I let out a long, slow breath, the kind you exhale when you’ve been holding it for far too long and your lungs are starting to burn.

  “Great. Just great.” I ran a hand through my still-damp hair. “Another entry for my ‘Eldoria Kinda Sucks’ travel blog. ‘Day 47: Even the serving girls are part of some ancient, cryptic conspiracy to ruin my day.’”

  Bartholomew gave a low, rumbling purr that was more admonishment than comfort.

  “Sarcasm is the shield of the unprepared, Paige. I suggest we opt for caution instead.” He began meticulously washing a paw, as if discussing potentially deadly folklore was as mundane as grooming.

  “Right. Caution.” I stood up, the rough linen of the tunic scratching lightly against my arms. My stomach, however, was not interested in caution. It was interested in food, and it made its demands known with a growl that could have rivaled a slumbering bear. “Look, you stay here. Hide under the bed. Try not to have any portentous conversations with the dust bunnies.”

  “I shall endeavor to restrain myself,” he sniffed, his fluffy tail giving a disdainful flick.

  I opened the door to the small, candlelit hallway, my eyes immediately going to the spot where I’d left my armor. I’d propped the leather cuirass, greaves, and vambraces against the wall, a messy but necessary pile of scuffed protection.

  The spot was empty.

  My breath hitched. The wood grain of the wall was bare. Not a single strap or buckle remained. A sudden, icy wave washed over me, completely undoing the lingering warmth from the bath. It wasn’t just a theft. It was a violation. That armor, as clumsy and heavy as it was, was the only thing that had kept me alive more than once. It was my second skin in this brutal world, the barrier between my very squishy, modern-world organs and whatever sharp, pointy thing wanted to perforate them.

  “Bart,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Someone stole my damn armor,” I hissed, a hot spike of anger piercing the cold fear. “The one thing—the one thing—keeping me from becoming a shish kebab for the next goblin we run into.” My first instinct was to storm downstairs and start yelling, but my second, more rational thought was that it would likely just get me thrown out into the night, armor-less and defenseless.

  “I’m sure it was Ser Kaelen that took it for cleaning,” Bartholomew murmured, his voice a low thrum.

  “Right. I forgot about that.” I released my clenched fists. I took another deep breath, forced my shoulders to relax, and shut the door behind me, leaving Bart to his own cautious devices.

  The common room was a chaotic symphony of life. A thick haze of pipe smoke hung in the air, catching the flickering orange light from the massive stone hearth. A bard in the corner was mangling a tune about a sow and a sailor, his voice more enthusiastic than talented. The laughter was loud, the ale was flowing, and for a moment, the sheer, unadulterated normalcy of it all felt like a physical blow.

  My eyes scanned the crowd, finally landing on Ser Kaelen. He sat alone at a scarred wooden table in the back corner, a position that gave him a clear view of the entire room. A half-empty mug of ale sat before him, next to a steaming bowl of what looked like a thick, red stew. His brow was furrowed, his gaze fixed on the dregs in his mug as if they held the answers to the realm’s woes. He looked every bit the brooding knight.

  I navigated the press of bodies, my simple tunic and trousers making me feel uncomfortably vulnerable. Every jostle was a reminder of the missing leather plates that had become an ill-fitting second skin. When I reached his table, he looked up, and the deep line between his brows softened fractionally.

  “You look…” he started, then paused, searching for the word. “Cleaner.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” I said, sliding onto the bench opposite him. My voice was tight. “My armor is gone.”

  The casual observation in his gray eyes vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity. He didn’t ask if I was sure. He just leaned forward, his voice low.

  “I know. It is in my room. Cleaned and oiled as promised.”

  Relief washed over me. I mean, I knew that’s where it was, just as Bart had reminded me, but having it confirmed was another thing.

  “The girl who brought up the water, what’s your take on her?” I said, my gaze sweeping the room again.

  And then I saw her.

  She was standing near the kitchen door, holding a tray of empty mugs. There was nothing remarkable about her, except for the look in her eyes as she glanced across the room. It wasn’t the vacant stare of a tired serving girl. It was watchful. Aware. When her eyes met mine, she didn’t flinch or look away. A flicker of something—not guilt, but maybe appraisal—crossed her features before she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “That’s her,” I breathed, nodding subtly in the direction she’d gone.

  Kaelen followed my gaze, casually surveying the scene before he looked back at me and shrugged. “She is but a girl. What did the Warden say?” He pushed the bowl of stew towards me. “Eat. Spiced boar and bean. You’re no good to me, panicked and starving.”

