“Pass is closed,” Garrick said stoically as he stood, shovel in hand and planted in the snow, near the tavern’s entrance. “Snow buried half the road past the gorge. Not even the mules can get through. We’re cut off until the thaw.”
The words settled on the village like smoke, clinging to every conversation and every glance toward the mountains. The avalanche had severed Threadneedle’s only lifeline to the outside world.
The streets were cluttered with drifts of snow, tangled beams, and broken carts. Men shouted as axes bit into splintered trees, shovels scraping stone. Snowflakes clung to rooftops like thick ash, while long icicles hung from overhangs.
A quiet dread had settled over the village.
As he approached the tavern, Ward didn’t need Garrick to say it. He saw it in the faces of the villagers, in the woman waiting at her window with her hand on the shutter, and in the men shoveling. The pass was buried under a weight of ice and stone that no man could move.
Ward pulled up his collar against the wind as he squinted toward the mountains. Somewhere beyond the gray peaks, a world carried on.
The thought made it worse, lonelier. An isolation he couldn’t shake off with a laugh.
And the absurdity of it all seemed momentarily unbearable, a weight he now realized he had to carry all by himself.
A child darted past him then, clutching a makeshift broom twice her size. She glanced at him, cheeks flushed red with cold, before running to help her mother sweep the path to their door.
Ward turned his collar higher and kept walking.
In front of him, the Broken Needle crouched at the village’s center, its darkened stone walls sturdier than anything else in Threadneedle. Its roof sloped low, hunched under a burden of ice, but its chimney smoked steadily, and faint warmth leaked from its narrow windows like a shared secret.
A voice barked from the corner. Garrick, sleeves rolled high, flexed his arms as he shoveled a path free of snow. “Put your back into it!” he called to a younger soldier nearby. “You’d think your spine was made of soup.”
“Too early for you to be shouting at people, old man,” Ward muttered as he passed, stomping through the narrow gap Garrick had cleared.
“Too early for you to be awake,” Garrick shot back.
Ward grinned, flashing his teeth. “Not all of us are busy impressing the snow.”
Garrick leaned on the shovel as he glanced up from his work. His face was ruddy, breath curling in the cold like steam. “I’m the one keeping it out of your ale, boy.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want my drinks watered down.” Ward laughed, clapping Garrick once on the shoulder as he passed.
But Garrick didn’t return the grin this time. He set the shovel down, straightening, and turned his attention to the castle perched on the far ridge, dark and unyielding against the pale morning sky.
“I’m heading up,” he said. “Lady Thorn wants me at the dungeon. Interrogation.”
Ward’s smirk slipped. “Cheerful business.”
“More cheerful than babysitting you,” Garrick replied, though there wasn’t much bite in what he said.
He slung his coat over his shoulders and adjusted his sword belt, the edge of his blade catching the faint morning light. “Try not to start trouble while I’m gone.”
Ward gave a mock salute, boots crunching in the snow, as he moved toward the door. “I’ll leave the troublemaking to you, Garrick.”
Garrick grunted, already moving toward the castle road. His broad form cut through the snowdrifts like a plow. Ward watched him go for a moment, hands in his pockets, before retreating into the warmth of the tavern.
The Broken Needle was a world apart from the snow-choked streets outside. Laughter rang against the low beams, mingling with the crackle of the fire, the scrape of boots, and the steady clink of mugs against wood. The hearth at the center roared with fresh-cut logs, flames snapping greedily, licking at the soot-streaked walls.
The air was filled with an earthy aroma of stew. It curled lazily from the iron pot near the fire, where the ladle sat neglected, steam rising in whisper-like tendrils. Villagers and soldiers leaned over their tables, some loud with drink, others quiet with fear.
And through it all moved Ryn.
With innate grace, she moved between tables, as if she were their rightful mistress, her apron cinched around a figure that rivaled the fireplace for heat and attention.
