A Good Omen
Chapter 1 of Legends & Lies - An Anthology from the World Beyond Series
Catch Up Before You Dive In
A Good Omen
The raven arrived just before dawn—black as scorched velvet and twice as quiet.
It landed on the signpost outside the Dragonfly without ceremony, without sound, and without blinking. And though no one else in Rin Ridge was around to see it—the village exhaled all the same—the way old floorboards shift before a house begins to settle. Or fall.
Evaine noticed it, of course.
She was already awake, already sore, already trying to make the inn porch look a little less like it belonged to people too tired to care. One hand rubbed her swollen belly, the other clutched a straw broom that did more smearing than sweeping. She paused only because the bird was staring at her—eyes sharp and glossy, the color of ink over ice.
“A good omen,” she whispered, ignoring the shiver that ran down the length of her spine.
And it might have been.
Just not for her.
The bird tilted its head, like it knew something she didn’t. Which, to be fair, wouldn’t have been hard.
Evaine didn’t know, for instance, in other places—in other realms—the raven was worshiped. A god among many. Lord over the depths of the night and the darkness where he belonged.
What she believed was simpler. That babies made everything better. That men could change. And that love could be enough if you just held on tight enough.
She gave the bird a nod—a strangely formal thing, as if she were both offering thanks and daring it to disagree—and turned back toward the door.
The raven stayed long enough to watch her vanish, then vanished itself, wings slicing the skies over Fenngard like a whisper too late to take back.
The Dragonfly didn’t open for another hour, but Evaine was already setting chairs upright and muttering about the floorboards like they’d personally offended her.
She wasn’t the owner—just the girl who did everything the owner couldn’t. Which, these days, was most things. Old Miss Thora had once run the inn with sharp elbows and sharper opinions, but now she spent most mornings bundled under blankets in the back parlor, half-listening to whatever story was being read to her and occasionally shouting her opinion to anyone within earshot.
Evaine didn’t mind the work. Not really. It came with a roof and a warm fire and a room upstairs just big enough to turn around in, provided you didn’t turn around too fast. And she was grateful. She told herself that often.
But still—sometimes, when she looked at that little bed tucked into the wall, at the cracked windowsill and the lopsided dresser she’d inherited from some long-dead guest, her chest got tight. Once the baby came, where would the crib go? Where would she put Reid’s boots? The baby’s blankets? The toys?
Reid didn’t have a place. He’d always said his place was the wild. Which sounded poetic right up until you realized it meant he could disappear for weeks at a time and reappear with blood on his shirt and bruises he wouldn’t explain.
She told herself it would be different soon. That once the baby arrived, he’d see it—see her—them. He’d want to settle down. To come home.
She told herself that, too. Often.
And in the meantime, she had a broom, a belly full of knees and elbows, and a breakfast crowd to prepare for.
“Come on, little one,” she whispered to the belly beneath her apron, steadying herself on the bar as she leaned to sweep. “Let’s get through today first.”
The broom didn’t help much, but sweeping gave her something to do with her hands. She wasn’t used to stillness. Stillness meant waiting. And waiting meant thinking. And thinking…
She preferred the broom.
The door opened before the bell could announce it, and Milly Talle breezed in like a wind determined to rearrange every part of Evaine’s morning.
“Well, don’t you look… tired,” Milly said with a bright smile and a tone that belonged on a knife.
Evaine didn’t blink. “Good morning to you too, Milly.”
“I brought pears,” Milly added, lifting a basket and setting it on the bar like an offering. “And a few sweet plums—though sugar’s no friend to ankles this far along. You swelling yet?”
“I’m glowing,” Evaine said flatly, brushing a curl from her cheek. “That’s what people are supposed to say.”
“I’m sure you are, dear.” Milly squinted. “Maybe brush your hair forward a bit. Draws attention away from the… roundness.”
“I am growing a person.”
“Just trying to help you keep a bit of mystery.”