  I picked up the spoon. He was right. The stew was thick and rich, the meat tender, and the spice hit the back of my throat with a welcome, earthy heat that spread through my chest. It was grounding. I explained as I ate, warmth blossoming in my stomach. The innkeeper walked by, placing a mug of ale on the table and filling Kaelen’s from a pitcher without a word.

  Kaelen chewed on a piece of hard bread. When I finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “He’s right to be wary. Wardens, or Glimmer-Folk, as some of the old stories call them… they are creatures of immense power, tied to the land in ways we no longer understand. Most see them as good omens, guardians of a hearth or a bloodline.”

  “But?” I prompted, scooping up another spoonful of stew.

  “But some of the darker tales, the ones grandmothers use to frighten children, speak of them as hoarders of luck. They say that to travel with one is to live on borrowed fortune, and when the Warden leaves, they take all your good luck with them, leaving you cursed and destitute.” He took a long swallow of ale. “Others say they are magnets for restless spirits. A thief might not steal your armor because they want it, but because they believe that by taking your protection, they are helping to drive the ‘unlucky’ creature away from their village.”

  The injustice of it made the stew taste like ash in my mouth. My life, my safety, was just a casualty in someone else’s superstition.

  “It’s possible,” Kaelen conceded. “That she simply believes in the old tales.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “It was the way she looked at me. It wasn’t simple. It was… a challenge.”

  As if summoned by my words, the girl emerged from the kitchen again. This time, she wasn’t carrying a tray. Her hands were empty. She walked past the bar, her steps deliberate, and began clearing mugs from a nearby table abandoned by a group of raucous farmers. She kept her back to us, but I could feel her awareness of us like a pressure in the air.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked Kaelen in a low voice. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Patience,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the girl. “Let’s see what game she is playing.”

  The girl finished stacking the mugs. Then, she did something that made the hairs on my arms stand up. Without turning around, she lifted her left hand and made a small, subtle gesture towards the back of the inn, a narrow, shadowed hallway that likely led to the stables. It was a quick flick of the fingers. A summons. Then she picked up her mugs and walked back to the kitchen, disappearing from sight.

  It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t an escape.

  It was an invitation.

  I looked at Kaelen. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white where he gripped his mug. He had seen it too. It wasn’t just a superstitious peasant. This was something else entirely.

  “Well,” I said quietly, my appetite completely gone, “looks like we’re skipping dessert.”

  Kaelen tossed a few coppers on the table, the metallic clink unnaturally loud in the sudden silence between us. He rose, his movements economical and precise, a coiled spring of a man who was always ready for a fight. I pushed my stool back, the scraping sound on the floorboards making me wince. For the record, I preferred my dinner invitations to be less cryptic and to involve more actual dessert. Preferably something with chocolate.

  We moved as one, a strange pair heading towards the shadowed hallway. The warm, beery fug of the common room was instantly snatched away as we passed through the back door, replaced by the crisp, cold air of the night. It smelled of damp earth, hay, and the sharp tang of manure. Above, the sky was a spill of diamond dust on black velvet, more stars than I’d ever seen in my life. The beauty of it was almost enough to make me forget we were potentially walking into an ambush. Almost.

  A single lantern hung from a rusty hook by the stable door, casting long, dancing shadows that turned hay bales into crouching beasts and pitchforks into wicked tridents. There was no sign of the girl.

  “This feels… ill-advised,” I whispered, hugging my arms to my chest. “On a scale of one to ‘walking into a wood chipper,’ where are we at?”

  Kaelen didn’t answer, but shot me a look that was two parts exasperation and one part grudging respect for my ability to be glib in the face of possible death. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, his gaze sweeping the yard, missing nothing. He was a portrait of stoic vigilance. It was both reassuring and terrifying.

  Kaelen gestured with his head towards the wide-open stable doors, a maw of deeper darkness.

  “She’s in there.”

  We slipped inside, the air growing warmer and thick with the scent of horse and oiled leather. The soft snuffling and shifting of a dozen slumbering animals filled the space. The girl was there, just as Kaelen had predicted. She stood in the main aisle, bathed in the soft, golden glow of another lantern she’d placed on a barrel. She wasn’t hiding. She wasn’t cowering. She was waiting. She was holding court.

  She looked different out here, away from the chaos of the inn. Her simple brown dress seemed more practical than poor, and the way she held herself spoke of a confidence that had been masked by her duties. Her eyes, which I’d thought were just plain brown, caught the light and held flecks of gold.

  “Took you long enough,” she said, her voice low and steady. It lacked the deferential tone she’d used inside.Kaelen stepped forward, placing himself slightly in front of me. Classic knight move.

  “You summoned us. For what purpose? If this is some brigand’s trap, you’ll find we are not easy prey.”

