Chapter 57

• Ayla
• The scent of burnt oak and something deliciously savory—caramelized onions, perhaps, or roasted root vegetables—clung to the uneven timber walls of the tavern. Morning light, filtered through grimy, leaded-glass windows, dappled the table where Carla and I sat.
• Carla, bless her practical heart, had already devoured half of her breakfast, a stew she’d whipped up herself in the inn’s kitchen, humming a low, tuneless melody as she chewed. My own bowl, still steaming gently, held the same hearty fare, but my appetite remained stubbornly absent, a gnawing anxiety replacing hunger in my gut.