Chapter 7: Sober Thoughts
The heavy oak door of Snare’s Pub groaned shut behind Aiden, muffling the distant sounds of the waking town. Inside, the silence was thick, layered with the scent of stale beer, woodsmoke from the eternal hearth-fire, and decades of polished oak. Dust motes drifted in the weak shafts of morning light slicing through the high, grimy windows. Empty. Perfect. Just him, the ghosts of last night’s revelry, and the low, constant crackle of enchanted flames in the stone fireplace.
He leaned back against the cool wood of the door, letting its solidity ground him. The borrowed trousers felt alien against his skin, a stark reminder of the borrowed sweater currently clenched in Luna’s furious grip back at the library. The phantom sensation of her – the heat, the frantic press, the sharp gasp against his neck – slammed into him again, visceral and unwelcome. Followed instantly by the glacial fury in her amber eyes. Get out. The words echoed louder than the door slam.
"Protection, my ass," he muttered, the sound harsh in the quiet. He pushed off the door, his boots scuffing softly on the worn floorboards as he headed towards the bar. His reflection in the dusty mirror behind the bottles was a stranger: tousled red hair wilder than usual, stubble darkening his jawline, shadows like bruises beneath his green eyes. The faint, pulsing glow of the runes along his forearms beneath his rolled-up sleeves seemed accusatory in the dim light. The Spire hadn’t just worn him down; it had etched its mark deep. Years of patrols, containment breaches, the cold, impersonal weight of duty… it had sanded away the easy charm, leaving something harder, rougher beneath. A layer of grime, both literal and metaphorical, clung to him.
He needed a shower. Desperately. Hot water, soap strong enough to scour away the lingering scent of ozone, sweat, and ancient paper… and her. He needed steel against his jaw, scraping away the evidence of restless nights and hasty travel. Basic things. Things Magnis Snare, the pub’s perpetually gruff owner and his oldest friend in this damned town, wouldn’t begrudge him. Probably. Hopefully.
A floorboard creaked loudly overhead. Aiden froze, hand halfway towards the polished brass bell on the bar. Heavy footsteps descended the narrow staircase tucked behind the bar counter. A moment later, Magnis appeared, blinking owlishly in the gloom. He was a bear of a man, thick-set with arms corded from decades of hauling kegs, his bald head gleaming faintly, a thick grey beard obscuring most of his face. He wore a stained undershirt and trousers held up by suspenders straining over his considerable belly.
He squinted at Aiden, recognition dawning slowly. His bushy eyebrows climbed towards his nonexistent hairline. "Blackwood?" His voice was a gravelly rumble, thick with sleep. "Stars above, boy. You look like something the Void coughed up." He shuffled behind the bar, not bothering with pleasantries. "Five years. Not a whisper. Then you turn up at Sparrow’s fart on a Tuesday lookin’ like a lost badger dragged through a hedge backwards." He pulled a chipped mug from under the counter and filled it from a tap marked 'Springwater'. Slid it across the bar towards Aiden. "Drink. You look parched. And haunted."
Aiden managed a weak grin, accepting the water. It was cold, clean, grounding. "Good to see you too, Mag." He took a long swallow. "Been… busy."
"Busy." Magnis snorted, leaning his bulk against the back counter. He scratched his beard, eyes sharp despite the sleepiness. "Busy avoiding this place? Avoiding her?" There was no need to specify who 'her' was. The library was practically next door. The history between Aiden and Luna was town lore, amplified by the abruptness of his departure.
Aiden traced a bead of condensation on the mug. The cool ceramic felt real against his fingertips. "It wasn't avoidance. Not entirely." The lie tasted sour. Mostly avoidance. Cowardice wrapped in duty. "Spire assignment. Deep cover. Comms blackout." The official line. Mostly true. Utterly inadequate.
Magnis grunted, unconvinced. "Deep cover, my wrinkled arse. Saw Luna this mornin', early. Headin' into the library. Looked…" He paused, searching for the word. "Tense. Like a coiled spring waitin' to snap. Now you're here, lookin' like you wrestled a dust devil and lost." His gaze dropped pointedly to Aiden’s borrowed trousers, the rolled sleeves revealing the faintly glowing runes. "Those ain't yours. Smell faintly of lavender and ozone. Library issue?"
Aiden flinched. The detail was brutal. Magnis missed nothing. He set the mug down harder than intended. "Ran into her. Briefly." Briefly. A gross understatement. The memory of her body arching against the bookshelf, the desperate friction, the sharp cry she’d bitten off… it flooded him, hot and immediate. Followed by the ice. The fury. Get out. He cleared his throat. "Didn't exactly… go well."
Magnis barked a short, humorless laugh. "Understatement of the century, lad. Five years vanishin' act, then you 'run into her' and she lends you trousers? What'd you do, fall in the river?" His eyes narrowed. "Or did you try the old Blackwood charm offensive? Usually involves smirks and bad jokes. Doesn't usually end with trouser-swappin'."
Aiden ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling. "It wasn't like that! I went to… warn her. Things are… stirring. Bad things. Old things. Thought she should know." Protection. The word felt hollow now, poisoned by her scorn. "She didn't exactly welcome the news. Or me."
"Warn her?" Magnis pushed off the counter, his expression shifting from sardonic to serious. "What kind of 'bad things', Aiden? Spire-level bad? Or just the usual Hinterland nasties?"
