A few minutes later, Elaric scraped the last crumb of rye bread across his empty bowl, chasing the final traces of honey. The plate was clean, the mug drained to its spicy dregs; even the bacon fat had cooled into glossy amber streaks. He leaned back against the bench with a quiet sigh of satisfaction, the warmth of the meal settling deep in his stomach like a small, temporary hearth against the morning chill.
The waitress appeared again, materializing beside the table with that same effortless sway. Up close, the scents of cinnamon, warm bread, and faint lavender soap were stronger, mingling with the subtle heat radiating from her skin after hours near the kitchen fires.
"Anything else, sir?" she asked, voice low and polite, one eyebrow arched just enough to suggest she already knew the answer.
Elaric met her eyes—carefully, deliberately—and shook his head. "No, thank you. Just the bill."
She nodded, the loose strands of chestnut hair brushing her cheek as she turned. A minute or two later she returned, sliding a small wooden tablet across the table. The bill was scratched in neat charcoal numbers: modest, fair. He counted out the coins from his pouch—copper and a couple of silver pieces clinking softly against the wood—then added an extra silver for the tip, more than he usually allowed himself. The coin gleamed as he set it on top.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the tablet as she picked it up; for a heartbeat he felt the warmth of her skin near his. She glanced at the tip, surprise flickering across her face before it softened into a small, genuine smile.
"Thank you for your patronage," she said, voice warmer now. "You're welcome back anytime."
"You're welcome," he replied, the words coming out steady despite the sudden thud in his chest. "Next time."
She gave a final nod and moved away, hips rolling gently beneath her skirts as she glided toward another table, already calling out a cheerful greeting to a new customer.
Elaric rose, cloak settling around his shoulders, ready to leave. But as he turned toward the door, his gaze snagged on that damned couple again. They were still there—closer now, somehow—heads bent together over a shared plate of berry tarts. The girl's laughter rang out bright and silvery, the boy's low chuckle answering like a perfect harmony. His hand rested casually on her knee under the table; her fingers toyed with the sleeve of his tunic. They looked… effortless. Happy in a way that felt almost obscene in its simplicity.
The inner wolf stirred immediately, hackles rising, yellow eyes narrowing.
Elaric's poker face didn't crack—not even a twitch—but inside, the sheep genocide resumed with renewed fury. *Still here? Still giggling? Gods, do you two ever stop?*
He quickened his pace, boots thudding a little too firmly against the worn floorboards. The door creaked open beneath his push, letting in a rush of cold winter air that slapped his heated cheeks. He stepped out into the crisp morning light, pulling the door shut behind him with perhaps a touch more force than necessary.
The village street stretched ahead—quiet, dusted with frost, smelling of woodsmoke and distant pine. He drew a long, steadying breath, shoved his hands deep into his cloak pockets, and started walking.
Anywhere but back there.
For now
Elaric walked along the frost-dusted dirt road that wound out of the village, his boots crunching softly against the thin layer of ice that had formed overnight. The morning sun hung low in a pale winter sky, its weak light glinting off scattered patches of snow and turning his breath into fleeting white clouds. The air carried the sharp bite of pine resin from the nearby woods, mingled with the earthy scent of turned soil and the faint, acrid tang of horse sweat.
As he reached the outskirts, the quiet village lane opened into a bustling crossroads—the gateway between his small world and the wider realm beyond. Carriages rumbled past in both directions, iron-rimmed wheels clattering over frozen ruts, kicking up puffs of dust and brittle leaves. Merchants' wagons creaked under heavy canvas loads: barrels of salted fish giving off a briny whiff, crates of iron tools that clinked with every jolt, bundles of dyed wool in vivid reds and blues peeking from beneath tarps. Drivers in thick cloaks cracked reins and shouted greetings or curses, their voices rough from cold air.
Adventurers clustered around a pair of sturdy coaches bound for distant cities—one painted with the faded crest of a trade guild, the other scarred from old battles. A burly dwarf in chainmail heaved a massive axe onto the roof rack with a metallic thud; two elven archers in forest-green cloaks laughed as they tossed coin pouches to the driver, their silver hair catching the sunlight. The sharp smell of oiled leather and weapon polish drifted from their gear, mixing with the warm, yeasty aroma of fresh travel bread being passed around.
Ordinary folk moved through the bustle too: farmers leading mules laden with empty sacks returning from market, a young mother bundling two sleepy children into a shared cart, an old tinker with pots and pans clanging merrily on his back as he bartered for a ride. Children darted between legs, chasing a stray dog that barked excitedly; somewhere a lute player tested a few bright notes, the strings humming in the cold.
Voices overlapped in a lively chorus—haggling prices, sharing road rumors, calling farewells. Laughter rose sharp and sudden; horses whinnied and stamped, harnesses jingling. The whole scene pulsed with energy, color, and motion, a vivid reminder that the world beyond the village was vast, connected, and very much alive.
