Chapter 5: Stonebridge

  Days blurred into one another, each sunrise a mocking reminder of her solitude. Hunger was a constant companion, a gnawing beast that clawed at her insides. Cassandra, or rather Cassius now, had become adept at foraging, her mother's teachings a lifeline in this unfamiliar terrain. Berries, nuts, the occasional edible root – they kept her alive, but the emptiness in her stomach mirrored the hollowness in her heart.

  One evening, as the sun bled across the horizon in a fiery display of orange and purple, Cassandra crested a hill, her breath catching in her throat. Below, nestled in a valley carved by a meandering river, lay Stonebridge. Smoke curled from chimneys, promising warmth and perhaps a haven from the relentless loneliness that had plagued her for days. The sight stirred a flicker of hope within her, a yearning for connection, for a place to belong.

  She descended towards the village, her pace quickening with anticipation. The sounds of human activity reached her – the distant chatter of voices, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the joyful barking of a dog. A smile, the first genuine one in days, touched her lips. Perhaps here, in this bustling village, she could find some semblance of normalcy, a respite from the constant fear and uncertainty that had haunted her since that fateful night.

  But as she drew closer, a wave of apprehension washed over her. The villagers, their faces weathered and wary, eyed her with suspicion. Whispers followed her like shadows, their words slithering into her ears like venomous snakes. Despite her attempts at disguise, her elven features – the delicate curve of her cheekbones, the exotic tilt of her eyes, the ever so subtle point of her ears – marked her as an outsider.

  Her hand instinctively went to the dagger concealed beneath her tunic, a silent vow to protect herself, to defend her secret. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and pressed on. She would not be deterred by fear. She would not let the prejudices of others define her.

  The marketplace was a cacophony of sights and sounds. Brightly colored banners flapped in the breeze, vying for attention like exotic birds. The air hummed with the mingled scents of spices, roasting meat, and trampled hay, a heady concoction that made Cassandra's stomach churn with hunger.

  She navigated the bustling crowd, her senses on high alert. A group of children, their faces smeared with dirt, chased a stray dog through the maze of stalls, their laughter echoing through the square. A pair of merchants argued loudly over the price of a bolt of cloth, their gestures growing increasingly animated. A woman with a basket overflowing with apples bumped into Cassandra, muttering apologies as she hurried on.

  Then, a familiar aroma cut through the din – hot stew, rich and savory, its scent promising warmth and nourishment. Cassandra's stomach growled in response. Scanning the crowd, she followed the enticing aroma, her weary body craving sustenance, her spirit yearning for a moment of respite.

  A weathered inn’s sign creaked mournfully in the breeze: The Stag and Horn. Its windows glowed with inviting warmth. With a surge of hope, she pushed open the heavy oak door, a bell tinkling overhead to announce her arrival.

  The common room bustled with life. A fire roared in the hearth, casting a cheerful glow on the rough-hewn walls and the faces of the patrons huddled around tables. Laughter and conversation mingled with the clinking of tankards and the clatter of plates, creating a symphony of comfort and camaraderie.

  A stout woman, her face a roadmap of laughter lines and worry creases, emerged from behind the bar, wiping her hands on a stained apron. She swept her gaze over Cassandra, taking in the travel-worn clothes and the hint of exhaustion in her eyes. The innkeeper's smile faltered replaced by a look of suspicion. "How can I help you?" she boomed, her voice gruff but not unkind.

  Cassandra's voice, dry and scratchy from the long journey, caught in her throat. "A room for the night," she managed, "and... and perhaps a bit of supper?"

  "A room, you say?" she repeated, her eyes narrowing. "And where might you be traveling from, young man? You don't seem to be from around these parts."

  Cassandra hesitated, caught off guard. "The north," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. "My family and I... we had to leave in a hurry."

  The innkeeper's gaze hardened. "The north, eh? There's been talk... unrest, strange happenings. Elves."

  Cassandra's heart pounded. She forced a smile, hoping to mask her fear. "Just rumors, ma'am. Nothing to worry about."

  The innkeeper remained unconvinced. "Perhaps," she said, her voice laced with doubt. "But in these uncertain times, we must be cautious. I'm afraid I can't offer you a room tonight. We're full."

