CHAPTER 9 — A ROOM, A BEAST, AND BATTLE OF WILLS

Zaydon

The twenty minutes that followed were filled with tense silence, broken only by the crunch of boots against the dirt path. The forest around us was alive with midday sounds—a symphony of chirping birds and the distant rustle of small animals darting through the undergrowth. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy of towering pines and oaks, casting dappled patches of light that danced on the ground with every gentle breeze. The occasional creak of swaying branches added to the natural rhythm, accompanied by the faint trickle of a stream somewhere off the path.

The air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of damp moss and wildflowers that grew in patches along the trail. A slight humidity hung in the breeze, enough to make the fabric of my shirt stick slightly to my back. Despite the sounds of life all around us—the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, and the crunch of our boots on the dirt path—the tension between Azalea and me muted the vibrant energy of the forest. Her silence carried a weight far heavier than any words could. 

Maybe that's why I felt the stubborn urge to push her, to get any kind of reaction—even if it was anger. Her hating me, I could endure; her fury, I could survive. But the thought of being nothing to her, of being irrelevant in her world, was unbearable. That would crush me, and gods help me, I wasn't sure if I could rise again if it did.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. My cloak hung loosely around her shoulders, its edges brushing the ground as she walked. Her steps were measured but determined, her head held high even though. She wouldn't look at me, wouldn't even acknowledge my presence.

When the trees began to thin and the trail widened, we arrived at the outskirts of a small village. Baltirin, as I recalled, was a modest settlement built at the edge of the forest, its charm simple but inviting. The midday sun hung high in the cloudless sky, casting a golden glow over the scene. Cottages made of weathered stone and timber dotted the landscape, their thatched roofs sloping unevenly but standing sturdy. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys, carrying the faint scent of baking bread and stewing vegetables that teased at a hunger I'd been ignoring.

The heart of Breccia was a bustling square, where villagers moved about with purpose. The sounds of a market filled the air—voices haggling over produce, the clatter of wooden carts over uneven cobblestones, and the occasional bark of a dog weaving through the crowd. Stalls lined the square, their colorful awnings providing shade for vendors selling everything from freshly picked fruits and vegetables to bolts of fabric and leather goods. Children darted between adults, their laughter ringing clear above the low hum of conversation.

As we moved deeper into the village, I stepped ahead of Azalea, cutting her off before she could stride openly into view. My gaze swept across the bustling market stalls and meandering villagers, noting every possible point of interest—or threat. Satisfied for the moment, I turned my attention back to her.

The oversized cloak she wore hung loosely over her frame, the hem nearly brushing the ground. It swallowed her completely, save for the bare legs that peeked out from underneath. She looked like a disgruntled, wandering bundle of fabric. Tugging the hood back over her head before she could protest, I held it firmly in place as her hands swatted at mine in annoyance.

"Don't start," I warned, my voice low but insistent. Her glare was sharp enough to pierce through the shadow of the hood, but I didn't relent, keeping my grip steady.

"Listen, Princess," I said, my tone firm but careful, knowing how thin the thread of her patience was. "We need to keep a low profile. You're not exactly in the best state to be seen right now, so please—for the love of every god and goddess—keep the hood up and the talking to a minimum. We'll get what we need and head straight for the tavern. Got it?"

Her mouth opened, no doubt to argue, but I didn't give her the chance. I pressed a finger lightly to her lips, silencing her before the words could leave.

"Yes does not start with an 'I,'" I said, arching a brow. "Nor does 'okay.' Can you at least trust me enough to keep you safe? Just this once, Princess?"

Her hazel eyes searched mine, her usual defiance flickering beneath the surface. For a moment, I thought she might throw another argument my way—or worse, a brick. Instead, the sharpness in her gaze softened ever so slightly. She batted my hand away with a huff and muttered, "Fine, Zaydon. Just stop touching me."

I let my hand fall immediately, nodding stiffly. I hadn't even realized how often I'd been touching her—guiding her, steadying her, shielding her. It wasn't intentional; it was instinct. And that realization was more unnerving than I cared to admit.

