Twentieth of Falltide, Year 1413 AGC

The moment Everna opened her eyes, she knew something was wrong. She could feel it looming over her like a darkened cloud, dense and suffocating. It was more than a twist in her gut, and more still than a niggling at the base of her spine. It came from within her chest, an inexplicable sense of uncertainty that hounded her with relentless persistence. Tonight would be one of those nights she wished she'd stayed in bed.

Bleary-eyed and still caught in the throes of slumber, Everna lifted her head enough to peer out the window. The splendor of dusk decked the sky with vibrant hues of orange and red as the sun drifted towards the horizon. Gray clouds, the lingering remnants of the afternoon's storm, which had brought with it a blast of frigid air unusual for the season, loomed in the distance. With a curse, she let her head fall against her pillow once more and burrowed deeper in her blankets.

She didn't want to work tonight, not that she felt inclined to work any other night.

From the sun’s position she suspected it was a quarter to six in the evening. She had five minutes, and no longer, to decide. If she coughed loudly enough when her parents came to retrieve her, they might let her skip her shift; it worked well enough during her schooling. Or, she could shelve her reluctance, and haul herself from the blessed warmth of her bed and prepare for the evening.

As any sensible woman of twenty-three would do, she closed her eyes and pulled the covers over her head.

It lasted for but a moment. Just as the welcoming embrace of sleep found her once more, several loud knocks rose at her door.

"Everna?" her mother called, knocking again. "What are you doing? Your shift starts in five minutes and your father and I can't leave until you come downstairs!"

"Son of a bitch," she groaned.

She'd forgotten that, for some inconceivable reason, her parents waited until sundown to leave for the neighboring town of Trenbrook. Her Aunt Ettie was to be married at noon tomorrow. It would be her fifth wedding in three years.

Her mother knocked once more, just for good measure, and Everna sighed. "I overslept! I'll be down in a moment!"

Though this part of the kingdom rarely experienced a true winter, her skin prickled beneath the icy air drifting through her window. She hurried to the wardrobe in the far corner of the room, discarding her nightgown along the way, and dressed quickly. Once her dress and apron were in place, she twisted her hair into a simple but messy bun and pulled on her boots. Snatching her cloak from the hook beside the door, she flung it over her shoulder and eyed the sword hanging above her vanity.

It was a gift from her father, one forged and enchanted by the town's only dwarf and resident metalsmith. He meant for her to carry it for self-defense, and while she did, she hadn't removed it from the sheath since the day he'd given it to her for anything more than a routine polish. The blade was sharp, ridiculously so; she dropped it once while looking at the edge, and it cleaved through a floorboard as if it were warm butter. She shuddered to think what it would do to her if she weren't careful.

Deciding there were safer alternatives in the taproom — the shortsword her father kept beneath the bar would do just as well — she turned away from the sword and hurried down the stairs.

Halfway down, the first signs of a busy night drifted up from the taproom. The boisterous laughter and discordant singing grew louder with each step she descended. Next came the stench of stale alcohol and smoke, and when she stepped from the small alcove beside the bar, she found the tavern filled.

Everna sighed. It would be her luck that there was a full house on the night her parents left the tavern to her.

There wasn't an open seat to be had, every table and barstool occupied. A small group of men — old classmates of hers that now tended the wheat fields south of town — stood by the fire burning in the hearth. Another cluster of men, older and crammed into the farthest corner, traded cards and tossed coins into the ever-growing pile before them. Waitresses hurried between the tables, their crowded trays balancing precariously in their hands.

Despite the noise and the stench, the main room exuded an air of coziness found only in a small-town tavern. The torches burning within the brackets bolted to the wall, accompanied by the candles in the wooden chandeliers, bathed the taproom in a dim, golden glow. Oddities and curios her parents had collected over the years sat atop the shelves or tacked to the walls, leaving space for little else. A slew of bounty posters calling for the deaths of the goblins and orcs that lurked in the southern plains, and the capture of loose criminals, cluttered the board hung near the door.