Elaric stood at the edge of it all, cloak pulled tight against the wind, watching the flow of life pass him by. The noise and movement should have felt invigorating, but instead it settled over him like a too-bright cloak—dazzling from afar, yet leaving him colder where he stood alone on the sidelines.
Elaric watched the bustling crossroads for a moment longer, then made up his mind. He strode toward a large, well-kept carriage painted deep forest green, its sides reinforced with brass fittings that gleamed in the weak sunlight. Four sturdy horses stamped impatiently at the front, their breath pluming in the cold air, harnesses jingling softly.
The driver—a striking fox-kin woman in her late thirties named Lira—sat atop the high seat. Her russet furred ears twitched beneath a tricorn hat, nine fluffy tails spilling over the back of the bench like a luxurious cloak. Full-figured and confident, she wore a fitted leather coat that did little to hide generous curves. She glanced down as Elaric approached.
"Where to, sir?" she asked, voice husky from years of shouting over road noise.
Elaric hesitated, feeling the weight of the village behind him. "I don't know. The last stop, I guess. Wherever this goes."
Lira arched a brow, sharp amber eyes assessing him. "Full fare to the final destination, then. Fifty gold."
He didn't haggle. The coins clinked heavily as he counted them into her gloved palm—warm kid leather brushing his fingers. She tucked the pouch away with a satisfied flick of one tail, then jerked her head toward the door. "In you get."
The interior was surprisingly plush: cushioned benches lined with dark velvet, small enchanted lanterns glowing softly along the walls, emitting a gentle warmth that chased away the winter chill. The faint scent of cedar oil and polished wood mingled with lingering traces of previous passengers—herbal perfumes and leather. Elaric settled into a corner seat near the window, the cushion yielding comfortably beneath him. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the rhythmic creak of the carriage lull him into a light doze.
Minutes—or perhaps an hour—later, the carriage rocked as new passengers climbed aboard.
First came four elven women, all in their apparent mid-thirties (though with elves, that could mean centuries). They moved with graceful, unhurried poise, long silver and golden hair braided with tiny gemstones that caught the lantern light. Each carried the ripe, statuesque beauty of mature elf-kind: tall, willowy yet abundantly curved, with full breasts straining against travel-tuned bodices and rounded hips swaying beneath flowing cloaks.
- Seraphine, the tallest, with moon-pale hair and emerald eyes, laughed softly as she ducked inside.
- Thalindra, auburn-haired and freckled, carried a lute case slung across her back.
- Vaeloria, raven-haired with a mischievous smile, smelled of wild roses.
- Elyndra, golden-blonde and serene, bore a faint scent of ancient forests.
They settled across from Elaric, filling the carriage with the light rustle of silk and the delicate chime of jewelry.
Next, the door opened again to admit a cat-kin adventurer named Kaelys—a sleek, athletic woman in her late thirties with midnight-black fur, piercing golden eyes, and a long tail that flicked with restless energy. A well-worn longsword hung at her hip, the hilt wrapped in soft leather. Her leather armor hugged a powerful, curvaceous frame; the faint scent of steel oil and catnip tea clung to her. She nodded politely to the others, claimed the last bench, and stretched out like a predator conserving strength.
Finally, Lira cracked the reins outside. The carriage lurched forward with a jolt, wheels rumbling over frozen earth, horses snorting as they picked up speed. The village faded behind them.
Elaric dozed fitfully, lulled by the steady sway and muffled hoofbeats. When he woke, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and blinked around the dimly lit interior. Soft elven laughter filled the air; the warm glow of lanterns danced across smooth skin and ample curves. Not a single male in sight. Only mature, beautiful women—elf, fox, cat—all radiating quiet confidence and casual sensuality.
He swallowed, half-convinced he was still dreaming. Clearing his throat, he leaned toward the driver's hatch. "Excuse me… how long until the last stop?"
Lira glanced back through the opening, her fox ears swiveling. Her tone was perfectly flat, almost bored. "Five years, give or take. Everyone here paid for the final destination."
Elaric stared. "Wait… five *years*?"
From across the carriage, Thalindra—the auburn-haired elf—laughed lightly, brushing a lock of hair behind a pointed ear. "Oh, it's only five years. What, are you scared?" Her emerald eyes sparkled with gentle teasing; the others chuckled softly, the sound like wind chimes.
Seraphine leaned forward slightly, voice smooth as honey. "Plenty of time to get comfortable."
Elaric blinked once. Twice. The inner wolf, which had been pacing restlessly all morning, suddenly sat down, tilted its head, and looked… cautiously optimistic.
He exhaled slowly, shrugged, and settled back into the cushions. "Ah. Whatever."
Then, with the calm of a man who had just accepted his fate—whatever that fate might be—he closed his eyes and went back to sleep, the gentle rocking of the carriage and the soft murmur of feminine voices wrapping around him like the warmest blanket he'd ever known.