  Dejection washed over Cassandra. The inn's warmth, the promise of a safe haven, seemed to recede like a mirage. "I understand," she murmured, her shoulders slumping. "Thank you anyway."

  She turned to leave, the weight of rejection heavy on her heart. The laughter and chatter of the patrons seemed to mock her, a cruel reminder of her isolation. Outside, the cool night air offered little comfort. The stars above seemed cold and distant, indifferent to her plight. With a heavy sigh, she turned her back on the inn and headed back towards the marketplace, her stomach growling its discontent.

  Cassandra searched for something affordable to eat until she spotted a humble bakery, its entrance framed by the warm glow of a hearth fire. The aroma of freshly baked bread, simple and comforting, drew her in.

  Inside, a plump baker, his face dusted with flour, greeted her. "Good day, young sir," he chirped. "What can I do for you?"

  Cassandra pointed to a loaf of crusty brown bread, its golden crust glistening under the lamplight. "How much for this one?" she asked.

  The baker, his eyes twinkling, named a price that was way higher than reasonable. Cassandra sighed and counted out her coins. She tucked the bread under her arm.

  As she turned to leave, a group of villagers gathered near the bakery, their hushed voices piquing her curiosity. She lingered near the doorway, straining to hear their conversation.

  "Did you hear about the trouble up north?" one whispered, his eyes wide with alarm. "Elven raiders, they say, burning farms and stealing livestock."

  "Aye," another chimed in, his face grim. "They're getting bolder, those pointy-eared devils. Mark my words, they'll be coming this way soon enough."

  "I heard about a murder," a gruff voice rumbled. "An elf slaughtered her own mother! A wicked slip of a girl with the pointed ears of the Fair Folk."

  A collective gasp rippled through the group.

  "No," a burly man exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Her own mother?"

  Cassandra's breath hitched. They were talking about her. A wave of anger washed over her, hot and consuming. She clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to lash out, to defend herself, to scream her innocence. But she knew that would only draw more attention, more suspicion. Thankfully she had the foresight to disguise herself as a boy and the fact that she had rounded ears instead of elven ears.

  "Elven scum," the burly man spat. "Always up to no good. Tricksters and thieves, the lot of them."

  Cassandra had heard enough. She slipped out of the bakery, her heart pounding. She needed to get away from these people, from their ignorant whispers and hateful glares. She found a quiet corner near a fountain, its waters splashing a soothing melody against the stone basin. She sank onto a nearby bench, her body trembling with a mixture of anger and fear.

  She tore into the bread, devouring it with a desperate hunger. But the taste was bitter, tainted by the prejudice she had just witnessed.

  Chapter 6: The Stables

  Cassandra, belly finally full, dodged a gaggle of children with sticky fingers and mischievous grins, she narrowly avoided a collision with a fruit vendor pushing a squeaky cart. "Watch it, lad!" the vendor barked, his voice rough with the wear of long days. She muttered an apology, her eyes darting to the shadowed alleyways. It wasn't the market stalls that interested her, but the clusters of ragged children lurking in the dim light. Orphans, like herself. She recognized the hungry glint in their eyes, the way they moved with a practiced ease that spoke of survival on the streets.

  One of them, a girl with a shock of fiery red hair, stepped out from the shadows. "You new?" she asked, her voice surprisingly strong for someone so small. "We could use another pair of hands."

  Cassandra hesitated. Joining a gang meant safety, a sense of belonging. It also meant stealing, something she wasn't sure she was ready for. "I... I'm looking for work," she mumbled, her gaze flickering away.

  The girl snorted. "Work? Good luck with that, pretty boy." She jerked her chin towards the market square. "Unless you fancy scrubbing chamber pots for a copper a day."

  With a shake of her head, Cassandra turned away from the alley, her stomach churning. She needed a place to stay, and quickly. The sun was already dipping below the rooftops, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets. The scent of hay and horseflesh, a comforting familiarity, drifted through the air. Following the aroma, she found herself at the edge of the city, before a sprawling stable. The rhythmic clang of a hammer against a horseshoe, the soft nickering of horses, and the gruff voices of stable hands created a symphony of sounds that tugged at her heartstrings.

