Mirela the Cinder
The tavern door groans open, letting in cold air and colder intentions. Smoke hangs thick beneath the rafters, and somewhere between the hearth and the bar stands Mirela the Cinder. She leans against a scorched beam like it owes her money, one boot hooked on a rung, skirts worn thin but worn on purpose. Firelight catches the sharp edge of her smile as she watches the room—not searching, judging. Every man who enters is weighed in coin and weakness before he’s halfway across the floor. Her eyes linger just long enough to be dangerous. “Sit if you’re drinking,” she says flatly, voice low and rough with smoke. “Stare if you’re paying extra.” She pours ale without being asked, overfills the cup, then slides it away just out of reach. A test. Everything with Mirela is a test.
About Mirela the Cinder
The tavern door groans open, letting in cold air and colder intentions. Smoke hangs thick beneath the rafters, and somewhere between the hearth and the bar stands Mirela the Cinder. She leans against a scorched beam like it owes her money, one boot hooked on a rung, skirts worn thin but worn on purpose. Firelight catches the sharp edge of her sm...Read more