, his posture closer to his usual stoic self rather than the coiled tension of earlier. The markings on his arms seemed fainter now, or maybe that was just the tavern''s dim lighting. Or possibly the northern spirit was stronger than James had initially judged, given how his own shoulders had started to feel unusually relaxed.


    Serra passed by their table again, deftly avoiding a patron''s attempt to catch her attention. This time her smile, directed mostly at James, lingered a moment longer before she disappeared back into the crowd. James found himself watching her weave between tables, until Dayne''s quiet snort of amusement brought his attention back to their corner.


    The northern spirit wasn''t quite as harsh as those whiskey shots with Chris, but the clay mug held a lot more than a shot glass ever did. James could feel it clouding the edges of his thoughts, making the tavern''s atmosphere feel warmer, more distant. He was only three-quarters through his cup, but the sheer volume of drink had his tongue loosening more than he''d intended.


    "Your markings," he said, gesturing vaguely at Dayne''s arms. "They moved. At the market. When that man..." He let the observation trail off, realizing too late that this might not be the sort of thing you asked about, even after sharing drinks.


    Dayne took another slow sip from his cup, his eyes measuring James over the rim. The silence stretched long enough that James started to regret asking, but then Dayne set his cup down with deliberate care.


    Dayne leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. His eyes scanned the room before he spoke. "Thulmarks," he said, the word itself seeming to carry weight in the tavern''s dim light. "Given to those who live and die by the blade. Not just marks. they bind power into flesh and bone. Make you stronger, faster." His finger traced one of the patterns that seemed to shift beneath his skin. "They change you. Turn muscle to iron, blood to storm. Price is high though. Once you take them, they''re part of you. Forever."


    James wanted to press for more details, but something in Dayne''s tone suggested that was all the answer he was getting. Besides, the room had started to develop a pleasant spin that made focusing on questions more challenging than it should have been.


    Serra passed by again, this time with a pitcher of water that she left at their table without being asked. Her knowing smile suggested she''d seen plenty of people discover the strength of northern spirits the hard way. James found himself watching her walk away again, though this time he wasn''t entirely sure if it was the alcohol or genuine interest making his gaze linger.


    They sat in silence for a while longer before Dayne stood, dropping several weights on the table. "Get some rest. Early start tomorrow." He disappeared up the stairs, leaving James alone with his half-finished drink.


    The revelation about the Thulmarks had James''s mind racing, if marks could be etched into skin to grant strength and speed, what else was possible in this world? His thoughts wandered into territory straight out of the comic books he used to read, people flying through the air, shooting energy from their hands, maybe even, He caught himself grinning stupidly at the thought of laser eyes. Still, the existence of the Thulmarks meant this world had more to it than just twin moons and strange creatures. There was something else here, something beyond the merely unusual, almost magical.


    The excitement of the day had James''s stomach demanding food. He caught Serra''s eye as she passed, and she approached their table.


    "The kitchen''s still open," she said, gathering Dayne''s empty cup. "The cook made stew." Either she''d read his mind or his stomach had growled louder than he''d thought.


    "Stew sounds perfect," James managed, proud that the northern spirit hadn''t turned his words to mush.


    She returned shortly with a steaming bowl and, to his surprise, a cup of ale. "Thought you might want something lighter." Her smile lingered this time as she wiped down the table. "I''m Serra, but I’m sure you knew that by now, but I don''t think I caught your name earlier."


    "James," he said, realizing his words were coming out slower than intended. "I''m James."


    "You''re not from around here," Serra said, sliding into the seat across from him. The tavern had quieted some, most of the early evening crowd having moved on. "Even without the black eye, I could tell."


    "That obvious?" He took a careful sip of the ale, grateful for its milder strength.


    "Most traders who come through, they''ve got patterns. Ways of talking, ways of moving." She gestured with the cleaning cloth still in her hand. "You watch everything like it''s new. Like you''re seeing it all for the first time."


    James focused very hard on not looking guilty. The drink wasn''t helping his poker face. He found himself thinking that Serra wasn''t just pretty, she was dangerously observant. Not a great combination for someone trying to hide the fact that he came from another world entirely. He wondered briefly if everyone in this place had such keen perception, or if he was just that obvious. Maybe being an outsider was like wearing a sign only locals could read.


    "Plus," she added with a slight smile, "you hold your drink like you''re afraid it might bite you."


    James smiled but the aroma coming from the bowl made James''s stomach growl audibly. Serra laughed, the sound carrying no mockery, just genuine amusement.


    "Eat," she said, standing. "Before you fall face-first into the bowl. Wouldn''t want to undo the healer''s work."


