minstrel asked.
Aryn stayed tuned in on the conversation as he circled the room, keeping to the shadows, as he went about his task.
“Perhaps…perhaps it was my own…my own fault, milady,” the guard stuttered, his booming belligerent voice now a mumble. “Seein’ he jes’ a kid, after all. No harm done.”
“None at all.” An agreeable smile lit the minstrel’s face and her eyes all but glowed, making everybody watching her feel warm, welcome…loved.
Well, almost everybody. The guard and his cohorts were scared shitless, having barely avoided slaughter.
With a near-audible pop, the tension drained out of the room and the guard turned on his heel to return to his seat.
Aryn, task completed, watched the players in the odd little scene.
As if fearing to attract her notice, the guard’s companions and other various miscreants hurried away from the fae female. Others remained standing, gathered near the minstrel. They didn’t quite surround her and none actually approached. But their awe and interest was visible. For some, it wasn’t just awe or interest, but outright worship.
Aryn wasn’t surprised. He doubted the minstrel was, not considering how far from her people’s lands. Zhalia, far from the Four Kingdoms, called the enchanted kingdom by the human races, was a superstitious land and had been for generations.
Magic and its practice wasn’t forbidden in the province, at least not anymore, but outside the larger cities, few used it openly and races inherently magical, like the elves, were nearly on the same level as angels—or, depending on who you asked, demons—and only a mere step below Nominu, or the Nameless One, among some peoples, the deified, sacrificed God recognized in this part of the world.
As she returned to the corner where she’d been playing for much of the night, Aryn watched as she tugged her hood back up. Her hand hovered over her chest but she didn’t rub the area where the guard had shoved her. She might be stronger than two or three average humans, but he suspected the guard’s attempt to knock her back had hurt.
The moment lasted barely a heartbeat before she lowered her hand and her facial muscles didn’t change. That, too, was unsurprising. He’d seen no sign she had any companion and it didn’t take more than a few days or weeks of lone travel in this world to figure out that it was best to never show if a hint of weakness.
She bypassed the low stool where she’d sat to play, closer to him now. Unable to hold back the curiosity now, he spoke. “Interesting reaction there. Does that happen everywhere you go?”
Chapter 2
Tyriel was irritated now—and tired.
Also, very hungry. She’d planned on staying at this inn for a few days, but likely needed to reconsider that decision. Not in the mood to play word games, or any much of anything, she looked toward the speaker and found herself staring into a pair of blue eyes—very beautiful blue eyes.
The shadows cast by his hood would make it hard for a human to notice that fact. But elves weren’t human. According to her father, a fae lord who had lived for more than two thousand years before he fell in love with Tyriel’s Wildling mother, both of them had often debated about whether Wildlings were, in fact, still human themselves.
Wildlings had lived for millennia in areas where the wild magic had flowed freely, refusing to flee to human villages and cities, hiding by tall stone walls with iron gates where they bedded down at night and prayed no magic creature would find their beds.
Wild magic had a…curious effect on people after a time. After generations of living in areas rife with wild magic, Tyriel wouldn’t be surprised to learn the Wildlings weren’t human anymore.
Like her deceased mother, she had her own suspicions on the subject, leaning toward the likelihood that the Wildlings had veered from simple humans to something more complex several centuries back.
Tyriel certainly wasn’t human.
Her vision had always been keen, keener than any she knew from either fae or Wildling lineage. She appreciated it yet again as she took in the blue irises, a nose that had been broken at least once, but set with rather admirable skill, and a mouth almost ridiculously pretty for a man.
Well, hello, lovely man.
His brows rose and she reminded herself—he asked a question, silly chit.
“It happens often enough that I’m used to it.” She considered that a moment before adding, “Mostly.”
“Used to grown men nearly piss themselves when they see you while others look at you as