Most impressive, perhaps, was the mantle piece: a massive dragon skull that, though a much smaller imitation, bore an uncanny resemblance to the real one.

"There you are," her father called from the bar. He set a pair of bottles on the shelf behind the counter and wiped his hands on his thighs. "I wondered if you were unwell. It's not like you to be late for your shift."

Ronan Dragonslayer was not the sort of man one expected to find behind the bar of a tavern. At well over six feet tall, nearly two hundred pounds of pure muscle, and covered in more scars than skin, he looked as if he belonged with the nearest group of adventurers. He'd been one, long before Everna and her brother found their way into the world, and he’d been renowned among the people of the region and revered by the kingdom. The late King Keeland, whom he briefly served, erected a monument in the capital to commemorate his party's deeds. She visited it once, and it was through the plaques and displays that she learned the details of most of his exploits.

Though she'd grown up with the stories of her parents' adventures, they were vague, as many were far too gruesome or painful to recount. Everna only knew of the deed that earned him his name; it was his greatest, and perhaps most costly, accomplishment. The bards told tales of a great battle, of how he emerged victorious and unscathed, but her parents' account was vastly different.

The wounds he received from that battle were so devastating they left him physically impaired and unable to continue his adventuring. He managed well enough during the occasional hunt, and his injuries had not stopped him from staying in shape, but his days of venturing across the Wildlands fighting terrible beasts of legend and story book monsters had long passed. Time had not been so kind to him, either. These days, he could hardly lift his old battleaxe.

Owning a tavern, however, meant he saw more action than most would assume. There was always a brawl to break up or a troublesome adventurer in need of a sound thrashing, and the Guard sometimes asked for his aid in dealing with the more dangerous matters beyond the town’s borders.

"It's cold. You know how much I hate the cold," Everna said. She stepped through the swinging door, grabbed a rag from the clean pile beneath the bar, and set to work drying the set of ceramic mugs beside the washbasin. "I also hate working nights."

She didn't dare tell him about the ominous wriggling in her gut. He'd make her go with them, and she'd rather throw herself into a horde of goblins than deal with Aunt Ettie. That woman could turn a priest into an axe murderer.

"And I'm not fond of having you work at night," her father admitted. "I'd stay, but with all the bandit activity around Trenbrook, I can't bear to send your mother alone."

"Mom can handle herself," she reminded him. "Besides, she and Aunt Ettie don't get on well. Mom would never forgive you for leaving her to deal with your sister alone."

Her father, as stubborn as he was overbearing, scoffed. "Your mother's older than she cares to admit, and you're too young to be handling a bar. You're right. They don't get on well. Maybe we shouldn't go."

Everna heaved a sigh. "I'm not a child anymore, Dad. I can handle it. It's not like I haven't been on my own before."

"The tavern is more dangerous than the academy."

"But not as dangerous as the capital. I'll be fine," Everna assured him. "There's no less than a hundred weapons scattered about the house, and I know my way around a sword. If I can't handle it, I'll call the Guard."

After a moment of silent debate, his shoulders slumped. "Just stay behind the counter and you should be fine. Hopefully." He paused, then added, "Maybe you should come with us. It won't hurt to close the tavern for the week or someone else could—"

"Your confidence in me is flattering," she snorted.

"Oh, stop worrying, Ronan. She's twenty-three," her mother said as she set her bags, which were bulging at the seams, on the counter. "If she can handle a courtroom full of people screaming, she can handle these fools."

"No one screams in a courtroom, Mom. The Guard would escort them out after the Arbiters deliver the penalty for contempt of court. You read too many novels."

"Bad ones at that," her father chuckled. He leaned down and kissed the crown of her mother's head, then turned to Everna and said, "Be careful, keep the place in one piece, and absolutely no boys, you hear?"

Everna rolled her eyes. "I guess it's ladies' night all week, then. Banor won't be happy."

Her mother snorted and waved him off. "Don't listen to him. It's high time you started looking for a husband. I want grandchildren someday and I'm not getting any younger."