Her white but worn blouse dipped low, laces loosening as the day wore on—suggesting slightly more than it revealed. When she leaned to snatch a cup or set down a bowl, the firelight pooled in the curve of her bosom, and more than one soul found reason to glance away too slowly.
Her skirt, short by Threadneedle’s standards, swayed with every step, the worn edges framing legs wrapped in dark stockings. Boots laced high hugged her calves like a second skin, and a single loose curl of hair kissed her throat, jealous of the attention.
She knew that eyes followed her, and she wielded their fascination like a knife, never in anyone’s hands but her own.
Ward paused a moment in the doorway, letting the warmth press against his face, before sauntering in like he owned the place. He didn’t, of course, but Ward had always been the kind of man to make himself at home wherever he wasn’t welcome.
He wasn’t tall, but he had the build of someone who’d spent his life in a fight, his shoulders a little too broad for the rest of his wiry frame. His cloak hung loose around him, but his leather jerkin fit snug, cut to allow for quick hands and quicker exits. His dark hair curled faintly at his temples, framing a face with too many ridges to be handsome.
But it was his grin that did the work. That lazy, wolfish smile hinted at trouble. Some women liked the look, even if they knew better.
“Morning, lads,” he called, loud enough to draw a groan from the nearest table. “How’s everyone enjoying the new Threadneedle? I hear the pass is lovely this time of year.”
“Ward, I’ll throw you in the snow myself,” a soldier growled without looking up.
“Good luck finding the door,” Ward shot back, stomping snow onto the rug with deliberate glee.
A scrap of bread flew his way, and he ducked, grinning as it flew past.
“Ward.”
The name sailed through the room.
He whipped around to find Ryn at the bar, hands braced on the counter, lips curled into something between a smirk and a dare. The lantern light framed her from behind, edging her silhouette in gold, softening nothing.
“Morning, Ryn,” Ward said. She felt his eyes all over her blouse, low where the laces rebelled, before lingering shamelessly at the curve of her mouth. “You know, you get prettier every day I see you.”
“And you get dumber,” Ryn replied, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. She reached for a glass, her fingers trailing over the counter as though daring him to follow them. “I told you not to track snow on my floor.”
“Can’t be helped.” Ward leaned on the bar, close enough for the heat of him to cross the small space between them. “You know I like leaving a mark.”
“A mark?” Ryn tilted her head, slow and deliberated, taking in his frame, as though measuring the worth of him and coming up short. “You’re about as memorable as a cold bed.”
Ward’s smile sharpened, but he leaned closer. The lamplight cast shadows across the line of his jaw, catching where the day’s stubble darkened his skin. “Well, it might not be cold for long. Depends on who’s lying in it with me.”
Ryn’s eyes narrowed, but there was no heat in her glare. Only challenge. She pivoted to grab a bowl from behind the bar, the edge of her skirt catching on the shift of her hips as she moved.
“You’re not getting fed if you’re not paying,” she said over her shoulder.
Ward followed her movements without apology, speaking lower. “You wouldn’t let me starve, Ryn. Not when you like me so much.”
She let her fingers linger on the bowl, and for a moment the room fell away. The laughter, the fire, the scrape of chairs, it all dulled to a hum, leaving only the faint rise and fall of her breath and the glint of the smirk she tried to hide.
“I might,” she said quietly. “If you keep pushing your luck.”
Ward was still grinning, but it was broken by a pause. He didn’t blink.
“Good thing I’ve got so much of it, then.”
Ryn held his gaze for a beat longer, saying things neither of them wanted to hear, before she tossed the bowl onto the counter.
“Sit down,” she said. “Before you collapse and ruin my floor.”
Ward backed off with a chuckle, hands raised. “Whatever you say, Ryn.”
He moved toward the fire, shrugging off his coat as he went, the heat pulling a faint flush to his cheeks. From the corner of his eye, he saw her watching him as she wiped a glass clean. For all her fire, Ryn had never been a flame a man could hold without burning himself.