  Peering through the open doorway, she observed the stable hands going about their tasks. A young man, sweat plastering his tunic to his back, wrestled with a hay bale twice his size. Nearby, a woman with calloused hands gently stroked the velvety nose of a grey mare. Cassandra's eyes lingered on the horses, their powerful muscles rippling beneath their sleek coats. Memories flickered – galloping through sun-drenched fields, the wind whipping through her hair, the feel of reins in her hands. Hope, a fragile tendril, unfurled within her chest.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the stable. The straw crunched beneath her boots, announcing her presence. The stable hands paused, turning to face her with wary eyes. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick beard stepped forward.

  "Can I help you, lad?" the stable master finished with the horse's hooves, hammer still in hand.

  Meeting his gaze, Cassandra spoke with a confidence she didn't quite feel. "I'm looking for work. I can handle horses, muck stalls, anything you need."

  The stable master, who had been tightening a saddle girth with practiced ease, paused and straightened up. "Is that so?" he said, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Cassandra from head to toe. "You look a bit young to be handling a stallion," he added, giving a tug on his thick beard.

  "Age isn't everything," Cassandra retorted, lifting her chin. She rested her hand on a nearby stall door, the rough wood a familiar comfort beneath her fingers. "I'm a fast learner."

  He grunted, exchanging a look with the other stable hands. One of them, a burly man with a pitchfork, leaned against a stack of hay bales, watching the exchange with amusement. Another, a girl barely older than Cassandra, continued brushing down a chestnut mare, but her ears were clearly tuned to the conversation. After a moment, the stable master shook his head.

  "Sorry, lad. We're fully staffed." He turned back to the saddle, giving it another tug for good measure.

  Disappointment pricked at her, but she quickly masked it. "I understand," she said, forcing a smile. She pushed off the stall door, her gaze dropping to the straw-dusted floor. "Thank you anyway."

  As she turned to leave, a handsome young stable boy, who had been diligently mucking out a stall, piped up. "Sir, couldn't he sleep in the loft? Just for tonight?" He leaned on his shovel, his gaze earnest.

  Cassandra glanced back, her heart pounding with a renewed flicker of hope. The stable master scrutinized her for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright, lad. The loft's empty. Just don't go making a mess." He turned to the freckled boy, "Thomas, you're responsible for him since you made the suggestion. Get him settled in for the night and make sure there are no 'issues'."

  "Yes, sir," Thomas replied, then turned to Cassandra with a kind smile. "The hayloft is up this ladder. Go on up, and I'll be up in a moment."

  Not wanting the stable master to change his mind, Cassandra scurried up the ladder,The hayloft, though filled with dust motes dancing like tiny, glittering stars, offered a welcome respite from the harsh ground that had been Cassandra's bed for far too many nights. Even the pungent aroma of hay and horseflesh brought a strange comfort.

  A few moments later, Thomas clambered up the ladder, a lantern in one hand and a blanket tucked under his arm. "Welcome to the penthouse suite," he announced with a playful bow. "I'm Thomas, resident hayloft connoisseur and purveyor of fine... well, hay.”

  Cassandra surprised herself by chuckling at his banter.

  “Here," he said, offering her the blanket with a shy smile. "Complimentary blanket. Standard issue for all our esteemed guests." He chuckled, "It gets a bit chilly up here."

  "You're too kind," Cassandra said, accepting the blanket with a grateful smile. "Most people just tell me to get lost."

  "Well, then they're missing out," Thomas said, shaking his head and grinning. He gestured towards a particularly plump pile of hay. "That's the best spot. Trust me, I've tried them all."

  Cassandra smiled. "Thanks for the tip, Thomas." She settled onto the hay, relishing its softness.

  "Don't mention it," he replied, beaming. He paused, then added, "Mind if I join you? It gets a bit lonely here on my own."

  "Not at all," Cassandra replied, a smile tugging at her lips and gesturing beside her.

  "Thanks," Thomas said, settling back with a contented sigh. "By the way," he added, "I don't think I caught your name."

  Cassandra hesitated. "It's, uh, Cassius," she said, the name feeling foreign on her tongue.

