I hate mornings.
The light is always too honest, the air too full of hope, and everything smells like bread and manure. Which is to say, I was in a village. Again.
My feet were filthy. The sandals—cheap leather things I'd tied up to my knees in a moment of delusion about "blending in"—were caked in road dust and goat dung. My tunic clung like a second skin, damp with sweat from the hike. It was white once, silk allegedly, now the color of tired linen and barely managing to cover me unless I stood very, very still. Naturally, I was moving.
I shuffled into the center of the square like some kind of bedraggled statue lugging a sack that jingled with the ill-gotten armor of yet another tragically self-righteous hero. Gods, that codpiece alone weighed a kilo. Embroidered. With griffons. Who does that?
The village was exactly what you'd expect: thatched roofs, chickens doing things chickens aren't supposed to do, and an old crone glaring at me like she could smell my sins. (She probably could. I hadn't bathed since before the altar incident.)
I stopped in what passed for a marketplace—two stands selling suspicious fruit and one burly man chopping fish like it owed him money. A dog barked. A child cried. Somewhere a lute player hit a wrong note and kept going like nothing happened. Idyllic.
I dropped the sack with a loud clang, rolled my shoulders, and tried not to scream as every vertebra popped like bubble wrap. The crone was still watching me. I flashed her a smile. The kind that says yes, I might have stolen something precious once or twice. She clutched her shawl tighter.
I took in the scene. No gallows. No angry mob with torches. Promising. Either the dragon hadn't made his entrance yet, or these people were too calm to burn strangers before lunch. Good.
Now, what would a poor little lost girl in a scandalous tunic be doing here, all alone, with secrets in her eyes and a sack of clinking metal?
"Lost," I muttered, practicing the line. "Alone. Afraid. Definitely not carrying the dismantled hopes and dreams of a would-be knight in my bag."
A goat wandered up to sniff my leg. I kicked at it gently. "Back off, nosy."
Somewhere in the woods behind me, the Dragon was hiding—curled up in a cave or perched on a cliffside, likely composing a sonnet about the tragedy of knees. He hated these long stretches where I had to walk into town like some tragic heroine. Claimed it gave him separation anxiety. I called it drama addiction.
He'd show up eventually. Probably just after I'd charmed the elders or sold a story to the blacksmith. Timing was part of the act.
Until then, I was on.
I adjusted my cloak—rough wool, scratchy like a farmer's conscience—and pulled it tighter around my thighs. I had exactly three silver pieces in my pouch, a half-melted lipstick in my pocket, and no idea where the inn was.
Still, the stage was set. New village. New con. New chance at treasure, chaos, and possibly a decent bath.
I smiled, stretched, and turned slow, letting the morning sun hit my cheekbones just right. Somewhere, someone would be watching. They always watched.
The trick was simple. Play the part.
So I batted my lashes, sighed just loud enough for the fishmonger to hear, and whispered, "I was the only one who survived."
Oh yes. Let the games begin.
The old crone was still squinting at me like I was about to sprout horns and dance under the moon.
I smiled sweetly. "Excuse me, darling heart. Where might I find a pawn shop?"
Her lips puckered. "We don't have a brothel in this town."
"It's not that kind of request," I said, sweet as honey. "Though if I find myself short on options, I'll keep your barn in mind."
Her eyes narrowed. "No place here for your kind."
I sighed. "Yes, yes. My kind. With ideas and independence. Terrifying."
She made a warding gesture like I'd breathed devils into her soup and shuffled away.
I turned and spotted salvation in the form of a blackened anvil and a half-collapsed sign that read "MORGRUN'S METAL & MISC." Below it, another sign read "WE SHOE HORSES, NOT HEROES." Charming.
There, beside the forge: a display of rust-flecked polearms, hunting knives, pitchforks, and enough belt buckles to make a centaur blush. Perfect.
I heaved the sack over my shoulder and clinked my way into the gloom of the smithy.
He was as expected: shirtless, soot-slicked, and suspicious. Burly in the way men get when they spend their lives hammering metal and ignoring conversation. One eyebrow raised as I dropped the sack with a clang.
He said nothing.
I opened it with a flourish. Out came the hero's embossed bracers, greaves etched with overwrought scripture, and a polished breastplate bearing the emblem of some noble house I couldn't recall. His eyebrow climbed higher.
"Where'd you get this?"
"My lover," I said easily. "Couldn't pay for my charms. So I took his armor as... collateral."
He grunted. "That so?"
"Yes." I leaned forward just enough. "You'd be amazed what men will trade for affection."
