She laughs, full and warm, and pushes a bowl of stew toward me. "Eat. You look tired."
I eat, and we talk about other things—her supplier raising prices on spirits, the miller's ongoing feud with the Henley family over water rights, Finn's recent attempt to haggle with a passing merchant and how badly it went. By the second cup I've stopped monitoring my own expressions, which is probably what she was waiting for, because she circles back without warning.
"The tension is real," she says simply. "Between you two. I'm not teasing you anymore—I'm telling you. I've watched enough people come through this tavern to know when something is there."
I look at my cup. "It doesn't matter if it is."
"Why not?"
"Because he's an elf lord and I'm a blacksmith who forges illegal blades to keep my family alive." I say it quietly. "That's not a tension that goes anywhere good."
Sorella is quiet for a moment. Then she nods, once, and refills my cup a third time. She doesn't push further, and I don't let myself think about whether she's right.
We leave the tavern close to the ninth hour, stepping out into cold air that bites after the warmth inside. The lane is mostly quiet—a few people moving between buildings, a dog barking somewhere toward the mill.
Then I hear it. Raised voices, unsteady with drink, coming from around the tavern's outer wall.
Three men—Malrec's overseers, I recognize two of them—have cornered a small group near the alley entrance. A woman and two older men, none of them with anywhere to go. One of the overseers is waving a folded paper, his words slurred but loud.
"—three weeks past due, and the magistrate's patience is done?—"
"It's past the ninth hour," I say, walking toward them before Sorella can finish grabbing my sleeve.
"Edria—"
"Go inside." I shake her off gently. "I mean it."
The overseers turn. The one with the paper has a red face and the loose posture. He was at the tavern all night and his cup was almost never empty.
"Stay out of this." He points at me. "Official business."
"Official business doesn't happen in an alley at night." I stop a few feet away. "Come back tomorrow, sober, during collection hours."
"You don't set collection hours."
"No, but the magistrate does, and I'm fairly sure they're not posted asdrunk, after dark, against a wall." I give a sharp snort. "Go home."
The second overseer steps forward. He's bigger than the first—broad across the shoulders, steadier on his feet. He looks me over once and then reaches out and grabs the young woman by the upper arm, fingers digging in.
"You're going to want to?—"
He stops talking.
I've got my hand on the knife at my hip, not drawn but not hidden. The first overseer sees it and goes still. The woman is staring at me with wide eyes.
"Let her go." My voice comes out flat. "Now."
"You're threatening an official?—"
"I haven't done anything yet."
A new voice, from behind me and to the left. Quiet, unhurried, with an edge underneath it that cuts through the drunk overseers' bluster like a draft through an open door.
"I'd listen to her."
Nyrius steps into the lamplight from the lane, still dressed for travel, his pale violet eyes moving from overseer to overseer with detached attention as if the situation is a minor inconvenience. Another elf in his party is two steps behind him.
The overseers look at each other.