"Hopeless," Shade sighed, his tone filled with amusement and just a touch of pity.

"Shut it, Shade," I snapped internally, my teeth gritting as I turned and led the way toward the village.

Azalea followed in silence, her cloak dragging behind her, the hood obscuring her face. For once, she didn't argue. But the faint huff she let out was proof that the fight wasn't entirely gone from her. Not yet.

Thirty minutes later, I managed to secure a pair of pants and a shirt for the princess—though not without resistance on the shirt. She insisted she didn't need it, but I had already decided. I had grown to enjoy the quiet satisfaction of her wearing mine, even if only I knew it. Still, practicality won out. I added a simple dress to the pack when she wasn't looking, knowing she'd need it for the fallen king in Rola. She'd thank me later—or more likely, throw something at me. Likely the latter.

The marketplace buzzed with life as we stepped back onto the street, vendors shouting over one another and the clink of coins filling the air. Azalea's hood stayed up, but her eyes darted to a nearby stall selling trinkets, her curiosity thinly veiled. "No detours," I said firmly, cutting off her protest before it started. She huffed, falling into step beside me, and I resisted the smirk tugging at my lips.

Our final stop was the beast stables. Horses were no longer a luxury—they were a necessity. With winter creeping in, the days were colder, and the air carried the sharp bite of the season's approach. Trade was shifting, too, with demand for mounts climbing and supply plummeting. Flying with Azalea might have been an option, but I could already picture the scene: her arms flailing, a litany of curses raining down on me, and her steadfast refusal to be carried like some damsel in distress. Practicality didn't matter to her, not when pride was involved.

I sighed heavily, my boots crunching against the frost-kissed dirt path. Maybe this time, I thought, I can keep her from buying anything unnecessary.

The memory of our last visit to a stable still stung. It had been in Irisia, in the heart of her kingdom, and she'd managed to "adopt" nearly every creature in sight because, as she put it, "they needed her." The aftermath? Her castle grounds now included a sanctuary—land specifically designated for her collection of rescued creatures. Domesticated ones stayed. The rest were released into the wild.

"Maybe I should blindfold her this time," I mused grimly. "Or better yet, leave her outside."

Shade snorted in my mind, his amusement curling like smoke through my thoughts. "Like that'll happen. She'd probably hear a bird chirp and decide it's mortally wounded."

"I wish you were wrong sometimes," I groan.

"And yet, I never am," he quipped, smugness dripping from his tone.

I opened my mouth to retort, but the stables ahead erupted with sound—a guttural roar, sharp and feral, tearing through the crisp air. The clash of metal followed, accompanied by a string of curses that echoed across the open fields.

I groaned inwardly. Of course.

Predictably, Azalea didn't hesitate. She bolted toward the commotion, her legs flashing beneath my oversized cloak as it flared behind her like a banner of impending chaos.

"Azalea!" I barked, but she was already gone, her momentum unstoppable.

I clenched my jaw and jogged after her, muttering under my breath. "Whatever's in there is as good as hers now."

Inside the stable, chaos reigned, a wild symphony of sound and movement that seemed to reverberate through the very beams of the old wooden structure. Dust danced in the shafts of sunlight breaking through the warped and splintered ceiling above, catching motes of gold in the air. The thick scent of hay mixed with the sharper tang of sweat and the raw, primal edge of untamed wildness.

At the heart of the commotion stood the gryphon. Though young, it was already massive, a creature of undeniable majesty and power. Its black plumage shimmered with streaks of molten silver, the veins seeming to pulse faintly in the fractured light. Soft downy feathers still clung stubbornly to its chest and underbelly, betraying its youth, but its golden eyes—keen, sharp, and feral—spoke of a cunning intelligence far beyond its years.

The gryphon flared its wings, their sheer span a testament to the skies it was destined to dominate. The movement sent loose hay scattering in every direction, a chaotic flurry of gold and brown that swirled through the sunlit dust. Its talons scraped against the stable floor, carving deep grooves into the wood with each restless flex. A low, rumbling growl emanated from its throat, vibrating through the air—a warning to anyone foolish enough to approach. The creature's defiance was palpable, a proud declaration of its untamed nature. This was no ordinary beast. It was raw power and pride incarnate, born for freedom and fiercely protective of it.