“I’m visibly pregnant.”
“Not to the blind.”
Evaine bit back a grin. She wasn’t sure if Milly was actually mean or just very… Fenngardian.
Pete Garrows strolled in a moment later, shaking snow off his boots and humming like someone who knew the tune and the punchline.
“Morning, Evy. Dragonfly warm enough for you today?”
“Warmer than my first customer,” she said, nodding toward Milly.
Pete laughed and leaned against the counter, eyes sharp and roving the way they always did. He smelled like cloves and wind.
“Reid back yet?”
Evaine’s smile tightened. “Not yet.”
“When’d you last hear from him?”
“A few weeks,” she said, a little too breezy. “He found bear sign out near the ridge and decided to follow it.”
Pete whistled low. “Bold man.”
“Brave,” she corrected.
“Or reckless.”
Evaine tilted her head. “Aren’t those just synonyms with different endings?”
Pete chuckled. “Fair enough. When he gets back, tell him I’ve still got that axe he loaned me.”
“I will.”
What she didn’t say—what she didn’t let herself say—was that Reid hadn’t written in three weeks, and his last note had looked like it had been scribbled in the dark with a knife for a quill.
Lionel Fitz entered then, hunched and dusted with snow like a scarecrow that had wandered too far. He moved with the delicate reverence of someone used to libraries and grief.
“Morning Eve, I brought you something,” he murmured, setting a cloth-wrapped bundle on the bar.
Evaine unwrapped it slowly. Inside was a small book—faded indigo cover, hand-stitched spine, the title inked in careful, curling script: “The Lost Little Lightning Bug”.
“For the babe,” Fitz said. “It was my sister’s favorite, when she was small. Thought it might suit.”
Evaine turned the book over in her hands. The edges were worn smooth, the corners curled like paper trying to remember being a leaf.
“She’s not lost,” she said, but gently. “She just hasn’t found her way home yet.”
Fitz blinked. “Pardon?”
“Fireflies. They don’t get lost. They just shine as brightly as they can in the dark until someone sees them.”
Fitz looked at her for a long moment. Then he gave a small, thoughtful nod and turned away.
When her regular morning customers had gone, Evaine sat behind the bar, running her hands over the cover of the book. She liked the feel of it. Solid. Real. Like something she could hold onto when the lonely nights stretched too long and her back screamed and the baby rolled like thunder through her ribs.
She looked down at her belly, pressing a hand to the little swell that was starting to feel more like someone than something.
“Don’t you worry, my love,” she whispered. “Your father’s coming back. He just has to finish this hunt. He promised.”
Outside, snowflakes gathered slow and quiet on the windowsill.
And just for a breath of a second, Evaine could swear she saw the raven again—just a flicker of shadow on the rooftop across the square. Watching.
Then it was gone.
The bell above the door let out a tired jingle as it swung open again, and a gust of cold slipped in before Jace did—wrapped in a dark wool cloak, his hood pushed back, curls damp with snowmelt and eyes already scanning the room like he expected someone to need him.
“Morning,” he said, voice even and low—the kind that made people calm just by being in the same room. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” Evaine said, quick with her smile. “Unless you’ve come to inform me that its snowing again. Or that the roof is leaking.”
“No disasters,” Jace gave a faint smile. “Just came from up the ridge. Midwife and I helped Marta deliver her first.”
Evaine perked up, her hand instinctively resting on her stomach. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy,” Jace said, tugging off his gloves. “Strong lungs. Nearly deafened us once he figured out how to scream. But stubborn getting here. Didn’t want to breathe at first.”
Evaine's eyes softened. “And the mother?”
“Tired, but well. Got through it fine.”
“Good.” She exhaled. “That’s good.”
Jace looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he set a small paper-wrapped bundle on the bar and nudged it toward her.
“I brought ginger root, dried mint, and a fresh jar of salve. For your back. And your ankles, if they’re still aching.”