Aiden hesitated. The details were classified. Compartmentalized. But this was Magnis. Keeper of secrets smoother than his finest whiskey. And Luna… Luna was already in the crosshairs, whether she knew it or not. Her library held keys. Dangerous ones. "Both," he admitted, voice low. "Something… ancient. Waking up. Drawn to places of power. Knowledge." He met Magnis's gaze squarely. "Like the Arcane Library. Like Luna."
Magnis swore softly, a guttural sound. He poured himself a finger of amber liquid from an unmarked bottle beneath the bar, downed it in one smooth motion. "Hellfire and damnation. Knew your ugly mug portended trouble." He slammed the glass down. "And you thought waltzin' in after five years of silence to deliver that cheery bit o' news was gonna go over well? You always were thicker than a plank, Blackwood."
"I didn't plan the… trousers part," Aiden muttered defensively, heat rising in his neck. "Things escalated."
Magnis snorted again. "Escalated? Boy, judging by the state of you and the borrowed britches, 'escalated' means you tried to climb her like a tree and got thrown out before you reached the first branch." He shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and grim understanding. "She’s got walls thicker than the Spire’s foundations now. Walls you helped build. You think barging in, glowing runes and dire warnings, was gonna make her drop 'em? For you?"
The truth hit like a physical blow. Magnis was right. He’d been an idiot. Arrogant. He’d thought… what? That time hadn’t changed her? That the spark between them would instantly reignite, burning away the years of silence and hurt? That his presence alone, his protection, would be enough? He’d treated her like a problem to solve, a damsel to warn, not the fiercely independent, sharp-tongued witch who’d carved out a life without him. He’d walked back in expecting… forgiveness? Understanding? A welcome? Instead, he’d gotten fury, a frantic, shameful coupling against her precious books, and expulsion. He’d confirmed every bad thing she probably thought of him.
He stared into the dregs of his water. The image of Luna clutching his discarded sweater, her eyes blazing with cold fury, was seared into his mind. Her lips… he remembered their softness, the taste of her five years ago, the broken promises whispered in the dark. The promises he’d broken.
"Forgiveness," he said, the word tasting like ash. "Do you think… is there any chance?" He sounded pathetic, even to himself. Hopeless.
Magnis sighed, a long, weary sound. He poured another finger of whiskey, slid it towards Aiden this time. "Dunno, lad. Luna Morningstar holds a grudge tighter than a miser holds gold. And you gave her five years worth of prime grudge material." He took a sip from his own replenished glass. "But…" He paused, studying Aiden’s ravaged face. "She kept the sweater, didn't she? Didn't throw it at your head or burn it on the spot?"
Aiden blinked. He hadn’t considered that. In her fury, she could have hurled it after him. Could have incinerated it with a flick of her wrist. But she hadn’t. She’d clutched it. Against her chest. Like… like something precious? Or just evidence? The ambiguity was torture.
Magnis saw the flicker of hope and ruthlessly stomped on it. "Don't read too much into it. Might just mean she plans to use it for target practice later. Or stuff it down a Void rift." He drained his glass. "Point is, forgiveness ain't gonna be handed to you on a silver platter, boy. Not after that spectacularly stupid re-entry. You want it? You gotta earn it. Properly. Not with half-arsed warnings and shelf-shagging."
Aiden picked up the whiskey. The smoky bite burned his throat, a welcome distraction from the turmoil inside. Earn it. How? Apologies felt cheap, insufficient against five years of silence. Explanations sounded like excuses. He couldn’t undo the morning’s disaster. He couldn’t undo the years.
Magnis nodded towards the staircase. "Room’s the same. Third door. Hot water tank’s temperamental. Give it a good whack if it groans. Razor’s under the sink. Try not to bleed on the towels." He turned, lumbering towards the cellar door behind the bar. "Clean yourself up, Blackwood. You stink of regret, road dust, and poor decisions. Then… figure out how you’re gonna dig yourself out of this hole you’ve jumped into. Headfirst." The cellar door thudded shut behind him.
Aiden stood alone in the silent pub, the weight of Magnis’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. The whiskey warmth spread through his chest, but did nothing to thaw the cold knot of failure lodged beneath his ribs. He looked down at his hands – warrior’s hands, capable of channeling potent magic, wielding deadly steel. Yet utterly useless when it came to mending the damage he’d done to the one person who mattered most.
He thought of Luna. Not the furious witch who’d banished him, but the woman beneath: sharp, patient, fiercely protective of her knowledge and her space. The woman whose laughter used to light up a room, whose clever fingers wove magic into tapestries and mundane tasks alike. The woman he’d loved. The woman he’d left.
The borrowed trousers felt like a shroud. The phantom scent of lavender and ancient paper clung to him. Forgiveness seemed impossible. A mountain too steep.
But Magnis was right. He had to try. Properly. No more barging in. No more arrogant assumptions. He had to find a way back. Not as the returning knight, not as the charming rogue, but as… himself. Flawed. Regretful. Determined.
He drained the last of the whiskey, the burn a final punctuation. First, soap and steel. Scrub away the grime, the stubble, the outward signs of his weariness. Then… then he’d face the mountain. One impossible step at a time. Starting with retrieving his damn sweater. And facing the storm in those amber eyes again. The thought sent a fresh wave of dread through him, but beneath it, a stubborn, reckless spark ignited. He’d walked away once. He wouldn’t do it again. Not without a fight.