Another terrible cry of frustration pierced the woods—then, another ripping sound followed by the thud of a hundred year-old tree being picked and tossed aside as if it were a daisy. This time, it sounded closer. Trembling, Lilac pressed her bosom so hard up against the tree that it was painful. She shut her eyes, willing herself to remain invisible to the lethal giants.
A sudden buzzing from her belt almost caused her to yelp in surprise. Groping around her waist, her hand brushed the handle of her dagger. Then, she clasped her fingers around it. It was vibrating, clamoring violently inside of its sheath. Foggily, Lilac did recall her father once saying it occasionally had a mind of its own. If her ancestor’s dagger was somehow willing Lilac to face the ogres, it was crazy. She wouldn’t stand a chance. Either way, she couldn’t deal with it now.
A third tree, sounding much closer than the others, was ripped from its roots, and with bated breath Lilac waited for the thud. With a loud thwack, the trunk she’d hid against rocked violently, impacting her with such incredible force that she was thrown backwards into the dirt. Lilac bit her lip to stifle a cry of pain and shock—she gasped in terror as the metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. Keeping her movements nimble and silent, she stayed low to the ground and scrambled out of the moonlight, leaves raining on top of her as she hastily shuffled into the shadows.
A glance back revealed an ogre swinging a broken trunk like a blind swordsman, globs of saliva flying from its yellowing teeth as it bellowed in frustration. The ogre’s weapon of choice was what had hit her tree, no doubt.
She would never escape alive if she only hid. The ogres would continue uprooting trees as long as her scent was near, and it didn’t matter if they never found her if she’d gotten squashed like a gnat by a thousand-live beech instead.
Pulling her bleeding lip into her mouth, she did her best to suck out all the blood she could and then produced as much saliva as she could muster. With all her might, she took a full breath in through her nostrils, and—as she’d watched her father do a million times into his goblet after dinner—hocked the biggest spitball she could manage off to her left. It landed not even two metres away.
Run. Run, run, run.
Although she’d spat much too close, her plan infallibly worked. When all five ogres whipped around and lumbered clumsily towards the scent of her saliva, she didn’t think twice to sprint in the opposite direction, into the thick of the woods. She didn’t care if they saw her, didn’t care if they were following her. There wasn’t time to check, and she refused to look back.
Lilac didn’t stop running when she almost launched herself headfirst into a pile of leaves after tripping over a robust root. She didn’t stop when low-lying branches swiped at her face—didn’t stop when the emotions caught up to her and the lump forming in her throat helped her choke back tears, the corners of her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. She ran until her mouth was completely dry despite huffing the moist forest air, and the sack had grown heavy upon her shoulders.
Eventually collapsing onto the rain-soaked earth, she refilled her lungs and choked out a half-sob and giggle, giddy from the adrenaline. She had known there were things that wanted to kill her in the forest—the ogres shouldn’t have been a surprise. Still, her first encounter with the creatures of Brocéliande was much too close a call. Lilac pulled herself together, hastily snatching her bag off the ground and forcing herself to get up. As she supported herself on one knee, she groaned; she was definitely going to feel all of it tomorrow—if she survived that long.
She looked up and nearly laughed out loud.
A two-story limestone building stood a rock’s toss in front of her. Above the front stoop hung a sign, upon which the remainder of the phrase, “Fenfoss—” was covered in ivy. Robust vines and leaf-dappled moss crept up the walls like serpents in the dim torchlight. A small front window to the right of the door was covered by a thin curtain from the inside; squinting, she could make out silhouettes bobbing and weaving among one another. Boisterous laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the cracks bottoming the peeling red door.
Lilac considered changing into something dry from her knapsack, but that included stripping down in the middle of the woods, in front of the building. With things probably watching her from the dark. She would have to make do with her shift and cloak soaked in rainwater. Frowning, she at least made sure to wring the ends of her hair out.
Her flats squelched against the soles of her feet as she plodded through the mud. When she reached the door, she hesitated. Her signature long locks were gone, so no one would recognize her, right? It had to be enough, and she probably looked the furthest thing from royalty considering her current appearance. Either way, she’d soon find out.
Something nearly unintelligible was scribbled onto a wooden sign nailed to the door:
Mortals… at… own risk.
It was reassuring enough.
As soon as her fingers touched the knob, the dagger on her hip began to hum wildly, clanging against the iron buttons that lined her belt.
Not now, she thought furiously. It immediately lessened its vibrations, stopping altogether in seconds. She had half the mind to leave the bothersome thing on the forest floor, and might have, if doing so didn’t leave her with zero protection.
Lilac pushed the door open and found herself in a narrow, poorly-lit foyer. Beyond it, the first floor opened up to her right into a sort of dining area scattered with mismatched tables, as if they’d been stolen from several different establishments. Booths and alcoves lined the northern wall opposite her, but most of these were empty, as a sizeable crowd gathered around the roaring fireplace.
Darklings. Korrigans, Fae, witches, probably vampires. Maybe humans, but it was hard to tell from so far away. She gulped, but her throat went dry.
No one spared her more than a passing glance, seemingly oblivious to the late hour. They were so busy laughing, drinking, and singing that no one batted an eye at her entrance. A trio of stout, grey-skinned creatures were perched upon a platform beside the fire, playing an upbeat jig. One held a flute, another, a bagpipe, and the last sat at a decrepit clavichord. Each time one of the korrigan bards hit a sour note, the entire pub took a swig and raised their glasses with uproarious laughter.
Lilac let out a sigh of relief and turned to the bar in front of her—and laid eyes on the most striking gentleman she’d ever seen.
He was tending the counter, wiping the rim of a tankard as he conversed with the old man before him; the sweeping violet robes, short pointed hat, and thick white beard easily revealed the old man’s identity as warlock.
Blushing, she forced her to breath to slow in an attempt to calm the rush of adrenaline that had shot through her. Relieved that he took no notice, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and glanced around the room for a scapegoat. Striking up a conversation with anyone, even a drunken korrigan, would make her feel slightly less like an unwelcome outsider.
Like clockwork, a tomato-faced woman appeared in front of her, white locks struggling to escape the carnation pink bonnet atop her head. Lilac’s warm smile was met with frost, the woman’s eyes narrowing into slits at the sight of the human newcomer. She scrutinized the princess in a quick once-over. It was quick, but more than enough time for Lilac to notice the woman’s vertical pupils and neon yellow irises.