Chapter 36: A Week of Waiting
The silence after Yamato left had been a physical thing. Now, three days in, it had morphed into a different beast—a buzzing, itchy restlessness that lived under Taichi’s skin. The tavern, usually a living extension of himself, felt like a hollow shell. The scents of malt and oak were too sharp.The fire cracked too loudly. Every clink of a tankard, every shuffle of a boot on the floorboards, was an insult.
“You’re going to wear a hole in that glass,” Sora said, not looking up from dicing onions with brutal efficiency behind the kitchen pass-through. “Or through your own thumb.”
Taichi glared at the tankard in his hand.The cloth had been moving in tight, furious circles for who knows how long. He set it down with a sharp clack.“Mind your onions.”
“I am. Someone has to, since you’re too busy staring at the door like a lost puppy.” She wiped her hands on her apron, the rich scents of stew and fresh bread clinging to her. Her alpha presence was usually comforting, a steady, familiar warmth.Today it felt like sandpaper on his nerves.
“I’m not staring at the door.I’m assessing the hinge. It’s squeaking.”
“It’s not squeaking.”
“It will. I’m anticipating.”
Sora leaned her elbows on the pass-through, her green eyes narrowing.“He’s been gone three days, Tai. It’s a patrol. He’s done dozens.”
“And?” Taichi snapped, turning to rearrange already-perfectly-aligned bottles of spirits.“What’s your point? His absence is noted.The peace is glorious. I can hear myself think.”
The problem was, he couldn’t.His thoughts were a tangled mess of steel and pine and the taste of mint. He caught himself, again, listening past the murmur of the two old regulars by the hearth for the heavy, distinctive crunch of armored boots on the gravel path outside.It was infuriating.
The door opened, and Taichi’s head jerked up, his pulse a stupid, traitorous leap.It was Koushiro. The scholar pushed his spectacles up his nose, blinking against the warm interior light, a light dusting of evening frost on his shoulders. He looked mildly inconvenienced by the very act of being outside.Disappointment, sharp and acidic, washed through Taichi. He covered it with a scowl.“You’re late. The library close early?”
“The library is eternally open to those with the right permits,” Koushiro said, sliding onto a bar stool with a sigh. “Yamato, however, is not here to pester me into ‘social integration,’ so my attendance is purely voluntary. A small ale, please.”
Taichi drew the ale, setting it before him with more force than necessary. “Congratulations on your freedom.”
Koushiro took a slow sip, his intelligent eyes watching Taichi over the rim of his tankard.“You’re… fermenting. And not in the good, barrel-aged way. More in the ‘vinegar-turning’ sense.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re polishing that same spot on the bar for the fifth time since I sat down.” Koushiro adjusted his spectacles.“The grain there is notably shinier than the surrounding area. It’s creating a visual dissonance.”
Taichi stopped, threw the cloth under the counter. “What do you want, Koushiro?”
“Just a drink. And to impart a minor update, since I assumed Sora’s protective interrogation methods would have left you under-informed.” He took another deliberate sip.“The border patrol’s been extended. Likely by another four days, at minimum.”
The words landed like a stone in still water. Taichi felt them sink, then send cold ripples out through his gut.He kept his face impassive.“So? Roads are muddy.Bandits are tedious. He’s a big boy in shiny armor.”
“There was a skirmish.Near Blackroot.” Koushiro’s voice was quiet, factual. “Scouting party encountered a larger bandit band than anticipated. No serious injuries reported back to the Crown, but it necessitated a deeper sweep of the territory. Hence the extension.”
No serious injuries reported.The phrase echoed.It meant there had been injuries. Just not ‘serious’ by the Crown’s brisk, statistical metrics. Taichi’s hand found the tankard again, his fingers gripping the cool ceramic until his knuckles ached. The low, constant hum of his own pheromones, usually a background note he could ignore, seemed to spike, carrying a sharper, anxious edge he couldn’t control. He felt Sora’s gaze from the kitchen, a watchful weight.“Fascinating,” Taichi said, his voice strangely flat. “I’m sure he’s having a lovely time.”
“He’s probably bored, itching for a proper fight and a decent drink.” Koushiro swirled his ale. “He mentioned your spiced mead no less than three times before departure. It was almost pathological.”
A faint warmth, utterly at odds with the chill in his bones, flickered in Taichi’s chest. He stamped it out. “He has a simplistic palate.”
“He has a preference,” Koushiro corrected gently.Then he sighed, finishing his ale.“He’ll be fine, Taichi. He’s annoyingly competent.But he’s also… focused.Distracted. Which, for a man in potentially hostile territory, is less than ideal.”
The unspoken word hung in the air between them: You.Yamato was distracted by him.By this place. By the memory of a kiss by a cold hearth.Taichi’s throat tightened. He turned away, pretending to examine the rack of glasses. “Not my problem,” he muttered to the shimmering row of tumblers. “He chose the shiny armor and the noble duty.”
“He did,” Koushiro agreed, standing and placing coins on the bar. “And you chose the oak and the barley.Funny how often those paths seem to cross lately.” He gave a small nod. “Take care of your casks, Taichi. The third one still needs racking.”
Then he was gone, the door whispering shut behind him, leaving Taichi alone with the roaring silence and the new, chilling knowledge swelling in the room.
He stood frozen, the sounds of the tavern—Sora’s knife on the board, the low fire, the old men’s mumbled gossip—fading into a dull roar.His eyes were locked on the door.Not the hinge. Not the grain of the wood.
The image forced itself into his mind: not Yamato smiling in the firelight, but Yamato in scuffed armor, sword drawn, facing an unknown number in a dark, tree-choked pass.No serious injuries. The cold feeling in his gut solidified into a hard, fearful knot.Slowly, he looked down at his own hand, at the simple wooden ring around his finger. He twisted it once, a nervous habit he’d never admit to. The bar cloth lay where he’d thrown it, a crumpled testament to his fraying control.
Outside, the wind picked up, moaning around the eaves of The Ember & Stein.Taichi didn’t move. He just kept staring at the door, listening now not for footsteps, but for the echo of news that hadn’t come yet, and might not come for days more. The waiting, he realized with a sickening lurch, had just become a different kind of torment.