By the time Sylra and Caspian returned to the Stumbling Wyvern, the rain had ceased, leaving the air crisp and heavy with the scent of wet earth and damp wood. The tavern was quiet, as it usually was in the early afternoon, with only a few regulars nursing their drinks at scattered tables.


    Sylra pushed the door open, her expression calm and practiced, betraying none of the tension she felt inside. Caspian followed her in, pulling his hood lower over his face. He moved with a practiced ease that hinted at his time traveling incognito, but Sylra knew that any sharp-eyed observer might still notice the way he carried himself—a prince even when trying not to be.


    The smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen, and Sylra forced a smile as she greeted the patrons. “Afternoon, gents. Hope you’re keeping out of trouble.”


    “Trouble’s for the young, Sylra,” old Gregor grumbled from his usual corner. The grizzled man raised his mug in a lazy salute, oblivious to the tension in her posture.


    Sylra nodded, her hands brushing over the bar as she moved behind it, her mind racing. She glanced at Caspian, who had taken a seat near the far wall, his hood still pulled low. He caught her eye and gave her a small nod, as if to say he’d stay out of sight.


    As the afternoon wore on, the tavern began to fill with its usual crowd: farmers taking a break from their fields, merchants pausing between trades, and travelers seeking warmth and drink. Sylra moved through the space like she always did, laughing at jokes, serving pints, and breaking up the occasional argument. But beneath her practiced exterior, her thoughts churned.


    She kept her gaze sharp, watching the door for any sign of Brask or his men. Every time the heavy oak creaked open, her muscles tensed, but each time, it was just another customer or passerby.


    Caspian stayed quiet, nursing a single mug of ale and watching the room with a mix of wariness and melancholy. His thoughts were a storm of guilt and determination. He couldn’t shake the feeling that by staying, he was endangering Sylra and the life she had built.


    By evening, the tavern was alive with noise and warmth. A pair of traveling minstrels had set up near the hearth, their lively tunes filling the air and drawing cheers from the crowd. Sylra moved to Caspian’s side, leaning in close to speak over the din.


    “You’re doing fine,” she said softly, sensing his unease.


    “I’m not sure I should be here,” he murmured, his voice low. “I’m putting a target on this place.”


    Sylra smirked, her amber eyes flashing. “This place has seen worse than you, prince. And if trouble comes knocking, I’ll be ready.”


    Her confidence stirred something in him, and he gave her a small, grateful smile.


    But the looming threat was ever-present. As the night wore on and the patrons slowly filtered out, Sylra found herself glancing at the windows, half-expecting to see Brask’s shadow lurking outside.


    When the last customer had gone, and the tavern was finally quiet, Sylra and Caspian sat by the dying fire, the flickering light casting long shadows on the walls.


    “We can’t keep pretending everything’s normal,” Caspian said, breaking the silence. “Brask will come back, and he won’t stop until he has what he wants.”You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Sylra leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed. “Let him come. This is my home, Caspian. If they think they can waltz in and take what they want, they’re in for a rude awakening.”


    Her defiance made him smile, but it didn’t ease his worry. “And what happens when they bring more than threats? Soldiers? Orders from the king himself?”


    Sylra’s gaze softened as she leaned forward, her hand finding his. “Then we’ll face it together. But for now, we need rest. Tomorrow, we start figuring out what to do next.”


    Caspian squeezed her hand, his resolve hardening. “You’re right. Together.”


    As the fire burned down to embers, the two sat in silence, the weight of their situation pressing heavily on their shoulders. Outside, the night was still, but they both knew it wouldn’t last. The storm was far from over, and the shadows gathering around the Stumbling Wyvern were only growing darker.


    As the fire''s embers glowed faintly in the hearth, the chill of the evening began to creep into the room. Sylra stretched and stood, her hand brushing lightly against Caspian’s shoulder. He looked up at her, exhaustion evident in his eyes.


    “You can’t sleep out here,” she said softly. “It’s freezing.”


    Caspian gave her a faint smile. “I’ve slept in worse places.”


    Sylra rolled her eyes, her tone tinged with affection. “You’re not sleeping in worse places tonight. Come on.”


    Without waiting for an argument, she grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the back of the tavern, where the private rooms were. Caspian followed, his protests half-hearted. He wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of her touch or the simple fact that he trusted her implicitly, but he didn’t resist.


    Sylra led him into her modest room. It was simple but comfortable, with a sturdy wooden bed covered in thick quilts and a small table by the window. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, a touch of softness amidst the practical surroundings.


    “You can have the bed,” Caspian said immediately. “I’ll take the floor.”


    Sylra turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a prince, and you’re offering to sleep on the floor?”


    “I’m a prince who’s caused enough trouble for one day,” he replied with a rueful smile.


    She crossed her arms, leaning against the edge of the bed. “And I’m a tavern owner who’s not letting you freeze on the floor when there’s plenty of room here. Besides, you think I haven’t shared my bed before? You’re not special, Caspian.”


    Her teasing tone made him chuckle, though a faint blush touched his cheeks. “If you’re sure…”


    “I’m sure,” she said, climbing onto the bed and patting the space beside her.


    Caspian hesitated for a moment before kicking off his boots and joining her. He stayed on his side, careful not to intrude, but the bed was small enough that their shoulders nearly touched.


    For a while, they lay in silence, the sound of rain dripping from the eaves the only noise. Caspian stared at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts of his father, Brask, and the danger he had brought to Sylra’s door.


    “You’re overthinking,” Sylra murmured, her voice soft and close.


    He turned his head to look at her, finding her gaze already on him. “I can’t help it. I’ve made such a mess of everything.”


    Sylra sighed, shifting to face him. “You didn’t ask for any of this, Caspian. The weight of a kingdom, the expectations—it’s too much for anyone. And you didn’t make this mess alone. Your father’s the one sending people after you, not you.”


    Her words eased the tension in his chest, and he found himself smiling faintly. “You have a way of making things seem simpler than they are.”


    “It’s a gift,” she said, grinning. “Now, stop thinking and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be hard enough without you being half-dead from exhaustion.”


    He nodded, closing his eyes. The warmth of her presence, the soft sound of her breathing, and the faint scent of lavender all worked to soothe his restless mind. For the first time in days, he felt a flicker of peace.


    As sleep began to claim him, he whispered, “Thank you, Sylra.”


    Her voice came back softly, almost drowsy. “Always.”


    And so they drifted off, side by side, their shared warmth and quiet companionship a fragile shield against the storm gathering outside. For now, they had this moment, and it was enough.