  The girl actually smiled, a quick, knowing quirk of her lips.

  “If this were a trap, Sir Knight, you’d have been netted in the yard. I’m many things, but I’m not stupid.” She shifted her gaze from Kaelen to me. “I need to speak with the Warden’s keeper. Alone.”My eyebrows shot up.

  “Warden’s keeper? Girl, I’m his glorified chauffeur. And I’m pretty sure he thinks of me as the help.”

  The girl didn’t flinch. She met my gaze directly, a feat that surprised me for one so young. “My name is Amalia. And my business is this: I’ve seen another one.”

  The silence that followed was so profound I could hear the tiny rustle of a mouse in the hayloft. Kaelen’s posture stiffened. Even the horses seemed to hold their breath.

  “Another what?” I finally managed to ask, though a cold dread was already coiling in my stomach.

  “Another cat,” Amalia said, her golden-flecked eyes never leaving Bartholomew. “A Warden. Just like him.”

  The world tilted. Wardens were supposed to be legends. Finding one, Bartholomew, had been a one-in-a-billion cosmic joke. The idea of another one wandering around felt like the universe was breaking its own rules just to mess with me.

  “Impossible,” Kaelen breathed, his voice tight with disbelief. “The Glimmer-Folk have not been seen in pairs since before the Great Sundering. It’s unheard of.”

  “Perhaps you should update your history books,” Amalia retorted coolly. “He passed through not two weeks ago with a traveler, raucous and strange. Heading for the capital.”

  “Describe him,” Kaelen demanded, taking another step forward. “This… other Warden.”

  “A mirror of the one that travels with you,” Amalia said, gesturing with her chin towards the inn. “The same silver-smoke fur. The same yellow eyes. The same weight in the air around him. The same way the shadows bent to avoid his path.” She looked at me again. “My grandmother was a Hedge-Witch. She taught me to see the seams of the world, to notice what others miss. The moment you walked in, I didn’t see a girl with a pet. I saw a Warden and the person he had chosen to anchor him.”

  It all clicked into place. The look she’d given me. It wasn’t a challenge based on superstition. It was a challenge of recognition. She knew.

  “The traveler,” I pressed, my communications-major brain kicking in, trying to sort the data from the fantasy. “What did he look like? The man, not the cat.”

  “I couldn’t say,” Amalia admitted, shaking her head. “He wore a deep cowl and a traveler’s cloak thick with road dust. Never showed his face, not even to eat. Paid in silver. He asked for the quickest route to the capital, bought a week’s worth of rations, and was gone before sunrise. He was an odd one, though, speaking of ‘spawns’ and ‘dungeons’.”

  “The capital,” Kaelen murmured, his eyes distant. He was a man who had abandoned his order, and the capital was the last place he should be going. Now, it seemed, all roads were leading right back to the heart of the kingdom he’d left behind. “A second warden is an impossibility.”

  “And yet,” Amalia said calmly, “it is true. I don’t know what it means. But I know that two such creatures of luck and power moving towards the capital at the same time is not a coincidence. It is an omen. And I don’t know if it’s a good one.”

  She reached into a pocket of her dress and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment, holding it out to Kaelen.

  “The traveler dropped this when he paid. I think he meant to.”

  Kaelen took it, unfolding the paper carefully. I leaned in to see. It wasn’t a map or a letter. It was a charcoal sketch, crudely but clearly drawn. It depicted a sigil: a single, twisting flame over a long spear.

  Kaelen’s face went pale beneath his travel-worn skin. He crushed the parchment in his fist.

  “What is it?” I asked, the dread in my gut now a solid block of ice. “Another fun secret society I get to not know about?”

  He turned to me, and for the first time, I saw genuine fear in the knight’s eyes.

  “It is the mark of the Firebrand. An ancient order of seers and sorcerers. They were disbanded centuries ago, declared heretics by the crown for their dark prophecies and their attempts to manipulate the lines of fate.” He took a shaky breath. “They prophesied the coming of the Shadow Lord. Some say they even helped pave his way.”

  The stable, once a place of quiet slumber, now felt like a tomb. An identical Warden. A mysterious traveler. A heretical cult of dark seers. All converging on the capital. A ding sounded in my head. That was always a good sign…

  [Quest Updated]

  [The Realm of Shadow]

  [New Objective:] [Locate the mysterious traveler in Aethelgard]

  The simple quest to ‘find a way to defeat the bad guy’ had just graduated to a multi-layered conspiracy thriller, and I was pretty sure I’d skipped the orientation.

  “Well,” I said, letting out a long, slow breath and forcing a weak smile. “Looks like we’re going to the capital.”