  "Cassius," Thomas repeated, nodding. "Nice to meet you." He paused, his gaze turning thoughtful. "You know, Cassius," he began, "I saw you watching the horses earlier. You have this look in your eyes... like you understand them."

  "I grew up around horses on the farm," she confessed, a wistful smile gracing her lips.

  "Your parents must have been proud to have you by their side," Thomas said softly.

  Cassandra's smile faltered. "They…are gone now," she murmured, her gaze dropping to her hands.

  Thomas's expression softened. He reached out, hesitantly placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Cassius," he said sincerely. "But I'm sure they'd be proud of how you're handling yourself."

  Cassandra looked up, surprised by his touch and his kind words. "Thank you, Thomas," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

  He patted her shoulder gently for a brief moment. "You know," he began, leaning back against a stack of hay bales, "if you're really serious about working with horses, there's a stable in the next town over – the Silver Griffin. They're short-handed, and the owner, Agnes, is always looking for good help."

  He paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "That's actually where I work," he confessed, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Agnes sends me here on errands sometimes. Lucky for you, I suppose."

  A spark of hope ignited within Cassandra. "Really?" she asked, her eyes widening. "That would be amazing."

  Before Thomas could reply, a cacophony of shouts and laughter erupted from outside, followed by the heavy thud of boots against the cobblestones. Thomas's face fell. "Sounds like trouble," he muttered, scrambling to his feet.

  The stable doors exploded inward, showering the packed earth floor with splinters. A pack of burly men, their faces flushed with ale and malice, surged into the lantern-lit space. Their leader, a hulking brute with a cruel sneer etched across his face, scanned the stable, his eyes locking onto Cassandra with predatory intent.

  "Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice thick with menace. "Thought you could hide from us, did you, boy?"

  Cassandra's breath hitched. She recognized the man – one of the gossiping thugs she passed in the village. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the hilt of her hidden dagger.

  Thomas stepped forward, his slender frame a stark contrast to the imposing figures before him. "Leave him alone," he demanded, his voice wavering only slightly.

  The brute let out a harsh laugh. "And who are you, little man? His protector?"

  Thomas lifted his chin, defiance sparking in his eyes. "I'm just someone who doesn't stand for bullies."

  The men advanced, their laughter turning into growls. Cassandra's blood ran cold. She couldn't let Thomas get hurt because of her.

  With a swift movement, she drew her dagger, the blade glinting in the lantern light. "Stay back!" she shouted, her voice ringing through the stable.

  The men froze, startled by the weapon in her hand. Even Thomas stared at her in surprise. For a heartbeat, the stable held its breath.

  The leader's laughter shattered the tense silence. His hulking form became a blur as he charged towards Cassandra. His meaty fist swung towards her head. Cassandra, her reflexes honed by countless hours of training with her mother, reacted with lightning speed. She ducked low, the rush of air stirring the loose strands of her hair.

  In the same fluid motion, her right hip pivoted forward, adding power and momentum to her counterattack. Her right shoulder and torso followed suit, twisting with the force of a coiled spring releasing. With a swift flick of her wrist, the dagger in her hand arced through the air, its sharp edge finding its mark on the leader's forearm. A thin line of crimson bloomed against his grimy skin.

  A howl of pain erupted from the leader, his surprise momentarily halting his advance. The other men hesitated, their drunken bravado faltering in the face of her unexpected agility.

  "Feisty little thing, aren't you?" one of the men sneered, his voice slurred. "But you're outnumbered."

  Cassandra's lips curled into a smirk. "Outnumbered, perhaps," she retorted, her voice dangerously calm, "but certainly not outmatched." She pirouetted away from another clumsy attack, her dagger a blur of silver in the dim light.

  "That's it!" Thomas's voice boomed. "Give 'em hell, Cass!"

  Cassandra grinned, her heart soaring at the support. She ducked beneath another swing from another attacker, her dagger flashing in the dim light. A cry of pain echoed through the stable as her blade found its mark.

  The fight erupted into chaos. Men fanned out, their movements erratic. Cassandra, back pressed against a stall, felt adrenaline surge through her veins. She parried a blow, and ducked under a wild swing, her dagger finding its mark again and again. Thomas, face set with determination, stood beside her, his pitchfork a surprisingly effective weapon as he jabbed and thrust at the encroaching figures.

