𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝐓 𝐖 𝐄 𝐍 𝐓 𝐘 - 𝐓 𝐖 𝐎

𝐀 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐧

 Two days ago, Briéa returned to Grasite. She has spent those days throwing back pints of cheap mead and plowing through slightly burnt beef pies, the only food offered at the only tavern in town, The Jackal. Then those two nights have been spent in a questionable room above the pub she's rented out.

Her journey back from Kastos was fueled more by humiliation than rage. The last time she had felt shame so strong was years ago when the entirety of the Rose Council ridiculed her for her lack of control over her magic. Silene Makorov had deceived her, used her as a puppet, and controlled her every move. Briéa had carelessly fallen for it. She wasn't ready to face Ennell again, not after allowing Makorov to get the advantage over her so easily.

The sun outside told Briéa it was hardly noon, and she was already tipsy.

Not that Rufus, the barkeep, was bothered. As long as she kept slamming coin down onto the bar, Rufus kept pouring. And thanks to the hefty price she was able to pawn for the ring from Davengard's wife, she had plenty to keep her comfortable at The Jackal for months.

And Rufus doesn't ask questions, something Briéa likes about him. His common lingo is limited, it's not his first language. But she has been able to gather that he's from the northernmost part of the province Rennor, he's really only fluent in whatever dialect they speak in those mountains.

Briéa doesn't see but hears the door swing open, the bell attached chiming through the pub. It's followed by the stomping of feet to shake the snow off boots and a cold air rushes in that bites at her cheeks. She doesn't bother to turn and look until someone plops down into the chair beside her, although she could've guessed who it was from smell alone. Spices with a hint of smoke.

Zaarin.

The usual rush of joy or excitement she feels at the sight of him doesn't come. Instead, she downs the rest of her drink, finding very sudden interest in the rim of her mug.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Zaarin motion to Rufus for a drink. After the barkeep gets him a mug, he fills Briéa's once more. "Is your room at the Arcane no longer satisfactory?" She doesn't respond, continuing to stare at the cup clutched in her hands. "Hasn't been much of an issue for us before." Now she offers Zaarin a side-eyed glare.

"Would Zaara pour me drinks like my friend Rufus here?" At the mention of his name, Rufus' head perks up and whips over in their direction. Briéa waves him off dismissively and he goes back to drying some glasses.

"No one blames-"

Briéa cuts him off fast enough not even Zaarin's reflexes have time to respond. She reaches out and grips onto his wrist, wringing the skin hard enough to make him shut up.

"Don't," she starts dangerously. "Just. Don't." A gruff sight comes from Zaarin as he pulls his hand free. He makes sure to give Briéa a show of rubbing the red marks her fingers left on his wrist. She rolls her eyes. "Pussy," she mutters, taking a swig of her drink.

Zaarin scoffs and copies her. "Easy there Bri." That voice. Any other day it might ignite something in her core and she would tease him back with a similar tone. But today she grits her teeth at the sound.

"Well, you've found me. Now run on back to Ennell and tell her I'm alive and happily drunk and want to be left alone."

"Ennell knows you're fine." Briéa knows the pause that follows is Zaarin trying to find the right words to say next. So she takes another drink, still turned away from him, and waits. "She's known you've been here since you made it back." Of course, she did. Zaarin tapes his thumbs rhythmically against his mug and twists in his seat to face her fully. "I wanted to check on you, Reihan's worried too."