Chapter Three Amberglow Inn

It had been named after the hearth; that central place where people dwell. Each brick set by Old Yan. People found comfort in the soft light that danced across old stone, across a simple clump of amber. Thinking about it brought Theia to her childhood—bundled on furnishings, staring at scattered lines of light. They were impressions of waves rippling across the dark wood surface. She lost herself in those lines.

Theia approached Amberglow. White moonlight blanketed the rooftop, firelight caught in its windows, and another kind of light—that which came from people reveling.

She paused in the dark, noting how different Mora felt at night. She heard the sounds of doors locking, saw lamps dotting the streets and felt the hushed silence of people hiding behind walls, rather than living in them. The bell fire’s red-tinged leaves seemed to bleed against the violet sky. And eyes. The feeling of being watched. It never left her these days.

Shouldering the bitter chill, her boots clunked onto a wooden porch. The Pyre were out front. Large men. Haggard men. Huddling around their tankards for an absent warmth. She’d seen more guards patrolling the streets too, stalking like malnourished dogs. Too many bored men, too small a town. Theia knew why so many soldiers had arrived. Mora was useful to the Mantlepyre family. The town provided a sizeable portion of timber to the capital, necessary to the family of census as most of that lumber was turned to paper, to fill their vast repositories.

She had been relieved at first. The new guard would find the missing people and solve everything. She’d been naive. Apparently the only order had been to guard the mills and the people who worked them, little care was given to the town proper. It was ridiculous, they only stepped foot to plunder food and drink. Theia saw their motives for what they were: an attempt to bend the town to their will. Good people stood little chance against an occupying force with unchecked authority. She worried about that. If the missing were never found, could the town continue to bend?

Tonight, the new guard were away at the barracks. Meaning Amberglow was populated with the old guard. Men she knew, men she trusted. She nodded to them as she approached. One was Elrik’s brother Norn. He was a quiet man, even before his brother had been taken. Unlike the others, Norn did not look at her. Instead he stared out toward the forest, ale untouched for all the worth it would fill those vacant eyes.

A wave of warmth washed over her as she entered Amberglow. Despite the circumstances—or perhaps owing to them—the inn was packed. Old Yan sat in a large upholstered seat, the only one in town. He was proud of that, and so rarely left the thing, lest the greedy set their mitts into his brocade. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, a familial greeting. He barely moved, still staring into the flames of the fire, but she saw a softness and the barest hint of a smile touch his lips. Theia was reminded of a badger looking down at him—small beady eyes, flat ears, a wary demeanor. Theia didn’t have much in the way of family, her mother barely spoke of her past, and no-one ever visited. So she really thought of Old Yan as her grandfather. It was rare for someone to have lived as long as he, which was an achievement worthy of naming. So to Mora, he was never Yan, but Old Yan… the man who’d seen them all through hardship. Every true resident of Mora, would defend Amberglow like their very own hearts.

Theia lifted her hand and scanned the tables. Where were her friends? She walked further in, to the dining room. A Liran woman was playing a strange instrument in the corner. She was tall, slender and pale. She sat on a stool and the instrument reached from the floor to her shoulders. It looked to be made of metal and curved upward against her chest. Her fingers danced across the vertically bound strings. Body swaying. Listening, layers lifted from Theia, her back and shoulders loosening in accordance with the plucked strings and lilting melody.

“Theia!”

She rounded on four people. Tucked into a booth, wooden walls enclosing them, three figures huddled over steaming meals.

“Where is your hood? Secret meetings require secrecy!” Arren said.

“You’re the only one wearing a hood!” Lilia exclaimed. “Also, two of the Pyre asked what your business was!”

“Exactly! They had no idea who I was before nearly restraining me.”

Lilia groaned, which only made her brother beam more.

Arren Haveren had bright red hair and a bright smile. He wore a scribe’s tunic, tan with a forest-green cloak hanging over his left shoulder. He had one arm resting on the table as she approached, freckles crinkled on his cheeks and an excited glint in his eye. Lilia was a head taller than Theia, and sat opposite her brother. Her own scribe’s tunic had been heavily modified, dyed near black to match her long and straight hair. Despite the clear aesthetic difference, you could easily tell the two were siblings. It came down to the same nose and eyes. She continued to swap between glaring at him, and apologising to nearby patrons whenever he got too loud. The third figure

They worked as librarian’s assistants at the house of Omun, which Hailin had become far more accustomed to than her brother. She saw how he relished the moments they stepped out of those stuffy rooms and into the sun. Theia understood that feeling.