Ward sank onto the bench, stretching his legs out as the flames licked at the logs. He let his head fall back against the wall, the tavern noise drifting over him like water—chatter, laughter, spoons scraping against bowls—but his gaze lingered on the bar.
On her.
Ryn wiped the glass with quick efficiency, as though she could scrub out anything: dirt, memories, and the way Ward looked at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.
Ward’s breath was slow, his chest tightening with a feeling he didn’t want to name. The noise of the room wasn’t cutting it today, not the way it should have. He needed to move, to stretch, to shake something loose before it locked.
The bar creaked faintly as he stood, catching Ryn’s eye for just a moment.
“Don’t spill anything back there,” she said dryly, nodding toward the backroom door.
Ward’s old grin came back, though it didn’t stretch all the way across. “You’d miss me if I did.”
She snorted softly, tossing the rag over her shoulder as she swung back to the bar. Ward didn’t linger to watch. He was already pushing through the narrow door at the end of the room.
The bar noise fell away when Ward slipped into the backroom, shutting the door behind him with a deliberate thud. The air here was warmer than the main hall, but not by much. The lantern hanging from the low ceiling swayed faintly, its weak flame painting the stone walls in golden circles. Barrels and crates leaned into one another, their edges worn smooth with years of use, and somewhere beneath the scent of beer and damp wood was Ryn—faintly floral, earthy, and unmistakable.
She was already there, bent low over a barrel, with one hand braced on the rim as she wrestled with its lid. Her blouse had slipped further down her back, baring the smooth curve of her shoulder and the faint line of her spine as it disappeared beneath the fabric.
Her skirt clung high to the backs of her thighs, hiked so that Ward could see the thin edge of her stocking where it met bare skin.
Ward stopped dead, his grin curving slow and lazy as he leaned against the doorframe. “Well. Don’t let me interrupt.”
Ryn froze, just for a beat, before straightening with an exaggerated sigh. The lid came loose with a groan, and she swiped the back of her hand across her brow, leaving a faint smear of dust.
“If you had anything useful to say, I might’ve missed it,” she shot back, turning to face him.
Ward’s gaze didn’t waver, trailing shamelessly over her. And a heat in his gaze made the small room feel even smaller. “What’s useful is knowing when to enjoy the view.”
Ryn arched a brow, unconcerned, though there was a hint of color high on her cheekbones. “Is that all you ever think about?”
“Not my fault you’re always putting ideas in my head.” He took a step closer, boots scuffing against the stone.
Ryn watched his approach, her stillness only broken by the hint of a smile; she knew the outcome already. “Careful, Ward,” she said, tilting her head. “If you get too close, I might think you’re falling in love.”
Ward narrowed the gap between them. “Falling, maybe. But not in love.”
Ryn spun around, reaching for another crate. “Cowards always have the best excuses.”
As she bent to pull the crate loose, her skirt rode higher, baring the firm line of her thighs and a glimpse of soft skin just beneath the hem. Ward’s throat went dry. He came up behind her, catching the faint shiver that rolled through her shoulders, and let his fingers graze her hip.
“Some men fight wars for things like that,” he murmured.
Ryn straightened, twisting in his grasp, until they were face-to-face. Her eyes flashed as she grabbed his wrist, her grip firm but not unkind. “And some men get their throats slit because they didn’t see the knife coming.”
For a moment, they were close enough that Ward could feel her breath on his lips. His hand stayed on her hip, unmoving but deliberate, as her gaze bored into him.
“You wouldn’t slit my throat,” he said, mockingly confident, though his heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Ryn tilted her chin, leaning in so that her lips just brushed his ear. “Depends how thirsty I get.”
That sent a jolt down Ward’s spine; but he smiled, letting her shove his hand away as she backed up. Her blouse had slipped further down her shoulder, exposing more skin, but Ryn didn’t fix it. She let him look, let him linger, as though daring him to push his luck.
“You know,” Ward said, “if you’re this much fun sober, I’d love to see you drunk.”