The Beast Keeper, meanwhile, was a stark contrast to the gryphon's commanding presence. Broad-shouldered and visibly weathered by years of hard labor, he sat sprawled on the ground, his posture defeated as he nursed a bloodied hand. Spindly gray hair clung to his sweat-dampened scalp, while a peppered beard framed his wide, grimacing jaw. Beside him lay a battered saddle, its torn straps a clear testament to the gryphon's rebellion.

"Damn beast!" he muttered through clenched teeth, his voice thick with a Scottish brogue as he tried to right himself. "She'll no' take a saddle! Bites me every bloody time!"

The gryphon, as if offended by his words, flared its wings again, scattering more hay as its piercing golden gaze shifted to him. The hatred was mutual, its sharp, guttural growl a clear expression of its disdain. It didn't like him. Not one bit. The bleeding hand and shredded saddle were all the evidence needed.

Then, those golden eyes locked onto me, narrowing with suspicion. Its body tensed, muscles coiling like a spring wound too tightly, ready to snap. Every beat of its wings seemed to scream a challenge: Stay back, or face the consequences.

"This one's got spirit," Shade purred in my mind, his tone rich with admiration. "I like it. Fierce, untamed… definitely smarter than you."

"Not now, Shade," I growled internally, my jaw tightening as I focused on the creature.

"Oh, but it's exactly the right time", Shade countered smugly, his voice curling with dark amusement. "This one's got more dignity in one of its feathers than you do in your entire body."

The gryphon let out a sharp screech, the sound piercing through the stable like a blade, as if agreeing with Shade's assessment. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, my grip tightening on the edge of my cloak.

Its wings beat with slow, deliberate menace, the tension in its body palpable as it watched me, its gaze flickering between wariness and hostility. The flimsy reins dangling from its neck were a joke—an insult to a creature that was the embodiment of freedom. It didn't need them, and it certainly didn't want them. This was a beast of the skies, a creature meant to soar, and its presence alone demanded that everyone in the room remember it.

And, of course, Azalea chose this moment to make things worse.

She stepped forward, her lips parting as if to speak, but I moved quickly, catching the hood of my cloak and tugging her back behind me before she could get a word out. My movement was firm but careful, ensuring she understood the message without sparking another argument.

Her hands rose in protest, but I didn't let her break free. Speaking over my shoulder in a low, hushed voice, I said, "Remember our agreement." My words were sharp but steady, each one measured to cut through her defiance. Leaning slightly closer, I added, "Keep the hood up. Stay silent."

She huffed behind me, her breath hot with frustration, but I could feel her glare drilling into the back of my head. Still, for once, she didn't push further, and that was enough. For now. That small victory was enough to let me shift my attention back to the chaos before us.

"Need a hand?" I offered, stepping forward.

The old man clasped my hand with his uninjured one, groaning as I pulled him to his feet. "Aye, thanks fer that," he muttered, brushing loose hay from his shirt. "Been tryin' tae tame this beast fer days. No' a chance she'll take tae anyone. Bites harder than a banshee, she does."

I gave a curt nod, my eyes shifting back to the gryphon. Its wings quivered with pent-up energy, the veins of molten silver along its feathers glinting in the fractured sunlight. "She's magnificent," I murmured, unable to keep the admiration from my voice.

The Beast Keeper grunted, his tone begrudging. "Aye, magnificent she may be, but she's nae good like this. Been fightin' tae saddle her fer trade, but she'll no' have it. If I canna trade her, I'll no' have the coin tae get more horses."

"How much?" I asked, already bracing for the absurdity of what was to come.

The Beast Keeper frowned, his thick brows knitting together. "She'll be nae use tae ye," he warned, his brogue heavy with skepticism. "As I said, it willna take a saddle. And it'd no' be right tae sell her tae ye without her bein' tamed."

"How long until she's ready for a saddle?" I pressed, even though I could already feel my patience being tested.

"A few days at the verra least," he admitted, though his tone carried little confidence. "Could be more."

