“You gonna order a drink or you gonna stand there like deadwood?” Jars of moonblitz line the shelves behind him. Some batches clear, other tinted amber or gold.

I scan the room. Asher’s not here—not yet at least—and it’s only a matter of time before the General realizes I’ve escaped and sends his army after me.

Still, I find myself saying, “I’m waiting for a friend.”

“This ain’t a meetinghouse, it’s a pub. Order something or get out.”

“Moonblitz.” I walk to the counter that divides us, wood chips flexing beneath my boots, then slide onto a crudely carved wooden stool. The man just peers at me. “Please?” I add.

He slaps the rag onto the counter, fisting the material, and drones, “What’s your trade?”

“Oh. My friend is bringing it.”

“This ain’t a charity, Loyalist.”

“It’ll be worth your time, promise.”

A brow cocks with interest. “You get the weak stuff till he arrives.” He wipes out a glass jar with his rag, grabs one of the batches of moonblitz off the shelf, and pours me a drink.

I raise it to him in thanks and take the smallest sip. The blitz scorches my throat, liquid fire that I barely manage to swallow without hacking up a lung. If this is the weak stuff, I don’t want to taste his strong batches.

Smiling smugly, the man returns his attention to wiping out dirty glassware.

I spin my blitz-filled jar on the counter, worry building. If Asher doesn’t show, I have no way of paying for the drink. And even if he does show, it’s possible he’ll have nothing to trade for the drink either. There’s no way the owner will let me go without paying. Even now he’s watching like a hawk, one eye on me while he goes about his cleaning.

The back of my neck prickles. Asher should be here by now. What if he’s stopped coming? What if he gave up on me the moment the wagon carted me off to Bedrock?

Light slices through the Roost as the curtain lifts. I glance over my shoulder. It’s a pair of Loyalist gunners. Dread coils down my limbs. I release what’s become a death grip on my blitz and thumb the rim in a manner that I hope looks lazy.

The men walk into the room, their eyes flitting over the patrons. I hunch over my drink like everyone else, praying I fit in. I’m just a Loyalist, another bored blitz drinker. Nothing to see here.

“We’re looking for a girl,” the men call to the owner. “Maybe sixteen, seventeen years.”

Behind the counter the man frowns. “Can’t say I’ve seen her.”

“You, brother?” A hand slaps down on my shoulder.