Page 25 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

“A scholar.” The woman nodded as if that explained everything. “No wonder you talk like someone swallowed a dictionary.”

Aelira laughed—the sound surprised them both. It slipped out before she could prevent it, small and quick and startlingly alive. For one breath, she did not know what to do with herself.

The old woman grinned. “There. Knew there was a person under all that doom.”

“How unfortunate for me.”

“I’m Hana.” She gestured toward the wagon. “Since you saved my bread, you can have some before you disappear back into whatever library spat you out.”

“A generous offer.” She did not return the introduction.

“Mostly gratitude. Also, curiosity. You have the look of someone who’s either running from something or searching for it.”

Aelira hesitated, only slightly. “Perhaps both.”

Hana snorted. “That sounds like a scholar’s answer too.”

They walked together toward the bakery at the edge of the square. The smell of fresh bread drifted through the open doorway, warm and yeasty and so suddenly familiar that, for merely a heartbeat, Aelira was no longer in a mountain village, but in palace kitchens at dawn, stealing sugared rolls with her brother while the head cook pretended not to notice. Memory struck without mercy. She pushed it away before it could find teeth.

Inside, the bakery was small and crowded with baskets of cooling loaves. Steam fogged the windows. Flour dusted the counter and the sleeves of a young man too busy kneading dough to pay attention to anyone. Hana took a still-warm round from a basket and pressed it into Aelira’s hands. “Eat.”

“You don’t have to—”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t offer. That’s another thing city people forget.”

Aelira broke the bread. Steam rose into the air and for a few minutes they ate in companionable silence, which was the only kind of companionship Aelira trusted without reservation.

Eventually Hana spoke again. “You heading north?”

“Yes.”

The woman’s expression darkened. “Bad roads up there lately. Strange stories, too.”

Aelira kept her voice casual, though her attention sharpened. “What kind of stories?”

Hana’s voice softened. “Disappearances. Villages gone. Hunters hearing things in the woods. Children dreaming of forests they’ve never seen.” Hana waved one hand with practiced dismissal, but her eyes betrayed her. “Probably nonsense. Every generation invents new ghosts when the weather turns.”

Nonsense. How comforting that would have been. “Maybe,” Aelira said.

Hana studied her. “You don’t sound convinced.”

She pressed into the bread. The crisp crack of its crust snapped beneath her fingers. “Scholars rarely are.”

“That must be exhausting.” The woman laughed and shook her head. “Well, if you insist on heading north, stop at the tavern before you leave. Travelers hear things before anyone else does. Most of it is nonsense, but occasionally nonsense arrives early and proves useful.”

Aelira inclined her head. “Thank you."

The woman’s warning should have been easy to dismiss. Villagers warned of many things when winter pressed too close to their doors and roads began swallowing wheels. Wolves in the tree line. Bandits on the old trade paths. Ghosts near abandoned shrines. Bad omens in the flight of crows or the shape of smoke over a chimney. Fear made people inventive, and the north had always been generous with shadows.

Aelira did not dismiss this. She kept her expression mild, perhaps even faintly amused, because strangers expected that from a woman too well dressed to believe in peasant superstition. Her face gave nothing away. Her hands remained still. Only her attention sharpened, quiet and lethal, turning the woman’s words over like a blade beneath candlelight.

Something wrong in the north.

Children were dreaming badly.

Roots where roots did not belong.

Roads shifting after rain.