Securing my hood, I pushed through the door and stepped into a lively room.
An equal number of native Muirashins and Aenir guests gathered around the squat tables. They kept themselves firmly segregated. Shying away from my countrymen, I approached the bar on the Aenir side of the tavern and pulled out an empty stool.
Shelves of iceberry wine cluttered the far wall—an uncreative name for the only fruit that thrived in our harsh climate. Akemi and I used to sneak into the cellar to steal some before he came of age.
I glanced behind me, eyeing the clear gap in the room dividing the two races. We liked to make fun of Aenir Stormborns for being boisterous, but the Muirashin side echoed with nearly as much inebriated laughter.
The segregation reminded me of when the Emperor and his glittering Brightspear Knights had come to Tsuyan. Everyone had shied away from the Solheart soldiers, as though terrified to bask in their presence.
A sharp laugh caught my ear, and I glanced down the bar.
"It's true, then?" A tall, thin man with messy brown hair half-shouted. "Your father did fuck his sister?"
The man's words were slurred. Drunk.
The cloaked man at his side offered him a smirk. "Tall talk from a man whose wife has bedded every guard."
The taller man slammed his drink on the table and lunged, but the cloaked man dodged out of his grip and flitted to my side.
I watched him with interest up until the moment he slunk behind me, and his drunken foe snarled at me like I was his new opponent.
"Calm down," the cloaked man said. Beneath his cowl, I glimpsed his grin. "A gentleman like you wouldn't hit a lady, right?"
A lady? I stiffened. Was it that obvious?
My disguise's effectiveness didn't matter. The drunken man lunged.
Throwing myself out of the drunk's path, I grabbed his arm and yanked it behind his back. He was no fighter. I kneed him in the back, and he went sprawling.
"Fucker!" He spat, hauling himself up on his hands and knees.
Something moved in the corner of my vision. I managed to turn my head in time to see a man's fist flying for my face.
Twisting, I caught the blow on my shoulder and lost balance, landing on my knees.
The tavern went silent.
Well-muscled and red in the face, a new man stood over me. He wore a mop of white hair: a Stormborn. The crowd behind him—the darker Muirashins—gasped in horror.
He'd actually hit a woman.
And the rogue who'd gotten me into this mess dared to stand at my side and keep smirking.
All hell broke loose after that.
Several Muirashin men flew from their seats to attack the drunks. The Aenir group rose and flew to defend their countrymen.
Stormborn and Iceborn clashed in a chaotic brawl. And I was in the middle of it.
Covering my head, I rose and tried to escape the sudden cluster of bodies and swinging fists. The spindly man who'd first lunged at me found his feet and tackled the cloaked asshole. They slammed into a table and tipped it over, spilling wine over the floor.
Adrenaline surged through my veins, and excitement prickled under my skin.
I picked a side.
Grabbing the spindly prick's collar, I dragged him off the cloaked ruffian and reared back a fist. It connected with his nose with a satisfying crack. He grabbed his bloody snout and slumped back to the ground.
Cheers erupted behind me.
