Page 38 of Shackled By Shadows

This place has bled. And walking beside me are two males, both of whom helped tear it apart. Whether he believed it was right or not doesn’t change the facts. The thought gnaws at me.

I keep my word and stay close. Oberon remains his usual silent self, but Ash’s quiet unsettles me. The male can’t shut up for more than two minutes, yet here he is eerily silent, eyes flickering to the side streets and rooftops.

“Since when do you brood?” I ask, breaking the quiet.

“That’s Oberon’s specialty.” Ash flashes a grin, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Trying something new. Might look good on me.”

“Doubtful,” I shoot back.

After a while, Oberon turns down a narrow alley tucked between two leaning buildings. We stop in front of a weathered wooden door. A small sign hangs crookedly beside it, the faded lettering barely legible: The Hollow Ember.

Oberon pushes the door open and holds it there, glancing at me with that unreadable expression. “We’ll be safe here.”

“A tavern?” I stare at the doorway, unimpressed. “You dragged me through Ash’s hellhole for a drink?”

Ash finally breaks into a laugh. “Best reason I’ve heard all day.” With exaggerated flair, he strides inside, flopping onto a barstool. “Bartender! Something strong enough to make me forget hellholes and sparkling personalities.”

Oberon’s eyes lighten just a fraction. “This is a necessary stop. We have friends here, those loyal to our cause.”

“Friends,” I echo, glancing around the dimly lit tavern. “Doesn’t look like the friendly type of place.”

The tavern is dimly lit by flickering lanterns hanging from rusted iron hooks. The air smells of smoke, damp stone, and something spiced. The walls are built of dark wood, worn and smoothed by time. A large hearth sits unlit at the far end, and mismatched tables fill the room.

The patrons are as varied as the streets outside: Fae with curling horns, winged faeries whose glow dims in the low light, and shadowy figures cloaked and hooded. All of them pause to glance at us before returning to their drinks.

“Cozy,” I mutter.

Ash returns, somehow managing three mugs in his hands, sloshing liquid with every step. “You need a drink, Lyra. Might loosen that stick in your spine.”

I narrow my eyes but take one of the mugs anyway. The liquid inside is a deep amber, and its scent is sharp enough to sting my nose. I slosh it a little as I turn to find an empty table tucked beside a narrow staircase leading upward. “Let’s sit,” I say flatly, leading the way.

Ash drops into a chair with a groan. “Ah, finally. I don’t know about you two, but traveling through interdimensional death spirals is thirsty work.”

“Hardly ‘interdimensional death spirals’,” Oberon murmurs, lowering himself into the seat opposite me.

“You weren’t the one being thrown over a shoulder.”

I shoot him a glare. “No. But next time, try carrying Ash instead.”

Ash grins widely. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

I take a sip from my mug, burning, bitter, but oddly warming, and look around again. This place isn’t just a tavern. It has the air of somewhere important. Somewhere where quiet conversations can change everything.

Oberon leans back in his chair, his gaze steady. “We won’t be here longer than we have to, only until we speak with my contact.”

I raise a brow. “Who is this mystery contact?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” he says.

Typical. Always with vague answers.

Ash shoots me a knowing look but says nothing, instead signaling the tavern keeper for more drinks. Ash lifts his mug in a mock toast. “To mysterious plans, shadowy allies, and surviving another day with each other’s charming company.”

I clink my mug against his with a smirk. “I’ll drink to that.”

As the hours drag on, we fill our time with light conversation, Ash doing most of the talking with his endless stream of sarcastic remarks and exaggerated tales.

Oberon remains his usual self, sipping slowly from his mug, offering only the occasional grunt or disapproving glance.