Chapter 01 - Ashbourne

The snow crunched under my boots as I trudged through the streets of Ashbourne. Bertha, my trusty mule, plodded along beside me, her breath visible in the biting air. I pulled my cloak tighter. The wind came hard down the street and made my cheeks sting. I flipped the hood up, but it didn’t do much to keep the cold out.

“Come on, girl,” I muttered to Bertha, giving her a pat on the neck. She let out a low bray, probably complaining about the weather. I couldn’t blame her. Ashbourne in the winter was no joke. The buildings loomed overhead. The snow-covered cobblestones were slick under the pale sun, and I nearly went down on my ass twice.

For a second, I was back in the rainforest, the air thick and warm. And there was Aeolin.

His emerald feathers shone in the sunlight, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. I could almost feel the warmth of his body pressed against mine, his hands going wherever they wanted, which had made me nervous and hard at the same time. And gods, he had tasted of honey and mangoes.

I blinked, and the memory was gone. I was standing in the street again, the cold slapping me in the face like an angry ex.

“Shit,” I muttered, shaking my head. The last thing I needed was to get lost in daydreams about a harpy who was halfway across the world. But damn, thinking about him still left my chest warm.

Bertha nudged me with her soft muzzle, telling me to get moving. I sighed, tugging my gloves tighter. The city wasn’t going to explore itself, and I had a guild to find.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” I said, leading Bertha forward. The streets were full of merchants hawking their goods over the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers, and every one of them was yelling for my coin.

The smell of roasting meat and mulled wine hit me hard, and my stomach growled loud enough to make Bertha flick an ear back.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said, digging a coin out of my pocket and tossing it to a street vendor. He handed me a skewer of meat, and I took a bite, the fat dripping down my chin. It was good, but it wasn’t honey and mangoes, and nothing in this city was going to be.

The thought made me pause, the meat halfway to my mouth. His laugh rang in my head, wild and loud, the one he let out every time he teased me about being clumsy.

“Fuck.” I tossed the skewer into a snowbank. I didn’t need this.

The letter of introduction was crumpled in my hand, the wax seal cracked from being squeezed one too many times. I kept fidgeting with it as I walked, the edges fraying. Guild Master Harlow hadn’t exactly been thrilled about writing it when I got back to Willowbrook. I remembered him sighing, his quill scratching across the page. “Fine, you want to go gallivanting off to Ashbourne? Here’s your letter. Don’t embarrass us.” He’d muttered something about me needing to “grow up” and “stop getting distracted by every feathered ass that crossed my path.”

“It was one feathered ass,” I’d grumbled under my breath, but he’d already been done with me. How the hell had he found out anyways? Probably Maya, what a bitch. She must have sneaked into my house and read my journal.

The streets got narrower as I went, the buildings crowding in close. People shoved past me, their faces buried in scarves and hoods, no one giving a damn about the lanky rogue trying to get his bearings.

The Adventurer’s Guild came into view, its sign swinging and creaking in the wind, a painted sword and shield. My stomach rolled, and that one bite of skewer threatened to come back up. I wanted this so bad, and I had no idea if I was good enough for it.

“Fuck it,” I hissed, stuffing the letter into my pocket. I’d dragged Bertha all the way here, and I was going in. If I went home to Willowbrook now, I’d be the joke of the village all over again.

I stopped in front of the guild’s heavy oak doors and leaned against Bertha, who brayed at me, impatient for a warm stall.

“Alright, girl.” I patted her and tied her to the post next to the larger horses.

I thought about my mom back in Willowbrook, her hands raw from the garden, her eyes tired. She’d always believed in me. Somebody had to.

“Okay,” I said to no one, my voice lost in the wind. “Let’s do this.” I took a deep breath and pushed the doors open.

The heat smacked into me the second I stepped inside. I blinked the melting snow off my eyelashes. The guild was bigger and nicer than anything Willowbrook had. A massive hearth took up one wall, the fire roaring and throwing shadows across the room. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and leather, with something sweet under it, maybe the mulled wine I’d caught a whiff of earlier.

I stood there for a moment, soaking it in. The room was cozy. Plush couches were scattered around, some occupied by adventurers who looked hungover and smelled worse. Others sat at tables, bent over maps and arguing in hushed tones.

I pulled my hood back and peeled off my gloves, letting the heat wash over me, and felt my shoulders drop for the first time all day. I could have curled up on one of those couches and stayed all winter.

I spotted a desk through the crowd, a sturdy oak thing with piles of parchment and inkwells. Behind it sat an older woman with silver hair tied up in a neat bun, who had to be the secretary. She was scribbling something and didn’t look up when I approached, which I guess was her way of saying, “I know you’re there, but I’m busy.”

“Uh, hi,” I said, clearing my throat. “Samuel Thornwood. I’ve got a letter from my guild master in Willowbrook.” I dug it out of my pocket and held it out. As far as I was concerned, it was a magic ticket.

She finally looked up, her eyes sharp. “Alright, honey,” she said, skimming the letter before handing it back. “Go wait, and I’ll call you when Blackthorn is ready.” I got the feeling she didn’t tolerate bullshit.

