CROWN OF SALT AND BLOOD

Salt in the Air

Chapter One

I’m Bellatrix Rose but everyone calls me Bella.

I live in a small but beautiful town near the sea in the north of England, the kind of place where everyone knows your business before you do, where gulls scream louder than the church bells and the wind carries the smell of salt through every narrow street.

Life can be boring here sometimes. Especially during winter.

In summer, tourists fill the harbour and pretend the cold sea doesn’t bite. Kids drop melting ice cream on cobbled pavements. Couples walk along the pier like they’re in some indie film.

But winter? Winter belongs to us locals and to the storms.

Tonight, the wind is vicious, rattling the windows of The Lantern’s Rest like it’s trying to get inside. I’m doing the late shift to cover for Kevin, who claimed he had “food poisoning.” Which, in Kevin language, usually means a date.

Lucky him.

The pub is warm at least. Fire crackling. Low golden light. The scent of ale and old wood. A few regulars sit hunched over their pints, discussing fishing quotas and football as if either will change their lives. I wipe down the bar for the third time and glance at the clock.

9:47 p.m.

Three more hours.

A gust of wind howls down the chimney, making the fire spit.

Then the door swings open.

Not gently.

Not politely.

It slams against the wall with a bang, letting in a rush of freezing air and scattered raindrops. Conversations pause. Even the darts stop mid-throw.

And in steps a stranger. He’s soaked. Dark coat dripping onto the wooden floor. Hair plastered to his forehead. He stands there for half a second, scanning the room like he’s not sure he’s meant to be here.

We don’t get strangers in winter. Not like this. Our eyes meet and something, something strange and electric flickers in my chest. He walks to the bar slowly, boots heavy against the floorboards.

“Evening,” I say, trying to sound casual, though my heart is beating far too loudly for a quiet Tuesday in January.

“Evening,” he replies.

His voice is low. Not local. Definitely not local.

“What can I get you?”

He hesitates. Glances at the fire. Then back at me.

“Something warm,” he says. “And maybe… directions.”

The way he says it makes it sound like he doesn’t just mean directions to a place.

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re a bit far from the motorway.”

“That’s what the sign said.”

I can’t help it, I smile and that’s when it happens. Not fireworks, not dramatic music, just a shift.

Like the tide turning, like the first crack in ice before it breaks. Outside, thunder rolls across the sea. Inside, the stranger finally gives me his name and I realise this winter might not be boring after all...