The three men sat in silence in the corner of a dimly lit tavern. The table between them was scarred with years of use, the wood worn smooth by countless elbows and spilled drinks.
A single lantern hung above them, its flame guttering in the draft from the door, casting their faces in shifting planes of light and shadow. Outside, the snow had begun to fall again.
It was awkward. But not quite the usual awkwardness you might think. This time, it was the awkwardness of three foolish men who just grasped the extent of their foolishness.
"Apparently, she loves us—" that much. The two last words, Oathran didn’t speak aloud.
Eastiel’s attempt to hide his foolish smile failed completely. His lips twitched, then curved, then spread into a grin so wide and so bright that it seemed to light up the dim corner of the tavern.
Thank the gods he had such a beautiful face that his foolish smile looked like the sun breaking through storm clouds. If not, he might bring shame to his two elder brothers and his entire bloodline by showing this ridiculous foolish smile alone.
Arkai, meanwhile, was still dazed. He stared at the grain of the wooden table as though it held the answers to every question he had ever asked.
His black eyes were unfocused now that the storm inside him had passed. This prompted Oathran to reach across the table and slapped Arkai’s back with enough force to make him jolt upright. "Ah! Brother!"
"Drink," Oathran said, shoving a tankard toward him.
Arkai drank. The ale was bitter and cold, but it grounded him. It gave him something to do with his hands, something to focus on besides the echoing words of the woman he loved.
He drank until the tankard was empty, then set it down with a heavy thunk. For the first time since the cemetery, he let out a breath that didn’t feel like it was choking him.
"Drink again," Oathran said, already signaling the barmaid for another round.
"Brother, are you trying to get me drunk?" Arkai asked, though there was no real protest in his voice.
"That’s better than having you rampage again," Oathran replied flatly.
"My mom said it’s actually good for men to be stupid about certain things," Eastiel said, still wearing that foolish smile. "I understand now. If we’re not stupid, we’ll never hear her say all that, right?"
"While making her cry and that angry?" Oathran reproached, his grey eyes sharp despite the ale.
"Regardless of right or wrong? Isn’t that too much pressure for her principles?" Arkai asked, his black eyes still shadowed with the weight of everything he had learned.
His fingers traced the rim of his empty tankard, restless and uncertain. He had spent so long trying to be strong, honored and controlled. And now he was being told that his stupidity, his brokenness, his ugly, shameful parts, Cecilia wanted all of it.
It felt like asking too much of her, even if she was the one offering.
"We should stop assuming we know her feelings. Completely," Oathran said, downing his own ale in one long swallow. "When in doubt, we should just ask and be dumb."
"It’s easy to say for you two!" Arkai snapped, his voice rising with a frustration he couldn’t contain. "After unwittingly assisting in several heinous crimes, I don’t want to underestimate my stupidity anymore!"
"What’s happened, happens. You can’t retrieve spilled milk," Oathran said, setting his tankard down with a heavy thunk.
"Since we already know we’re dumb, let’s remember it for the rest of our lives. That we’re dumb. Don’t forget, ever, that we’re stupid." He leaned forward, his grey eyes locking onto each of his brothers in turn.
"If we forget, we’ll do it again. So remember. Remember how stupid we are. Remember how much we hurt her. And the next time we feel like running, or rampaging, ask her first."
The three drank again in unison, the bitter ale warming their chests and loosening the knots of tension that had been coiled there since the cemetery.
The tavern’s dim light flickered over their faces, and for a moment, the silence between them was almost peaceful.
"Do you think she’d let us hit...?" Eastiel whispered, leaning in conspiratorially.
His two elder brothers looked at him with identical expressions of long-suffering exasperation. They looked like they wanted to slap him across the face.
[I’m letting you hit. Come upstairs.]
Cecilia’s telepathy reached them like a thunderbolt.
What—?!
The three of them flinched in perfect unison, their heads whipping around as though they might find her standing behind them.
She could hear them?!
Cecilia had business to settle at the Grey Cat Inn across the street, and they had decided to wait here, drinking and talking like the fools they were. How could she possibly have heard what they were saying?
[How did you...?] Oathran asked, his mental voice carefully neutral.
[I’m testing a new magic concept.] Cecilia’s answer came smooth and unbothered. [We returned from that modern world, so I’m inspired.]
And the first thing you did was spy on us...?
Was she that worried they’d do something stupid again?
That’s... fair.
The thought flickered through all three of their minds simultaneously, though none of them dared voice it.
[Hit or not?] She asked.
The three men stood up in unison, their chairs scraping loudly against the wooden floor.
The barmaid looked up in surprise. The other patrons turned to stare at the three distinguished, handsome beastmen.
None of that mattered. They dropped a handful of coins on the table and strode toward the door with razor sharp focus.
She’s letting us hit!
Although they looked like three dignified men walking out of the tavern, their steps powerful, not too fast or too slow, their expressions composed, and their presence so commanding that other patrons stopped mid-conversation to step aside and clear their path... inside, they were anything but dignified.
[I’m eating her out toni—]
[No, me.]
[Back off.]
[How about we do it one by o—]
[Who first?]
Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!
Use arrow keys (or A / D) to PREV/NEXT chapter