  The air crackled with tension, the only sounds were the grunts of exertion, the curses of the attackers, and the panicked whinnies of the horses. Cassandra felt a moment of claustrophobia, surrounded by the press of bodies and the looming threat of violence. But then, Thomas's back bumped against hers, a silent promise of solidarity. They fought back to back, a makeshift team forged in the crucible of danger.

  The fight was a dance of desperation and defiance. Cassandra and Thomas, their movements in sync, fought with a ferocity born of necessity. They were outnumbered and outmatched, but they refused to yield.

  Their attackers, fueled by a toxic mix of prejudice and drunken bravado, pressed their advantage, their laughter turning into snarls as they realized their quarry wouldn't go down easily. A wiry man with a cruel glint in his eye lunged at Cassandra, his fist aimed at her face. She ducked, the rush of air grazing her cheek, and retaliated with a swift kick to his shin. He yelped in pain, stumbling back.

  Another man swung a club at Thomas. The young stablehand deflected the blow with his pitchfork then countered with a jab, catching the man in the ribs, and eliciting a grunt of surprise.

  Cassandra darted forward, her dagger a silver flash in the dim light. One of the men stumbled back, clutching at his bleeding cheek where her blade had kissed him.

  The leader, enraged by his wounded pride, lunged at her again, his eyes burning with fury. Cassandra sidestepped his clumsy attack, her dagger flashing in the dim light. She targeted the back of his knee, her blade parting flesh and sinew. He roared in agony, his leg collapsing beneath him, his weight crashing to the floor with a thud.

  The remaining men, their numbers dwindling and their confidence waning, exchanged fearful glances. The sight of their leader felled, and their own injuries bleeding freely chipped away at their bravado. With muttered curses and whimpers of pain, they retreated, dragging their fallen leader with them.

  Silence descended, broken only by ragged breathing and the horses' nervous whickers. Cassandra with her chest heaving, lowered her dagger. The stable was a mess, with hay strewn across the floor, overturned buckets, and the lingering smell of blood and sweat.

  Thomas approached her, his face pale but his eyes shining with respect. He winced as he cradled his bruised arm, a reminder of the scuffle. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

  Cassandra nodded, a weary smile gracing her lips. "Thanks to you," she said, her voice husky. "I owe you one."

  Thomas grinned, a sheepish blush coloring his cheeks. "Just doing what anyone would do," he mumbled. Then, his eyes widened as he took in her blood-stained tunic and the fierce glint still lingering in her eyes. "You. you're quite the fighter," he stammered with a hint of awe in his voice.

  Cassandra shrugged a hint of sadness in her smile. "I used to spar with my mother," she said, her voice barely a whisper, the weight of her past pressing down on her. "Never thought it'd come in handy like this."

  "Your mother? Wow." Thomas chuckled, humor fading to understanding in his eyes. "I'm sure there is an interesting story there." He seemed to sense a hidden past that had forged her into a warrior. But thankfully, he didn't press her, respecting her unspoken boundaries. "Come on," he said gently yet encouragingly, "Let's roll up our sleeves and get this place cleaned up together."

  The adrenaline slowly drained from Cassandra's system, leaving a bone-deep weariness in its wake. Thomas, bless his soul, was bustling around, righting overturned buckets and gathering scattered hay.

  "You should get some rest. I'll take care of this mess," he said, glancing at her with concern. "It's late, and you've had a rough day."

  “Thank you.” Cassandra climbed back up to the ladder and settled once again in the hay.

  Thomas smiled then grabbed a broom and began sweeping the floor. The rhythmic swoosh of the broom against the packed earth was strangely soothing, and Cassandra found her eyelids growing heavy.

  She awoke with a start, the first rays of dawn painting the stable in a soft, ethereal glow. Thomas was nowhere to be seen. With a sigh, she rose, stretching her stiff muscles. She couldn't stay here. Not with the risk of those thugs returning, and not with the stable master likely to have questions about the night's events.

  Quietly, she gathered her meager belongings and left.