Lamps burned low in the back of the inn, their flames guttering in the evening draft. Hendry breathed through his teeth as he hoisted the final sack of grain onto his shoulder. The rough burlap scratched at his neck, and the weight of it pressed down on his spine like a fist.
Seven hells, he thought. How do smallfolk do this every day?
His arms trembled as he carried it across the packed dirt yard to the small storage shed behind the inn. The door creaked open on rusted hinges. Inside, the air smelled of dust and dry wheat. He bent his knees and lowered the sack carefully beside the others, making sure it didn't burst.
When he straightened, his back cracked. He wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve and let out a long breath.
"You did a good job, lad."
Hendry turned. The old man stood in the doorway, lantern light outlining the deep lines in his face. He held out a weathered hand. In his palm rested three bronze groats.
Hendry stepped forward and took them, the cool metal clinking softly in his hand. Relief washed through him. A night under a roof. Maybe even a warm meal.
"Thank you," Hendry said.
The old man nodded. "You seem a good lad. Hard worker. Shame about that brother of yours. Rough business, having a brother like that."
Hendry's jaw tightened for a moment. He forced a small smile. "My brother is a good man. I'm lucky to have him."
The old man chuckled. "If you say so, lad. If you say so."
A woman's voice called from the inn. "Old Rook! Did you finish with the sacks?"
Hendry glanced toward the sound and saw her step into the lamplight. She was young, with short black hair that curled at her jaw and striking green eyes that caught the firelight. Hendry had never seen eyes quite that color—bright as new leaves in spring.
Rook jerked a thumb toward Hendry. "This lad helped me. Now, Alex, where's that mother of yours? I'm owed my payment."
"She's in the kitchen," the girl said. "Come on. I'll take you."
Rook gave Hendry a final nod. "Have a good night, lad."
They disappeared into the inn, leaving Hendry alone in the cool night air. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the pleasant ache of work honestly done. For a moment, he almost forgot why they were here.
Then a shout split the air.
Hendry's stomach dropped.
He hurried around to the front of the tavern. The common room was loud and crowded, thick with the smell of ale and smoke. And there, near one of the long tables, stood Hary.
Hary was nose-to-nose with a broad-shouldered man in a stained tunic.
"…called my sister a whore," the man growled.
"And I'll say it again," Hary snapped. "If she dresses like one—"
The punch landed hard.
Hary's head snapped to the side. For half a heartbeat, the room went silent.
Then chaos erupted.
Hary roared and swung back, his fist crashing into the man's jaw. The man stumbled, knocking into the table. Ale sloshed. A mug splashed onto the floor.
Four other men surged to their feet.
Oh, Seven save us, Hendry thought.
He pushed forward just as one of the men grabbed Hary from behind. Hendry didn't think—he acted. He snatched a wooden stool and swung it, smashing it into the attacker's back. The man howled and collapsed.
Another lunged at Hendry. Hendry ducked and drove his shoulder into the man's stomach, slamming him back into the table. Wood splintered. Plates and mugs crashed down around them.
Someone grabbed Hendry's collar from behind. He twisted, slamming his elbow backward into a face. He felt a tooth give in beneath the strike and heard a wet crunch.
Hary fought like a madman, fists flying, but the numbers were against them. One of the men smashed a mug across Hary's temple. Ale and blood sprayed together.
"Hendry!" Hary barked.
"I'm here!" Hendry kicked a fallen chair toward another attacker, tangling his legs. He seized a broken table leg and swung it like a club, catching a man across the ribs.
The common room had turned into a whirlwind of bodies and noise. Patrons scrambled away, shouting. Someone screamed. The innkeeper yelled for them to stop.
A knife flashed.
Hendry's eyes widened. He grabbed a nearby tray and shoved it forward just as the blade stabbed toward him. The knife punched through the wood, stopping right in front of Hendry's eyes. Hendry wrenched the tray sideways, rushing toward the man who threw the knife and slamming the tray into the attacker's face.
The man dropped.
A fist hammered into Hendry's jaw. He staggered, tasting blood. Another blow caught his ribs. He swung blindly, connecting with something soft. A grunt answered him.
Hary was on his back now, two men kicking him. Hendry charged, tackling one of them off his brother. They hit the ground hard. Hendry rolled on top and drove his fist down again and again until the man stopped moving.
But more hands dragged him away.
They were losing.
Boots thundered outside.
The door burst open.
"Enough!" a voice roared.
Men in mail surged into the tavern, surcoats bearing the lightning sigil of House Dondarrion. One guard waded into the fray, shoving combatants apart with the flat of his sword. Another seized Hendry by the arms and hauled him upright.
"That's enough!" the guard barked again. "All of you—down!"
Hendry sagged in the guard's grip, chest heaving. Around him, the fight sputtered out into groans and curses. Hary lay against a broken table, lip split and eye swelling, but alive.
Relief washed over Hendry, followed quickly by dread.
They will most likely be sent to the dungeons of Blackhaven.
As the guards bound their hands, Hendry looked at his brother. Hary managed a crooked grin through the blood on his teeth.
"Well," Hary muttered, "we wanted to make a name for ourselves."
Hendry let out a shaky breath.
"Yes," he said. "I suppose we did."