He didn't blink. Just crossed his arms and stared at me like I was an unusually polite rat crawling out of a treasure chest.
"I'm not lookin' to get hanged for buying stolen goods," he said slowly. "Not again."
"Do I look like a bandit?"
"You look like trouble."
"And you look like someone who hasn't seen a breastplate this fine since the last royal parade."
A pause. Then a chuckle. Grudging. Still suspicious.
"Ten silver."
I sighed. "For the whole set? You could melt it down and buy yourself a new forge."
He shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe some knight comes lookin'. Armor like this don't just fall off a cart."
It did, actually—right after I knocked its owner unconscious with a well-aimed rock.
But I didn't say that.
"Fine," I said. "Ten."
He pushed the coins across the counter. Dull silver. Slightly sticky.
"Where can a girl find a hot bath and a soft bed around here?" I asked, pocketing the coins.
"Try the Goat's Elbow," he muttered. "North end. Rooms smell like soup, but the bathhouse next door takes silver."
"Do they scrub you or just stare awkwardly while you do it yourself?"
"Depends what you pay for."
"Everything does."
I turned, cloak flaring just enough to leave him wondering.
As I stepped out into the sunlight again, purse heavier, dignity lighter, I whispered to myself: "One bath, one bed, one bottle of something drinkable."
The inn looked like it had seen better centuries.
A sagging wooden sign read *The Goat's Elbow*, and frankly, I wasn't sure if that was supposed to be quaint or a warning. The shutters hung crooked, the door creaked like it was haunted, and the smell wafting out was a heady mix of old ale, old socks, and very old decisions.
Perfect.
I stepped inside, cloak trailing behind me, tunic clinging just enough to hint but not enough to shock. The common room was empty except for two barmaids giggling over a private joke. Behind the counter stood the innkeeper—thick arms, thicker neck, no visible humor.
"You lookin' for work?" he asked.
"Lodging," I said.
"Ah. A runaway, then."
"Excuse me?"
He gestured vaguely. "Where's your master? Husband? Keeper?"
The barmaids giggled.
"Dead," I said. "Eaten by a bear. Or bad luck. Hard to say—it was dark."
That ended the laughter.
I dropped two coins onto the sticky bar. "This good for a bed and a bath for a day or two?"
He eyed the coins like he expected them to bite, then nodded. "Room upstairs. End of the hall. Bathhouse next door. Hot water costs extra."
I flicked him the coins one by one. "If a scaly old monk shows up muttering about virtue and joint pain—send him up."
The innkeeper blinked. "A what?"
"You'll know him," I said. "Smells like incense, feathers, and regret."
And with that, I went upstairs. The room had a bed, a blanket, and the faint odor of cabbage. Luxury.
It was dusk when I woke, cocooned in a blanket that scratched like honesty but felt like heaven. The bath had been good. The nap better. My sandals lay by the bed, my bowl of broth empty on the floor. I stretched like a cat and smiled. For once, I wasn't sleeping in a cave or by a fire.
I still had some coins left. Still had ointment for the dragon. And, for the first time in days, I had options.
Maybe I'd go downstairs. Get an ale. See who was around.
Maybe make a little trouble. Maybe make a friend. Maybe both.
The inn was different now—louder, hazier, and alive. A cracked fiddle scraped something that might have been a tune. The crowd was a stew of mercenaries, merchants, wanderers, and opportunists. The kind of place where you could buy a goat, sell a cousin, or start a brawl.
My kind of place.
I made my way to the bar. "Something to drink."
The innkeeper grunted. "No mead. No berry wine. Just ale."
"Perfect."
He slammed a tankard down, sloshing froth. I took it, turned, and leaned against the counter, watching the room.
Someone whistled. "You lookin' for work, sweetheart?"
I took a sip. "No. I'm looking for fun."
That got a few laughs and lifted mugs. I smiled and let the noise roll over me.
Then the door creaked.
And every muscle in my body went cold.
There he was.
The hero. The one from the altar. Tunic only, no armor, no sword—just the haunted look of a man who'd woken up robbed and humiliated.
He scanned the room. "Dark-haired girl," he barked. "Pale skin. Big eyes. Has anyone seen her?"
I ducked behind a stack of barrels so fast I nearly spilled my ale. My heart thudded like a drum.
He remembered.
"She's a witch," he said. "She robbed me. Her and the— the beast! It was a trap!"
I didn't wait for the rest. I slipped out the back door like smoke, sandals slapping stone.
The alley smelled like rain, turnips, and bad decisions. I ran until the inn's laughter faded behind me.
Damn it.
I liked that ale.