Page 30 of Forged in Cursed Flames (Crown and Crest 2)

I gesture for them to sit. “It’s true—he’s not. And I’m bored to tears because of it. Are you from Tavenglow? I’ve always wanted to learn more about the kingdom.”

They give each other questioning glances, and then they slowly choose seats.

It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for Ayan and Lawrence to return to the group, but they’re out of luck tonight—the girls only have eyes for Pranmore.

Thirty minutes later, the young women stare at our Woodmore elf, their gazes soft and dewy, listening to his tale of heartache—ignoring Ayan and Lawrence completely.

“I’m all right,” Pranmore assures them when he’s finished. “What is done is done. And to be honest, I would rather see Elsette truly happy than have her settle for me. I want that for her.”

“Oh,” Yvetta says with a lovesick sigh. “Youpoorthing.”

Lawrence rolls his eyes and extends his hand in the air to alert the barmaid he’d like another drink. Ayan rests the point of his dagger on the table and spins the blade, bored to death.

The two look like dejected puppies. I probably shouldn’t find the situation so entertaining, but there’s humor to be had in Pranmore’s overwhelming popularity. Really, the arrogant duo deserved to be knocked down a peg or two.

I yawn, ready to retire for the night. I’m just about to make the announcement when I notice a man in the corner of the tavern.

He’s an elf—a High Vale—which is not all that unusual in the port city, nor a reason to catch my attention. But he sits alone, looking terribly at ease for a man by himself in a room this crowded. His fair hair is long and straight, and he wears it loose about his shoulders, not in the usual half-up custom of his people. His brows are full and a shade darker than his hair, and they frame eyes that I can tell are pale blue even from this distance.

And those eyes focus right on me.

Startled, I blink. Raising his brows, the man points to his drink as if asking if I’d like one.

Quickly, I look away, pretending I didn’t notice. A moment later, still feeling his attention on me, I hold my breath and glance back.

His smile becomes predatory, and he jerks his head, asking me over. I rip my gaze away, feeling my pulse quicken with a strange sense of dread—not the fluttery type of rush you get when a handsome man makes eyes at you. Rather, the way you might feel if you were to meet a wolf alone in the woods.

“Henrik,” I say quietly, not wanting to draw the table’s attention. He’s on the other side of Pranmore, too far down to nudge.

“I saw,” the commander says as if reading my mind, his voice hard, obviously having eyes in the back of his head because he wasn’t evenlooking.

“Saw what?” Lawrence jerks his head up.

“Nothing,” Henrik says immediately, pushing away from the table. “It’s late, and we need to rise early. Let’s go.”

“You’re leaving?” Citrine says, her disappointed expression mimicking her friends’ as Pranmore rises to leave. “Will you be back tomorrow? Can we see you again? How long are you staying in Heistone?”

Pranmore prepares to let them down gently. “We’re leaving for Ferradelle—”

“It’s hard to say,” I interrupt, horrified he was going to announce our plans to the room. Nervous, I glance toward the corner table…

And find it empty.

Disconcerted, I look around the space, searching for the blond-haired elf. Where did he go? And why does the idea of him lurking in the shadows make me so nervous?

He’s one man. Even if he had nefarious intentions, we’re a group of six.

“Ferradelle?” Yvetta says too loudly, blinking as if confused. “I heard the High Vales don’t welcome tourists into their dukedom.”

“He meant Ryddleport,” Lawrence lies smoothly, giving her a smile that might make me jealous if I weren’t hopelessly taken with the one man in our party who thinks I could actually be a witch.

“We’re going to Ryddleport!” Citrine says, sitting up straighter. “Perhaps we could move our trip up and join you?”

I shoot Lawrence a stern look, but he merely widens his eyes as if to ask me how he was supposed to know their travel itinerary.

As if terrified at the thought of the girls tagging along, Pranmore trips over his own feet while pushing his recently vacated chair to the table. He stumbles back, arms flailing, and ends up bumping into the massive man behind him. The man lets out an irritated oath as his drink sloshes onto his tunic.

I watch, hand extended as if I can stop the events—but unable to do anything. It happened too quickly.

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