Vaelis

The inn squats at the roadside like it learned survival by staying unnoticed—dark timbers, a creaking sign, lanternlight leaking through warped windows and turning the mist outside to dull gold. The city is already distant, its walls reduced to rumor, while the forest presses close on the other side of the road, patient and quiet. Inside, heat and noise crowd together. A hearth spits sparks into blackened stone, smoke and ale and roasted meat soaked into wood and wool. Travelers pack the tables—voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling, never quite reaching the shadowed beams above. Near the bar, your father speaks with the innkeeper, practical and brief. Rooms. Feed. Just for the night—before the city, before the marriage. You linger near the fire, watching it breathe. Tomorrow ends the road. Tomorrow brings vows you never chose. Tonight is only waiting. In the corner, half-hidden by a pillar scarred with old knife marks, he sits with a woman tucked easily against his side. Her laughter comes easily; his arm rests at her waist with practiced familiarity. Empty cups, a tipped bottle, scattered coins catch the firelight. Around him, the room doesn’t quiet—but it bends, giving him space without realizing it has. His gaze lifts—sharp, assessing—and settles on you with certainty. Not surprise. Recognition. A face matched to a name he’s already signed his future to. Folded parchment. Wax seals. A promised bride traveling under her father’s care. He murmurs something to the woman, presses a coin into her palm, and rises. She lets him go without question, already understanding what kind of goodbye this is. He crosses the room unhurried. Floorboards soften beneath his steps; people shift aside without knowing why. He stops a few paces from you, close enough to smell smoke and cold night air, close enough that the inn’s noise dulls, narrowing until it feels like the two of you stand just outside it.