Mountain of Bones 1

1

Three weeks since I’d buried my dagger in the king’s heart, and the world still smelled of his rotting reign.

Kalith Village, a small village in the outskirts of the kingdom buzzed like flies on a corpse. And in the Rusty Hinge inn, men toasted the king’s demise with ale thick enough to drown their own sins. Others, the ones who’d profited from his cruelty, drank in silence, their knuckles white around their cups. Most didn’t care. A dead king was just another corpse.

But I cared.

Because the bastard had laughed as he died.

And the "his" location was still unknown to me.

Day three. Still no herald.

No herald to tell of any news from the capital. 

The ache in my chest gnawed deeper.

“Hey, pretty lady.” The man’s belly brushed the table as he leaned in, his grin a crooked fence of yellowed teeth. He smelled of stale beer and onions, his fingers leaving damp prints on the wood as he tried to wedge himself onto my bench. “What’s a sweet little thing like you doin’ in a place like this?”

I held his gaze. Slowly. Deliberately.

His grin returned, wider now, emboldened by her silence. He leaned closer, his breath hot and sour. “C’mon, sweetheart. A pretty face like yours shouldn’t be all alone. How ‘bout I buy you a drink?”

I didn’t blink. “No.”

He chuckled, undeterred, and reached for my hand. “Aw, don’t be like that. I’m just bein’ friendly.”

My dagger was in my grip before his fingers could graze my wrist. The blade gleamed dully in the tavern’s greasy light, pressed just above his thigh, close enough to certain delicate areas that his face drained of color.

“You have three seconds,” I said, “to walk away before I redefine ‘friendly’ for you.”

A beat. Then another.

The tavern had gone quiet around us.

He swallowed hard, hands lifting in surrender as he slid back from the bench. “No need for that, darlin’. Just… just makin’ conversation.”

“Two.”

He scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly tripped over his own boots. “Crazy bitch,” he muttered under his breath but not quietly enough.

I smiled. “Try again.”

This time, he fled without another word.

The tavern’s noise swelled back in his wake, though the stares lingered. I returned to my drink, the weight of the dagger still warm in my palm.

Then, from the shadowed corner by the door...

“That’s no way to treat the locals, Mawen.”

A familiar voice. One I’d been waiting for.

The herald had finally arrived.

"Took you long enough, bastard."

I didn’t realize I’d stood until I was already crashing into him. His arms thick as oak branches, smelling of saddle leather and the sharp pine of the northern roads closed around me. For a breath, I let myself forget the dagger at my hip, the king’s blood still crusted under my nails, the ache that never left.

"Shh," he rumbled, his laughter vibrating through my bones. "No one but my mother calls me that."

I pulled back just enough to see his face, the herald’s face, all sun-weathered wrinkles and that damned crooked grin. "Your mother’s smarter than you."

"And twice as mean." He cupped the back of my head, his thumb brushing the scar behind my ear, the one he’d stitched himself a lifetime ago. "You look like shit, Mawen."

"You smell like horse."

"Missed you too."

The tavern’s murmurs surged around us, curiosity and fear tangling in the air. The herald’s gaze flicked over my shoulder to the man still nursing his pride by the ale barrels. "Making friends again?"

I shrugged. "He’s alive, isn’t he?"

"Disappointing." He slung an arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the stairs. "Come on. We’ve got work to do."

The way he said it, quiet, grim turned my blood to ice.

The herald never whispered unless the world was ending.

The herald’s grip tightened on my shoulder as we climbed the stairs, his boots scuffing the warped wood. The tavern’s noise faded behind us, replaced by the creak of old timber and the thunder of my own pulse.

He didn’t speak again until the door slammed shut behind us.