A few days. It wasn't ideal, but it aligned with the time Riyal needed to receive my message. I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. "We'll wait," I said at last, the decision settling like a lead weight. "I'll pay double the asking price."

The Beast Keeper's eyebrows shot up so high I half-expected them to hit the stable's rafters. "Double?" he echoed, incredulous. "That's 400 gold, lad! Are ye serious? This beast'd already fetch 200 wi' her rare color. Yer willin' tae spend 400 on a beastie as ill-tempered as this?"

"Maybe that's where all the hair on his head went—straight to his eyebrows," Shade mused, his tone rich with amusement.

"Shade, now's not the time," I snapped silently, gritting my teeth as I fought to maintain my composure.

The gryphon screeched, the piercing cry slicing through the air like a mocking laugh. I forced a tight smile onto my face. "Trust me," I said, flicking a glance back at Azalea. "Her new owner has a weakness for ill-tempered brutes."

A sharp kick landed squarely on the back of my calf, courtesy of Azalea. I barely suppressed the grunt that threatened to escape, unwilling to give her the satisfaction.

The Beast Keeper, still gaping at me like I'd sprouted a second head, finally shook his own. "Aye, then. Consider it yers. I'll let ye ken when she's ready."

I nodded curtly, schooling my expression into polite neutrality. "We'll be staying at the Broken Wing Tavern and Inn. Ask for Zayd when it's time."

The gryphon screeched again, as if mocking my choices for the day. Shade's smug voice unfurled in my head like smoke. "You know she's going to name it something ridiculous, right?"

"Don't remind me," I shot back, grabbing Azalea's arm and steering her firmly out of the stable before she could stir up more chaos.

"Zaydon!" she protested, twisting against my grip. "I just want to try—"

"No," I said flatly, my patience stretched thin. "You've already won. Don't push it."

Behind us, the gryphon let out another shrill cry, its mocking screech trailing us like a taunt as I dragged Azalea away. 

Only when we were far enough away from the stable did Azalea yank the hood off her head in one sharp, defiant motion. Her maroon-red hair spilled out like liquid fire, catching the fading glow of the midday sun. It framed her face, the soft waves brushing against her cheeks and shoulders as if nature itself conspired to amplify her presence.

I immediately reached over and tugged the hood back up, fixing her with a hard glare. "Keep it on."

Without a moment's hesitation, she pulled it off again, her hazel eyes flashing with challenge. Flecks of gold and green seemed to spark in her gaze, daring me to stop her.

My eye twitched. "Stop behaving like a child," I growled, my voice low and biting.

"Stop treating me like one," she countered, her tone sharp enough to cut through steel.

This time, I grabbed the hood and tugged it up with more force, ensuring it stayed snug over her head. My patience frayed at the edges, and before I could think better of it, the words escaped. "Take it off again like a bratty child, and I swear I'll bend you over my knee."

She froze, her hand hovering mid-air, and I felt the shift instantly. A deep, unmistakable blush bloomed across her cheeks, staining her pale skin a delicate rose. Her lips parted slightly, and her breath hitched, the sound so soft I almost doubted I'd heard it.

Then, with a voice low enough to make my pulse stutter, she murmured, "Don't threaten me with a good time."

The heat behind her words seared through me like lightning, rendering me momentarily speechless. My breath caught, my chest tightening as I struggled to regain my bearings. By the gods...

The blush on her cheeks deepened, and her lips curved into a pout. An actual pout.

Something inside me snapped. My gaze locked onto her lips, my resolve unraveling as I caught myself leaning forward, drawn to that soft, infuriating curve of her bottom lip. The world around me faded, and for a brief moment, all I could think about was—

I jolted back to reality, my shoulders snapping upright as I forced my fists to unclench at my sides. No. Absolutely not.

I exhaled sharply, the sound harsher than I intended, and dragged a hand through my hair to ground myself. She had no idea what she was doing—or maybe she did. Either way, I was barely holding myself together.

Shade's voice purred in the back of my mind, dripping with exasperation. "Pussy. Just kiss her. This angst is killing my soul."

