Gavin sighed, staring at the gathering flames.
It was more than he could handle.
The fight had almost been more than he could handle.
And he still didn’t know why they’d been here.
Chapter Three
The Roasted Dragon was a comfortable tavern, and there was a level of vibrancy here tonight that Gavin appreciated. Given what he’d gone through and how he had nearly failed Tristan’s test, having people—and the sense of life—around him gave him a feeling that he welcomed.
He lingered in the doorway for a moment, sweeping his gaze around the tavern. He looked for familiar faces—Gaspar, primarily, but he didn’t see him. The old thief must have been on a job, or he was out with Desarra, hopefully rekindling their long-lost relationship.
Imogen was there, though. The dark-haired woman he had faced in the warehouse had reminded him of Imogen, with her porcelain skin and fast movements. Despite the similarities, the woman hadn’t come at Gavin with a sword. Not like Imogen fought.
One of the tavern dancers whirled into Imogen’s table with a clunk. For a moment Imogen seemed to uncoil like a snake, but then she was smiling with the rest of the crowd. Gavin was suddenly reminded her strength as she battled the Mistress of Vines. He suppressed a shiver.
Wrenlow nudged him from behind. “We have to go in. We can’t stay outside if he’s somewhere out there.”
Gavin licked his lips. His mouth was dry, and though his strength had started to return, the power of his core reserves had not—at least not entirely. It would take rest and time.
Surprisingly, though, it wouldn’t take nearly as much time as it once would have. Gavin could already feel that energy starting to trace back up inside, restoring him. There had been a time when he had believed that it was some part of his own strength, some part of his own energy, and he hadn’t known that what he tapped into was truly magic. Even now, Gavin had no idea if he connected to magic all the time or whether some of it was simply residual strength that he had learned to access.
“He’s not going to come after us again tonight,” Gavin said, though he did take a step inside the tavern.
“Are you sure about that?” Wrenlow asked.
“He wants us to think he might, and he wants us to be afraid of him.”
“Are you afraid of him?” Wrenlow kept one hand on Gavin and guided him inside.
Gavin didn’t think he needed the support, though he did start to stagger a bit as he tried to separate from Wrenlow. He chuckled to himself, which earned a strange look from Wrenlow.
Gavin shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“Which part is nothing?” Wrenlow asked. “What you did back there? How you’re feeling? Or the way you’re leering at me?”
“I didn’t realize I was leering at you at all. I’m proud of you. You took what you learned and used it when you had to.”
“You don’t have to sound surprised.”
“You never know until you’re in that situation,” Gavin said.
Wrenlow watched him a moment. “You have this strange look in your eyes. Sort of like you did when you killed that man.” His voice lowered when he mentioned that, though not so much that Gavin couldn’t hear the edge within it.
“If it’s going to trouble you to see me fighting—”
Wrenlow guided him to a table, forcing Gavin to sit. Most of the tables within the Roasted Dragon had long benches, but Wrenlow walked him to one near the hearth that crackled with warmth in the back of the tavern and pushed him to take a seat.
“This has nothing to do with me seeing you fight,” Wrenlow said, settling down across from Gavin. Wrenlow nodded to someone, and Gavin twisted to follow his gaze.
It was one of the servers that Gavin didn’t know very well, somebody new that Jessica had hired. She was young, with auburn hair, full lips, and freckles.
“I think Olivia might get jealous,” Gavin muttered, resting his elbows on the table.
“Olivia would be jealous of what?” Wrenlow asked, turning his attention back to Gavin.
“Of the way you’re looking at that girl.”
“Rebecca is a server, and I’m just getting her attention so I can get you something to drink. Look at you, Gavin. You look like you haven’t had anything to drink in weeks.”
“I think it’s from using my core magic like that.”
“Now you’re calling it core magic?” Wrenlow leaned forward and twisted the enchantment in his ear, taking it out and resting it on the table.
Gavin did the same. It was easier to have a conversation at the table without hearing it reverberate. “It’s magic, and it’s part of my core energy, so I suppose that’s what it is.”
“Why do you hesitate to refer to it as what it really is?”
“What am I supposed to call it?” Gavin asked.
“You’re supposed to refer to it as El’aras magic. Your magic.”
Gavin grunted. “I’ve been trying not to think of it like that.”
“Why wouldn’t you? It’s what it is, is it not?”
“I think so,” Gavin said. “But just because that might be what it is”—that earned a sharp, raised eyebrow from Wrenlow—“doesn’t mean that I can go around calling it that. Especially not in a place like this.”
“The people in the city don’t know anything about the El’aras,” Wrenlow said, though he kept his voice low. Gavin appreciated that from him. “You know how hard it was for me to find out anything about the El’aras when they were first here? Stories and rumors more than anything else. They abandoned the city so long ago that no one even remembers them.”
“I’ve had plenty of experience with the El’aras,” Gavin said.
Wrenlow laughed softly. “Of course you have. That’s what we’re here about.”
“That’s not why.”
Rebecca appeared at the table, and she flashed a grin at Wrenlow. She had a pretty smile that seemed to stretch far across her face, almost like a mask.
I really am loopy.
Fatigue from using magic. Fighting. From all of it.
He didn’t even