"Evelina, she's only twenty-three!"

"Exactly," her mother scolded, jabbing her finger into his chest. "I have a couple of friends with sons who—"

"Would you look at the time? Best hurry, otherwise you'll miss the coach!" Everna said, a fake smile plastered on her face as she shoved her mother's bags into her arms. "Tell Aunt Ettie I said hello!"

Despite her attempt to push them out the door faster, it was only after several more instructions on what not to do while they were gone, and another short-lived argument about her marital status, that they finally said their goodbyes and disappeared into the street. The moment the door closed behind them, Everna leaned against the bar and sighed. She loved her parents to death, but, as they were wont to do, they picked one of the busiest nights to embarrass her. She could already feel more than one pair of eyes lingering on her, as if her mother's declaration, or perhaps her unwillingness, was an unspoken challenge.

Damn them.

The spring and summer months offered little excitement, as most patrons were tired workers looking for a quick drink before they returned home for the evening. Fall and winter brought a staggering increase in business, and with it, complications. Everna dreaded to think what would come later in the night when the drinks set in and the drunken revelry reached its peak. She hoped no one started a brawl; though she insisted she could handle it, she'd rather deal with Aunt Ettie than with Captain Windmore and the Guard.

The first two hours passed in a blur of cleaning mugs, tending the bar, and handing out the occasional room key. She spoke with the patrons, learning the most recent events and goings-on in other corners of the kingdom. Inverness was small, but seclusive and news was slow to spread beyond the capital; only the more significant events, such as the death of King Keeland some years ago, reached the smaller towns along the borders. Passive travelers offered more than the daily papers, but rarely was it anything but hearsay or trivial matters.

Beyond the odd bandit attack and a brief scuffle with the elves in the western forest, tonight's travelers had little to tell. The most interesting, and perhaps the most disgusting thing she'd heard in some time, was a detailed description of a first-hand encounter with orc mating habits from a young scholar who'd had one too many drinks. Everna cut her off after that.

It wasn't until the third hour of her shift, when Mayor Ashburn and his hunting party arrived, that her disquiet redoubled.

Mayor Ashburn and his entourage were not what concerned her; it was the man clad in black armor, who slipped in behind them. Everna watched from the corners of her eyes as he crossed the room, hardly more than a shadow in the dim light. He swiped a mug off a waitress's tray without her notice and settled at the small table in the furthest corner of the taproom. She couldn't see his face beneath the hood of his cloak, only the beginnings of a beard covering his chin, yet she felt his gaze on her.

Everna, who had grown up in the Dancing Dragon, was more than accustomed to lingering stares and sly glances. It was one of the many reasons her father preferred she handled the day shifts. She was too pretty for her own good, he’d say, though Everna would argue she looked like an easy target. It unnerved her when she was younger, but she learned not to let it bother her, so long as they kept their hands to themselves. Those folks usually tipped more.

Still, she reached beneath the counter and pulled her mother's shortsword into her hand.

Adventurers weren't frequent patrons, though the odd group or two stumbled through the doors now and then. They came most often during the height of winter, when the cold made camping beneath the stars more difficult. Despite his past — or perhaps because of it — her father preferred not to let them stay longer than a few hours. Things went missing otherwise.

There was one type of adventurer her father turned away without question, however. Rogues, as many called them, were nothing but trouble. They could be anything from petty sneak-thieves to deadly assassins or spies. The handful she'd seen over the years were mostly women, often dressed in skimpy leather ensembles that would give any proper woman a heart-stop and usually fawning over male patrons as they swiped their jewels and coin purses. The ones who made it past the door found themselves back on the streets within the hour.

Her father would want him removed from the premises, but Everna was not her father. She'd inherited her mother's short stature and dainty, youthful looks, but none of her tenacity. The regulars treated her like a child, all snark and sarcasm but no bite, and the adventurers saw her as something to humor — a curious nobody working the bar in a small town tavern they'd forget within the week.