Evaine narrowed her eyes, but not unkindly. “You trying to charm me into buying something I didn’t ask for?”
“Trying to keep you on your feet,” he said. “If I wanted to charm you, I’d have brought chocolate.”
She laughed—not because it was funny, but because it surprised her. The laugh felt good, like warmth in the ribs.
“You’ll make someone a fine husband one day, Jace.”
He raised his brows. “Don’t suppose that’s an offer?”
“No,” she said sweetly. “Just a compliment.”
“I’ll be back through next week to check on the newborn and his mother. I can bring more, if you need anything.”
“I won’t,” she said, too quickly. “But thank you.”
Jace gestured toward her stomach. “Still moving?”
“Constantly. I think she’s trying to rearrange my organs.”
He nodded, quiet for a beat. “And Reid?”
“He’s fine,” she answered too quickly. “Out near the ridgelands. Got word he found cougar prints. You know him. He’ll follow anything if it’s got claws and teeth. Should be back soon.”
What she didn’t say: he’d also follow ale. Or a fight. Or silence. He could vanish like breath in winter—and return with a grin like nothing had happened.
Her mind spun through all the things she hadn’t said aloud.
That he hadn’t written as often as he’d said he would.
That his last letter had smelled of smoke and been full of unfinished sentences.
That she hadn’t seen him smile like he used to since she told him she was pregnant.
But she kept smiling. Like always. Like it was armor.
“Good.” Jace’s tone was gentle. And it held that particular note people get when they don’t believe something, but want to let you keep believing it anyway.
Evaine hated that note. She chose to ignore it.
“Once the babe’s here,” she added, patting her stomach, “he’ll settle down. He’ll see what he has to lose.”
Jace’s gaze softened, but he didn’t argue. “Of course.”
Because what else could he say?
They exchanged pleasantries, and he left a few coins for tea he didn’t drink. The bell jangled again. His boots vanished into the snow.
Evaine stood there for a long moment, fingers curled around the edge of the counter.
She whispered, “You’re coming back, Reid. I know you are.”
She said it with her whole heart.
And the part of her heart that didn’t believe it—she just didn’t listen to.
The Dragonfly had long since gone quiet.
The common room downstairs was dark now, its hearth gone to embers. The creaking and clatter of the day had faded to the soft hush of wind against the shutters. Upstairs, Evaine sat curled on the narrow bed that tilted slightly to one side, one hand resting on the small of her back, the other braced behind her against the cold stone wall.
The room was barely wide enough for the bed and a single chest. She’d set a cradle in her mind against the far wall a dozen times, picturing Reid carving the frame himself, sanding it smooth with those rough hunter’s hands. But the wall still stood bare, and the cradle existed only in the place between someday and maybe.
A single candle flickered beside her, its flame bent low, dancing every time the wind pushed through the shutters. She didn’t bother to fix them anymore. Some things just rattled.
Evaine stared out the window, chin resting on her knees.
The road to the ridge was little more than a shadow in the dark. But she watched it anyway. Like if she stared long enough, he’d appear—Reid, with his crooked smile and wild stories, dragging a cougar pelt behind him and apologizing like he always did: half-charming, half-late.
“You’re coming back,” she whispered, not to the road, not even to the candle. Just to the dark. “You promised.”
And for a moment, she believed it.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, belly round beneath her nightdress, and leaned her head against the cold glass. Outside, the stars blinked faintly, like they weren’t sure if they were allowed to shine tonight.
She didn’t hear the scratch of talons on the eaves above her window. Didn’t see the shape shift against the sky—a silhouette cut from shadow and smoke. Didn’t know the raven had returned, perching silent as breath just above her, watching.
Waiting.
What she did know—what she clung to—was that love could still be enough. That people could still come back. That this was just the middle of the story, not the end.
The candle flickered once, then held steady.
And Evaine, still curled in the glow of it, closed her eyes.