"Sleep well, Dragon. We're coming to take your temperature."
The morning sun didn't feel quite as brave as my midnight whisper. It filtered through the grime-streaked window of The Broken Anchor, illuminating dust motes and the panicked packing of a baker who looked like he was preparing for his own funeral.
"I made muffins," Tybalt said, shoving a canvas bag into my chest the moment I opened my door. "Blueberry. And savory cheese. And I think I accidentally made a brick, but we can throw that at enemies."
"Ty," I said, taking the bag. It was warm. "You've been up all night."
"I stress-bake," Tybalt muttered, his eyes bloodshot. "It's a condition. My mother says I have 'nervous flour energy.' Ren, are we really doing this? That guy, Gondar... he said people come back in buckets."
"Gondar is a bully with expensive armor," I said, grabbing my grey coat. "He relies on intimidation. We rely on mechanics."