She could try to make enough of a scene to prompt someone to help (Banor was always looking for a fight) if the attempt failed, but she'd rather not give her father another reason to believe she couldn't handle herself. No, if that rogue became too much of a problem, she had other means of dealing with the matter. Her mother had more than enough unpleasant concoctions stashed in the cabinet beneath the bar, and nothing urged people to leave faster than the sudden urge to relieve themselves.

A second gaze found her, and this time, Everna ignored it. She already knew who it was; Landen, a former schoolmate. He'd arrived with the mayor and took his usual spot at the table nearest the corner of the bar.

"It's rather unusual to see you working at night," Mayor Ashburn noted as he approached the counter.

Without the finery he often donned during public appearances, Pendel's beloved mayor appeared more of a traveling hunter than a person of importance. He wore a set of leathers painted to mimic the forest's underbrush; she almost couldn't see the dirt and mud smeared across his leathers from the hunt they embarked on earlier that day. A beautiful bow carved of ash hung across his back, the accompanying quiver half empty.

While her father was famed for slaying Dulzraran, the Devourer of Men and Bringer of the Heavenly Fire, Arden Ashburn earned his renown for slaying the Spider Queen who ruled the kingdom's northern ash forest. The bards claimed he set the forest ablaze to lure the beast from her lair and slew her, single-handedly, in the fight that followed. That deed earned him his name and the begrudging grace of the elves, who fashioned the bow he carried since.

Her father, of course, insisted the truth was far less impressive. Arden didn't intend to set the forest aflame, nor did he have a choice in facing the Spider Queen. “A fool's errand”, he called it, and “an abundance of luck”.

"Someone has to run the place while my parents are out of town," she said. "They won't be back until the end of the week."

"Damn," Mayor Ashburn sighed. "I was hoping your father would be around. Andryll and I stumbled across the biggest boar we've seen in years. Massive. Tusks thicker than your arm. It's one for the spears, and your father's about the only man in town with the strength, and insanity, to handle that beast."

"The usual, I assume?" she asked, to which he nodded. "And, if that boar has a den in these parts, I'm sure it won't be going anywhere soon," she said as she plucked a bottle of brandy from the shelf behind her. "Dad'll be glad to go. He's been itching to go hunting, but Mom won't let him. She insists that if he can't hold his axe, he'd never hold a spear properly."

"Your mother's a smart woman," Mayor Ashburn said. He took the bottle from her and inspected the label. "She knows what sort of stupidity Ronan's capable of. I've watched that crazy bastard wrestle a bear in the nude."

She scrunched her nose. "Thank you, Mayor Ashburn, for an image I could've lived without."

He chuckled and slapped a small pile of coins onto the counter. "Tell your father to drop by when he gets back. If that boar's still around, we're getting it. I think it'd make a fine centerpiece for the Harvest Festival. Oh, before I forget, I need, what, five rooms?"

"You're staying the night? All of you?" she asked, looking past him.

Landen now sat sandwiched between Witt, Mayor Ashburn's son, and Andryll, the only elf willing to associate with the townsfolk, and he was none too pleased about it. Across from them sat Arlen and Manvel, who looked as if they'd rather be anywhere else. They rarely visited the tavern — it was too loud for them, Andryll once told her.

"That's unusual."

Mayor Ashburn waved her off. "We're setting out early tomorrow. My old lady would strangle me if I woke her up before sunrise again. You know how Pala can be."

"You sure my father didn't tell you to stay and babysit me?"

Mayor Ashburn snorted. "Nothing gets past you, does it? He mentioned it, though I was already planning to stay."

"Well, best of luck then.” She slid the keys across the counter and swept the pile of coins into the waiting lockbox. "If you happen across any rabbits, we could use them here. Mom's determined to make her rabbit stew for the festival, and the meat takes at least a month to cure."

"If we find any, I'll set them aside," the mayor said. "Don't hold your breath, though. The game's been unusually scarce these past few days. Either something's run them off or it'll be an early winter."

