Page 35 of Cursed Dreams
"After dinner," Cellen declared. "We shall sneak away under the cover of darkness, like outlaws in the night."
Marand smirked. "Or like idiots who don’t want the high priestess to see them sneaking out."
"Semantics."
With the plan in place, excitement buzzed through the room. Thalia still had her doubts, but she couldn’t deny that a part of her was looking forward to it. A night of freedom, laughter, and maybe just a little bit of trouble, it might be exactly what she needed.
Cellen had apparently taken city fashion as a challenge.
He was draped in a deep crimson tunic, cinched at the waist with a belt that did nothing to hide the fact that it was cut far lower than any respectable shirt should be. The fabric was loose but tapered at the wrists, and the slight shimmer of enchanted stitching in gold caught the light. The deep neckline plunged scandalously low, revealing the smooth lines of his muscular chest, a fact he was clearly aware of, given the way he posed with a smug grin. His breeches were dark, fitted leather, polished boots climbing up to his knees. He looked like some rakish nobleman from one of her mother’s novels.
"Ah-ha!" Cellen grinned, twirling for effect. "You were saying?"
Thalia groaned, covering her face. "Why are we friends?"
"Because life would be dreadfully boring without me."
"She has a point," Marand whispered.
Cellen leaned in, waggling his brows. "What was that, Marand? You admire me? You’ve finally succumbed to my charms?"
Marand gave him a flat look. "If I ever succumb to your charms, I expect to be checked for head trauma."
Nyla laughed, shoving Cellen toward the tavern entrance. "Enough preening. You dragged us out here, so you lead the way."
As they stepped inside, the warmth of the tavern enveloped them, thick and alive with music, laughter, and the clatter of tankards. The scents of spiced wine and sizzling meat filled the air, mingling with the ever-present scent of ale-soaked wood.
Thalia still felt a bit uneasy, this was nothing like the quiet evenings of studying and tea in the temple, but as Cellen tossed an arm around her shoulders and dramatically declared, "Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived," she couldn't help but laugh
Cellen returned triumphantly, balancing four goblets in his hands with the skill of a man who had definitely done this before. He set them down with a flourish, sloshing only a little of the amber liquid onto the already-sticky table.
"Drink up, my dear friends!" he declared, sliding a goblet toward Thalia. "This is the finest mulled mead in the city, well, the finest in this particular district. I may have picked the cheapest option, but let’s not dwell on minor details."
Thalia picked up her goblet hesitantly. The warmth of the drink seeped through the metal cup, and the rich scent of honey and spices curled into her nose. She took a careful sip and blinked in surprise. It was delicious—sweet, but not sickly, the spices warming her throat as it went down.
Marand, noticing her expression, grinned. "Good, right?"
Thalia nodded, taking a bigger sip. "Why have I never had this before?"
"Because we’re usually busy being responsible," Nyla reminded her, already halfway through her own drink.
"Ah yes," Cellen sighed dramatically. "But tonight, we live!"
And live they did.
By their fourth round, Thalia was warm and giddy, her head light as laughter bubbled from her lips with ease. They had abandoned their seats long ago, swept up in the lively music of the tavern. Nyla had found herself a broad-shouldered local man who twirled her around with impressive enthusiasm, while Marand had latched onto Thalia, both of them spinning in wild, uncoordinated circles, giggling uncontrollably.
Cellen, of course, had somehow acquired an entire fan club. He lounged at the bar, a group of women draped around him, all laughing and batting their lashes as he wove some ridiculous tale that had them enthralled.
"Look at him," Marand huffed between laughter as she spun Thalia again. "He could charm the stars from the sky if he tried."
Thalia snorted, her head spinning delightfully. "He already thinks he has."
The tavern felt alive, the music thrumming through her bones, the scent of spiced wine and woodsmoke wrapping around her like a second skin. She let herself be pulled into the rhythm of the dance, the alcohol making her limbs loose and carefree.
Mid-spin, her gaze caught on something, or someone, across the room.
She stilled, her breath hitching.