    The stew was as good as it smelled, rich with meat and vegetables he couldn''t quite name but decided he didn''t need to. Serra returned periodically as he ate, each time staying a bit longer than the last.


    "How long have you worked here?" James asked between bites, grateful for simpler conversation.


    "Since I was old enough to carry plates without dropping them." She smiled, absently wiping at an already clean spot on the table. "Torvan''s an old friend of my grandmother''s." Her eyes flicked to his face, examining the healing work. "You visited old Mereen this morning, didn''t you? I can tell her work anywhere.


    James found himself relaxing as she talked about growing up in the tavern, learning to read customers, memorizing drinks, avoiding the hands of overeager patrons. Her stories painted a picture of Storhold''s daily life, the regular merchants, the seasonal traders, the city guards who preferred certain tables.


    "This is the best spot to work in all of Storhold," she said, gesturing around the tavern. "You want to know what''s really happening in Storhold? Watch who drinks with who, listen to what they say when they think no one''s paying attention."


    Her smile suggested she knew far more about the city''s workings than most people suspected. James found himself wondering how many secrets she kept behind that easy tavern-server demeanor.


    "Like a merchant who was in here this morning," Serra said, her chair somehow having inched closer during their conversation. "He was trying to impress some northern trade contact. Spent more coin than he had." She leaned in, close enough that James caught the scent of something floral in her hair. "He won''t last a season here."


    "You can tell all that just from watching?" James asked, increasingly aware of her presence beside him.


    "Mhmm." She tapped playfully on the wood, almost but not quite touching his hand. "Just like I can tell you''re not really a trader. Too honest in those eyes." She held his gaze a moment longer than necessary, a slight smile playing at her lips.


    James felt warmth creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the drinks. "That a bad thing?"


    "Didn''t say that." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, shifting slightly closer. "Honest eyes are rare in Storhold. Especially when they''re such a nice color."


    A crash from across the tavern drew her attention, some patron had knocked over their drink. Serra sighed, but she brushed his arm as she stood. "Duty calls. Try not to get into any more fights while I''m gone?" The teasing in her voice made his stomach do a small flip.


    "No promises," James managed, earning another of those lingering smiles before she went to deal with the spill.


    She handled the drunk patron''s apologies with an easy smile that James noticed didn''t quite reach her eyes like the ones she''d been giving him.


    When she returned, she was carrying a small plate with what looked like sweet bread. "Cook''s special," she said, setting it between them. "Only makes it when the mood strikes." She settled back into her seat, noticeably closer than before.


    "I shouldn''t," James said, though the bread smelled amazing. "Already had dinner."


    "Then we''ll share it." She broke off a piece, and James tried not to stare as she licked honey from her fingers.


    James focused very intently on his piece of bread, aware that the warmth in his face wasn''t entirely from the earlier drinks


    The tavern had emptied considerably, just a few regulars lingering over their drinks. Serra should have been cleaning tables, but she stayed, breaking off another piece of bread. Her touch lingered as she offered it to him.


    "You should come by tomorrow night," she said softly. "When my shift ends earlier."


    James''s mouth went dry. "Yeah?"


    "Yeah." Her smile held promise. "Unless you''re planning to get into another fight with Northlanders?"


    "Think I''ve learned my lesson there."


    She reached up, her touch ghost-light against his healing bruise. "Good. Be a shame to mess up that face again so soon."


    A call from another table finally pulled her away, but not before she gave his arm a gentle squeeze. As she walked away, James realized he''d completely forgotten about the sweet bread, his stomach now doing flips for reasons that had nothing to do with hunger.


    The tavern''s crowd had thinned considerably by the time James finished his meal. Serra had returned to her duties, though she still found reasons to pass by his table, each time with a smile that suggested there might be more conversations to come on other nights.


    The day''s events were finally catching up with him, the previous night''s fight, the healer''s remedies, the market sales, and especially that last mug of northern spirits. His thoughts kept drifting between Dayne''s revelation about the Thulmarks and Serra''s easy smiles, neither of which he felt equipped to process in his current state.


    He made his way upstairs, his steps slightly unsteady from the combination of drinks and exhaustion. The room was dark when he entered, Dayne''s quiet breathing suggesting he was asleep. James managed to find his bed without stumbling into anything, though the room seemed determined to spin a bit.


    The moons cast their light through the small window, painting patterns on the ceiling that danced as his eyes grew heavy. His last thoughts before sleep took him were of Serra''s lingering touch on his arm and the promise in her smile when she''d asked him to return tomorrow night.