"Time and place, Shade," I growled inwardly, clenching my jaw. "You forgetting she hates me and went through some pretty traumatic shit?"

"No, but your inner dialogue is annoying, and watching her punch you in the face would be infinitely more entertaining," he replied with maddening glee.

"You realize you feel what I do, right?" I snapped, dragging a hand down my face.

"Yes, but it's worth it." Shade sighed like a long-suffering elder.

I huffed audibly, grabbing Azalea's wrist firmly. If I didn't, she'd undoubtedly find her way back to that damned gryphon. Tugging her along, I led us toward the Broken Wing, her reluctant footsteps dragging behind mine.

The tavern stood at the edge of the village like a weary sentinel, its weathered facade bearing the weight of time. A battered sign swung from rusty chains, its carved image of a bird with a broken wing barely discernible beneath layers of peeling paint. The faint glow of lanterns spilled out onto the cobblestones, mingling with the muffled sounds of clinking glasses, raucous laughter, and the occasional raised voice.

Behind the counter stood the innkeeper—a tall, broad-shouldered woman whose presence alone could quiet a room. Her dark brown hair, streaked with gray, was pulled into a no-nonsense bun, and her sharp, assessing gaze swept over us as soon as we entered. She had the air of someone who'd seen too much to be impressed by anything—or anyone.

"Need a room?" she rasped, her voice as gruff as a seasoned soldier's.

"Yes," I replied curtly. "Preferably two."

Her lips twitched, stopping just short of a smile. "Two rooms? In this village?" She snorted, the sound dry and unimpressed. "You'd be lucky if we had a broom closet to spare. There's one room left. Take it or leave it."

I had no choice but to take it. Azalea needed proper rest, and with winter creeping in, camping out in the wilds wasn't an option. Even if it meant sacrificing a little of my own comfort, she was going to recover properly—whether she liked it or not.

Beside me, Azalea shifted, her irritation almost tangible beneath the shadow of her hood. I could feel the sharp retort brewing on her tongue, her defiance coiled and ready to strike. Before she could utter a word, I slapped a handful of coins onto the counter. The metallic clink broke the tension, and the innkeeper's sharp eyes flicked down to the money before slowly rising to meet mine. Her gaze lingered briefly on Azalea's cloaked figure, curiosity flickering in her expression but wisely left unspoken.

"Fire's lit, beds are clean," she said briskly, sweeping the coins into her palm. "Second door on the right, upstairs. And keep it down. Decent folk sleep here."

"Thanks," I muttered, grabbing Azalea's wrist before she could unleash whatever response she'd been biting back. With a quick nod to the innkeeper, I led her toward the staircase.

The narrow wooden steps groaned underfoot, the sound grating against the tense silence between us. By the time we reached the door, I felt the heat of Azalea's simmering irritation behind me. Unlocking it, I pushed the door open and stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter first.

The room was modest, with two narrow beds pressed against opposite walls, a small table with a flickering candle between them, and a hearth that crackled warmly in the corner. The faint scent of smoke and old wood hung in the air. The single window was covered with frost, its glass distorting the pale moonlight that filtered in.

I stepped aside, motioning for her to enter. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the room with the kind of sharp assessment that had become second nature to her. As she stepped inside, she pushed her hood back, letting her maroon-red hair spill loose over her shoulders. The firelight from the small hearth caught the subtle copper tones in her locks, making them glow like embers.

Her eyes landed on me, the gold flecks in them glinting as they reflected the warm light. Her lips parted slightly, disbelief etched across her face. 

"You have got to be kidding me," she said, her voice flat with irritation.

It took every ounce of restraint I had left to keep my expression neutral. And I didn't have much left to give. Four days of standing vigil while she recovered, the exhausting trek to the village, the endless shopping, the arguing—it all weighed heavy on me. I needed this room as much as she did, though I doubted she'd ever acknowledge it.

I stayed silent, bracing myself for whatever sharp remark was coming next. Her incredulous glare said it all, but I wasn't going to rise to the bait.

It's going to be a long night, I thought grimly, already steeling myself. A very long night.