Aria kept the hood of her cloak pulled up so that the deep cowl masked her features. It wouldn’t take much to recognize the princess, the daughter-heir to the throne, roaming the streets of Thornspire at night. She was tall, and striking, and her long, silver hair and pointed Sylvaari ears would be instant cues as to who she was. And the instant she was recognized, word would spread, especially to the citadel, and to her parents. The moment that happened, her quest was over, probably her freedom as well, as Queen Elaena would have her all but shackled in her room.

  Her boots padded across the stonework bridge, over the River Fryna. She’d chosen one of the lesser used bridges to access the River Quarter, minimizing her chances of scrutiny by any of the Thornwardens patrolling the city streets.

  She crossed the river bridge and stepped onto Wharf Street, doing her best to avoid the pools of light cast by the pole-mounted lanterns. Overhead, the moon cast a lazy, silver ribbon of light upon the surface of the swiftly moving river. A pair of Thornwardens passed by, on the other side of the street, their dark steel plate and barbed, reinforced leather reflecting the lantern light. Aria kept her eyes ahead, moving with purpose over the slick cobblestones.

  Elandril had told Aria about the Boar and Briar on more than one occasion, but she had never visited. Elandril had told her that it had been built out of salvaged timber and thornwood beams salvaged from an old Sylvaari outpost, before the Verdant Wild had claimed it. The owner, one Tarna Briarborn, a a half-Thornwrought Sylvaari from what was now known as the Razorbark Expanse, was whispered to control the briar vines whose rooted tendrils coiled through the cracks in the wood and stone of the place. Elandril said the vines were alive, and that Tarna could speak to them, control them.

  Aria shuddered. What was she getting herself into, she wondered?

  She didn’t have long to speculate, as she found herself standing before the tavern, listening to the cacophony of raucous revelry unfolding within. It would be easy to miss the place if you did not know what you were looking for. It was tucked back in the shadows, between two larger buildings; a tall, narrow, crooked building made of dark, aged wood that seemed at times to shift if you looked at it a certain way.

  Aria took a deep breath and strode towards the front door. The sign above the door, a black boar’s head with amber-colored eyes, swung lightly on its chains, caught in the breeze coming off the river.

  “A seed only grows when watered,” she muttered to herself, squaring her shoulders and grasping the handle of the front door.

  She was just about to pull it open, when it burst outward and two men came flying out, rolling across the stones, throwing punches and shouting.

  Aria nimbly leapt out of their path and hurried inside, closing the door behind her.

  The common room of the Boar and Briar was packed. Long, wooden tables hosted benches filled with men and women deep in their cups and playing at cards, or dice, or swapping stories, news, bawdy jokes, and gossip. Several smaller tables lined the walls, where groups of two, or three sat in conversation, sipping from tall flagons or fluted, wooden drinking vessels. A bar ran along the back wall, its lacquered wooden surface reflecting the spilled ale and wine droplets splashed here and there.

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  But it was the central hearth that drew Aria’s attention, or, more importantly, the massive boar’s head mounted above it. It was a great, black-furred beast, with a pinkish scar cut in a jagged line across its face, diagonally. One tusk was chipped and broken, and the eyes, made of amber, reflected the light of the low fire burning. To Aria, it seemed as though it were watching the room.

  “Took five men to bring down, that one,” said a young, serving girl, from behind Aria. She leaned in closer. “My aunt says it was a druid-cursed beast. Seats, as you see, are limited, m’lady, but I believe there’s a spot along the bar if you’d like.”

  Aria nodded, keeping her hood drawn up. She noted the few thorns erupting from under the skin along the high spots of her cheekbones, and above one eyebrow. Ritual piercings of the Thornwrought Sylvaari. Her ears were only slightly pointed and her eyes just barely almond-shaped. She was more human than Sylvaari, but Aria was pretty sure that her aunt must be none other than Tarna Briarborn.

  “A seat at the bar sounds just fine,” she said, following the young server.

  Aria sat at the bar, surveying the room, scanning the tables and shadows and crowds of people, looking for this Kaelen Draeven. Merris had described him as a rough looking fellow, with dark, shoulder-length hair, with hints of grey at the temples, rough stubble covering his sharp jaw, and a scar, much like that on the boar, cutting across his left brow, just missing his eye. But it was his eyes, Merris said, that would give him away. A piercing ember-orange that burned with memories and anger.

  She ordered a mug of juniper mead and sipped at it, savoring the sweetness of the local honey and the floral notes.

  The man next to Aria turned towards her. He was older, and scruffy, and wore the road as much as he wore his rough vest and patched trousers. Dirt-caked nails and sun-kissed skin marked him as a man of the earth, or a laborer at the very least.

  “Ain’t see you ‘round here before,” he said, offering a kind smile. “Not the best place for a young lady to be out and about. A bunch of ruffians and n’er-do-wells,” he said, motioning around the room with his mug, sloshing half of it across the floor.

  “I’m capable of handling myself, sir, thank you,” she said.

  “No doubt, no doubt,” he smiled. “Just a word of warning, is all. Like…look at that fella. He’s trouble through and through, certain of it.”

  “Duly noted,” said Aria, turning to look at the man he pointed out. Truth was, he looked no different than more than half the other patrons of the Boar and Briar; rough, edgy, guarded, and mysterious. She turned back around and reached for her mug.

  A hand covered the top of it.

  “Do not drink this,” said its owner, a fierce-looking half-Sylvaari woman with lines of thorns on her face and a vine-woven headband holding back her chestnut-colored hair. Her other hand lashed out and grabbed the front of the old man’s vest, yanking him half off his stool. “What did you give her?”

  The man smiled a crooked smile and crunched down on something he held in his teeth. Before Aria knew what was happening, he breathed out a puff of yellowish smoke into the face of the barkeep who’d grabbed his vest.

  She stumbled backwards, gasping for air, releasing her hold on the man. She clattered back against the rear of the wall, stumbling, knocking aside mugs and bottles.

  “The roots remember,” he said, stepping back and unfurling a serrated vine whip from under his long vest.

  A vicious crack cut the air as he drew back to lash Aria.