After he returned to his table, Everna made a brief note on a scrap of paper and tacked it to the edge of the counter, along with the rest of her father's forgotten reminders. There were dozens of them, and Everna suspected he hadn't looked at any of them since he wrote them down. Her father would forget his head if it were possible.

As the evening wore on, the first flakes of snow drifted from the sky, dancing past the windows and dissolving upon contact with the ground. It'd grown steadily colder since nightfall. Everna lit the second fireplace and soon warmth returned to the taproom. The crowd thinned, the patrons slowly trickling into the streets. By midnight, only a few stragglers remained, and she finally had time to tend to the smaller tasks she neglected throughout the first half of the night.

"Please tell me I'm done for the night," the last of the waitresses, Lyra, groaned. She tossed an empty tray onto the bar and dropped her head into her hands. "There's almost no one left, and gods, my feet are killing me."

"Sorry, Lyra, but not just yet," Everna said. "Since Fallon never showed up, to absolutely no one's surprise, I need you to do the midnight check."

"Great," Lyra grumbled. "How does she still have a job? This is the third time this month she hasn't shown up."

Everna rolled her eyes. "My parents are less concerned with housekeeping. As long as no one's dead in those rooms and the sheets look clean, that's good enough. But if she's not here within an hour of sunrise tomorrow, you can have her job."

"That'd be wonderful if anyone knew what she did.”

Everna hefted the lockbox onto the counter and set the logbook on top of it. "What you're about to do: check the rooms and make sure nothing's amiss. There's only four vacant ones tonight, all at the back. If you need me, I'll be down in the cellar dumping the coin and preparing to restock the bar."

She left Lyra to her task and shouldered open the door behind the bar. Walled and floored with dusky cobblestone and supported by thick wooden beams placed every few feet, the inn's cellar was a darkened maze of crates, barrels, and boxes stacked as high as the ceiling would allow. A massive wine rack, nearly filled, spanned three-quarters of the western wall. Another, albeit smaller, rack packed with bottles of brandy, whiskey, and bourbon stood against the opposite wall. On the far side of the room, almost directly across from the staircase, was another door, this one hewn of stone.

Behind it lay her father's office. Papers sat scattered across his desk. A wide assortment of weapons — swords, axes, pole-arms, and many others she couldn't name — and shields of all sizes hung from the walls. Suits of leather and metal armor, some in worse disrepair than others, decorated the armor stands shoved into the corners. A massive chest built of cherry wood and gleaming gold sat behind the desk. He kept his most prized possessions there, trinkets and oddities and artifacts he'd collected as an adventurer. As far as she knew, he hadn't touched it once since he settled down in Pendel and opened the tavern.

She dumped the lockbox into a smaller chest beneath the desk. After making a quick note on the ledger pinned to the back wall, she tucked the empty box beneath her arm and returned to the cellar. She hauled a small crate into the center of the room and started the tedious task of gathering bottles. Her father often forgot she and her mother were nowhere near as tall as him; he kept the most popular stores on the upper shelves, and the lack of a working ladder meant she had to climb on top of several precariously stacked crates to reach what she needed.

It was a tedious affair, one punctuated by several missed steps that nearly resulted in the collapse of an entire shelf. Everna stashed the bottles where she could: beneath her arms, down the front of her shirt, and cradled in her apron. Once she had enough to fill the crate, she turned to shimmy her way down.

The door burst open with enough force to rattle the supports. Everna startled and her foot slipped. The crates tumbled out from beneath her, bottles smashing against one another. She slammed into the ground, wooden splinters and glass shards digging into her back. A hollow ache lodged itself into her chest.

"Gods damn it," she hissed. She turned her head and spotted Lyra standing at the top of the stairs. "Lyra, what in the Nine Realms—"

Then she noticed the blood that soaked the front of Lyra's apron, a defined line stopping just above her knees. She was pale as a ghost, her hands trembling. Her jaw opened and closed, soundless. When she finally spoke, Everna's blood ran cold.

"Mayor Ashburn's dead!"

Foreboding

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