As she crouched by the keg, her glare could have said everything. “If you’re this much of a fool sober, you’re not ready.”
Ward laughed, a genuine sound that seemed out of place in the shadowed room. He rotated to lean against a crate.
“We don’t have to stay here, you know,” he said, not as loud. “The pass’ll open eventually. We could walk away. Leave all of this.”
Ryn’s fingers trailed along the edge of the keg. Her expression turned a shade cooler as she glanced up, her mouth a thin, indecipherable line.
“And go where?”
Ward shrugged. “Anywhere but here.”
“Not all of us are running,” she said simply, standing again. For a moment, there was no sound but the low crackle of the lantern. Then she added, “You know, the tower’s quiet this morning.”
That reflection landed on Ward like a stone dropped into deep water, rippling as it went down. “And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”
Ryn’s steady gaze broke through his customary guard. “It should. You used to notice things like that.”
Ward held her stare for a beat longer, then shrugged, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off a weight. “Well, if trouble is coming, I’ll let someone else deal with it.”
“Of course you will,” Ryn murmured, and there was no bite in her tone, just disappointment.
Ward pushed off the crate, brushing past her as he moved to the door.
“Cowards live longer, Ryn.”
She didn’t respond when he left, the heavy wood groaning shut behind him. With fingers pressed to the keg’s edge, Ryn stayed put as the lantern light played across her features.
In the stillness, she whispered.
“Not always.”
The heat from the backroom faded quickly as Ward returned to the tavern, shaking off the lingering moment. The sounds of laughter, mugs, and fire still filled The Broken Needle, yet it wasn’t quite the same. The noise no longer felt carefree.
And there, just inside the door, stood Kael Darron.
Snow clung to his shoulders, the melt darkening his cloak in streaks. With hair still damp, he scanned the room. And when he looked at Ward, he barely glanced his way.
“Crownsman,” Ward drawled, dropping into his seat by the fire. “Lose something?”
Kael ignored the jab. “Where’s Garrick?”
“Barking at snowdrifts and scaring children,” Ward replied, jerking his thumb toward the door. “On his way to the castle.”
Kael furrowed his brow and pressed his lips into a hard line before starting toward the bar, where Ryn slid mugs across the counter. She looked up as he approached.
Kael didn’t waste time. “I need information.”
Ryn raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with casual defiance. “Don’t we all? You’ll have to be more, hmm, specific,” she challenged.
Kael was clearly unused to being stonewalled. His hand curled slightly against the bar, fingers flicking faint droplets of melting snow. He shot a glance at the backroom door before snapping back to Ryn.
“I need to see the dungeons.” He was quieter now, but also more urgent.
Ryn didn’t move. The distance between them stretched.
“Bad idea, Crownsman,” she warned, watching him like she was peeling him open. “You seem pretty fixed on it, though. You been drinking?”
Kael swallowed whatever retort had been forming. His fingers drummed once against the bar.
“Look, it’s not your business,” he said, the edge in his tone betraying him. “I just need to get down there.”
“It’s my business when people get dragged back there and don’t come out again.” She let the pause linger, just long enough, before adding, “People like Oona.”
Kael swallowed his breath. Barely there, Ryn saw it.
The two of them stared at each other; the Crown’s authority in Kael’s stance clashed with something rooted and stubborn in Ryn’s. Ward, watching from the fire, didn’t miss the way her hand gripped a bottle’s neck, as though she were judging its heft.
His patience depleted, Kael finally spun around and made his way silently to the exit.
“Ward!” Ryn’s voice whipped through the air like a lash.
Groaning dramatically, Ward hauled himself up, his boots thudding heavily on the floor. “What now?”
“Go after him,” Ryn said, leaving no room for argument. “Before he does something stupid.”
With one hand on the door, he gave her a long and measured look. “Starting to think he’s your problem, not mine.”
A smile, or maybe not, touched Ryn’s lips. “He’s everyone’s problem.”