I nodded, feeling a little out of my depth. “Sure thing. Thanks.”

The letter was supposed to get me proper rogue training. My skills were “lacking and nonexistent,” according to my guild master.

I went to wait at the bar. It was a small thing, a polished slab of wood with a few stools tucked under it. Behind it stood a gruff-looking barkeep with huge arms, his face all scars and stubble, and I decided right then to stay on his good side. The sign above the bar read The Adventurer’s Rest, and the bar smelled of beer and hot cider.

“Hey,” I said, sliding onto a stool. “Mulled cider, please.”

The barkeep raised an eyebrow. “Cider, or cider with a side of complaining?”

“Uh, the cider’s fine,” I said, flushing. I must have walked in looking as miserable as I felt.

He grunted and turned away, grabbing a mug from a rack above the bar. The cider was already steaming in a cauldron over a small flame, its spices filling the air with cinnamon and nutmeg, and my mouth watered. He ladled some into a mug and slid it over to me.

I wrapped my hands around it. The first sip was perfect, the spices burning on my tongue. It reminded me of Aeolin’s mouth, and I closed my eyes for a second.

Focus, Sam, I told myself. The barkeep was staring right at me, and I’d bet he knew exactly what I was thinking. I looked away fast, taking another sip.

The guild was bustling, people coming in out of the snow. Someone spilled a drink near the fire, and a half-elf archer jumped out of the way with a twist of her hips that I watched way longer than I should have. A dwarf in full plate clanked past, his laughter booming. Everybody ignored me, which was fine by me.

I leaned back against the bar, cradling my mug. The cider had warmed my belly, and the cold from the streets finally left my fingers.

“Samuel Thornwood?” a voice called out across the room.

My head snapped up. The secretary was standing at the entrance of a corridor behind her desk. She jerked her head toward the hallway.

“Guess that’s me,” I told the barkeep, setting my mug down.

He was already reaching for another mug. “You need anything else, you yell.”

I nodded and stood up, wiping my sweaty palms on my cloak. I started toward the corridor.

At the end of the hall was a closed door, and I figured that had to be the guild master’s office.

I raised my hand and knocked. Ashbourne, here I fucking came.

A grunt came through the door, and I pushed it open.

The room was small and hot, with a fire going in the hearth, and it was thick with stale pipe smoke that was going to cling to my clothes for days. Guild Master Marcus Blackthorn stood behind his desk, a mountain of a man with silver threading through his black hair, and he looked like he could toss me back out into the snow with one hand. His desk was a mess of papers and little trinkets.

I stepped forward, the wooden floor creaking under my boots. My hand was shaking enough that he’d notice, but I damn well wasn’t gonna let it stop me. I held out the letter and hoped to hell Harlow hadn’t written anything too embarrassing in it. His eyes flicked up to my face, and I nearly let go of the letter. “Guild Master,” I said, trying to sound steady. My voice came out more like a pubescent squirrel, but hey, it was a start.

He took it slowly and read it. One eyebrow went up partway down the page, and I’d have given my last copper to know which part he’d hit. He sank into his chair, steepled his fingers and stared at me until I squirmed.

He let me stand there so long I figured he’d forgotten I was there. Without a word, he reached for his pipe, packed it with tobacco, and lit it with a taper from the fire. The first puff of smoke curled up, and he finally spoke.

“So, you’re the one they’ve been talking about.”

I swallowed hard and kept my mouth shut.

One corner of his mouth tilted up. “The boy with more nerve than sense. You have acquired a reputation, Samuel Thornwood.”

I shifted my weight, trying to play it cool. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

He laughed. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” He set the pipe down and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the cluttered desk. “Tell me, then, what a young man like you wants with my Guild.”

“I want to be useful,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “I’ve got skills, Guild Master, and they’re going to waste in Willowbrook.”

He tapped Harlow’s letter. “And what, pray tell, makes you think you’re ready for this?”

I let it all spill out: every heist and every time I’d talked my way out of trouble, and I made all of it sound a lot bigger than it was. By the time I finished, my throat was dry. He listened through all of it without a twitch. For all I knew, he was thinking about the meaning of life.

When I ran out of steam, he leaned back again. “You’ve certainly had an eventful life, Mr. Thornwood.”

“And?” I asked.

He smirked, and I wanted to kick his desk over. “And you have potential. Potential is a lockpick, Mr. Thornwood. In a steady hand it opens doors. In a shaking one it snaps off in the lock, and the watch finds you kneeling there.”

He pulled a quill and parchment toward him and scribbled something fast in sharp script. I craned my neck to read it upside down and couldn’t make out a word. He sealed it with black wax and pressed his signet ring into it, the ring glinting in the firelight.

He handed me the note, and I took it with a shaky hand. He looked right at it, and I knew he was thinking about that lockpick. “A recommendation,” he said. “Mistress Ashara’s compound isn’t for the faint of heart. But if you’re half as resourceful as you say you are...” He shrugged. “You might survive.”