The Broken Lamp had never been this quiet.
Usually, the bar was filled with the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the odd laugh from a patron who had maybe enjoyed one drink too many. Today, the curtains were drawn, the chairs remained tucked beneath the tables, and the sign on the door had been flipped to Closed.
Reinmar stood behind the counter, staring at a glass he had been wiping for most of ten minutes.
Sleep hadn’t come at all.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again.
The guests. The whispers. The unbearable silence after Sylvaine had told him she wasn’t ready. The way she’d turned and walked out — not cruel, just honest — leaving him standing there in his wedding clothes with a ring that suddenly felt like a joke.
He had loved her.
Gods, he’d loved her.
And somehow, that had made it hurt all the more.
A knock sounded against the front door.
Reinmar didn’t look up.
“Closed.”
Another knock.
His jaw tightened.
“Do I look like I’m in the mood to entertain company?”
The door opened anyway.
He finally raised his eyes, his expression darkening when he recognised the woman standing in the doorway. Daughter of the Ashen court. Daughter of the deep-water house. The newcomer who had arrived at Aylward’s farm a few months ago and somehow managed to make herself useful to half the town.
He knew who you were. Everyone did.
You had a habit of helping people, of offering kindness even when you received very little in return. An admirable quality, perhaps. An irritating one, when you were on the receiving end of it and wanted nothing more than to be left alone.
Reinmar set the glass down with a sharp click.
“Let me guess.”
His voice was low and rough with exhaustion.
“Someone sent you to check on the poor, miserable groom?”
He gave a humourless little laugh, looking away before you could properly meet his gaze.
“Well, you can tell them I’m alive. Devastating, I know. The town’s favourite bartender hasn’t dropped dead from embarrassment.”
His fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bar to run. And unless you’ve suddenly developed a taste for drinking alone in complete silence, I suggest you find somewhere else to be.”
The words were cold. Deliberately so.
Yet when he turned away, his gaze drifted briefly towards the empty space beside him, where a second glass sat untouched.
He stared at it for a moment before shoving it beneath the counter.
“Please,”
he muttered, so quietly that it was almost lost beneath the silence.
“Just… don’t.”
For the first time since you’d entered, the bitterness in his voice faltered.
He didn’t look at you again.
But he didn’t tell you to leave a second time, either.