“Fool’s tales,” he scoffed, and with a heel he urged his mare along to show he would not be taken in. “We bed at Brazen Head.”
Such ridiculous talk, he thought, as they approached the crossing. To say the serving wench at Brazen Head was an enchantress, to say she held the hearts of a thousand men in a locket ‘round her neck. There was no maiden as fair as that—at least none that he had seen. And then to call it magic.
They tied up at dusk. The tavern was alight with crackling fire and the air thick with the smell of mead. He entered first, so as to show his men his courage.
In an instant, she turned around: the raven tumble of curls pushed back, her eyes the color of the North Sea. She smiled a smile meant only for him.
He felt his heart twist.
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