The road didn't announce the town.
It simply thickened—packed tighter beneath our feet, bordered by fencing instead of scrub, the air carrying new smells before any walls came into view. Smoke, mostly. Cookfires. Hot iron. Something sour beneath it all that reminded me this was a place where people stayed longer than they planned.
Beregost rose ahead of us in uneven lines and angles, buildings pressing close to the road as if trying to overhear it. Timber frames leaned at tired angles, stone foundations patched and repatched. Nothing here looked unfinished—but nothing looked untouched either.
Beregost was awake.
Voices carried from every direction: merchants arguing prices, someone shouting for a child to get out of the street, the rhythmic clang of a hammer striking metal. People moved with purpose, but not ease. There was a tension to it—a sense that the town functioned because stopping was not an option.
Jaheira slowed as we entered, posture easing a fraction without fully relaxing. Khalid stayed close to her, eyes moving faster now, taking in doorways, windows, rooftops. Imoen straightened, curiosity lighting her expression as she scanned signs and faces alike.
Montaron peeled away from us, then paused just long enough to glance back.
"I've business to attend to," he said. "Coin-related."
Xzar's head snapped up. "Oh? How industrious. I could accompany you. Observe local exchange practices. Cultural insight is—"
"No," Montaron said, without slowing.
Xzar blinked, then smiled, unfazed. "Very well."
Montaron vanished into the crowd—not disappearing so much as becoming irrelevant to it.
Xzar watched the space he'd left for a moment longer than necessary, then turned his attention back to the street. His gaze drifted upward, settling on the hanging sign of the inn ahead.
"An inn, then," he said lightly. "Places like that attract stories. And accidents."
He started off in that direction, staff tapping against the packed road.
Jaheira didn't follow immediately.
She let Xzar put a little distance between them first, then adjusted her pace just enough to trail him without drawing notice. Khalid fell into step beside her without a word, his attention fixed ahead.
I felt it then—the shift.
On the Coast Way, danger had been distant and obvious. Here, it was folded into routine. Smiling faces. Busy hands. Watchful eyes that slid away too quickly when they caught you looking back.
This wasn't a place you passed through unnoticed.
Imoen exhaled softly beside me. "Well," she said, eyes tracking the crowd, "this feels… different."
Whatever answers waited ahead, Beregost felt like the kind of town that demanded something in return just for letting you ask.
We didn't make it more than a dozen steps.
A sharp crack split the air—too loud, too sudden to be anything ordinary. People shouted as a pulse of light flared near the mouth of a side street, violet and green bleeding together in a way that made my eyes ache.
Imoen grabbed my arm. "That's not sightseeing."
A crate burst apart in a spray of splinters. Chickens scattered, feathers filling the street as someone screamed and dove out of the way. A second flash scorched the cobbles, leaving a smoking mark that hissed faintly, as if embarrassed to exist.
"Magic!" someone shouted.
The crowd recoiled, momentum crashing backward. I stumbled with it—until I saw her standing at the center of the disruption, hands half-raised like she'd only just realized they were the cause.
Cotton-candy pink hair framed her face in wild disarray, strands lifting slightly as if gravity were optional. Her eyes were wide—too wide—fixed on the damage with dawning horror.
"Oh no," she said quickly. "No, no, no—this is not what I meant to do."
She tried to correct it.
The air twisted.
Imoen inhaled sharply. "That's worse."
Magic snapped sideways.
With a rapid series of sharp pops, the street filled with motion. Eight squirrels burst into existence in a flurry of fur and frantic chittering, scattering in every possible direction.
One launched itself onto a fruit stall, sending apples rolling into the street. Another skidded beneath a wagon and reemerged clinging to a horse's tack, which immediately became a problem. Two more bolted straight toward the advancing edge of the crowd, ricocheting off boots and hems with indignant squeaks.
Then one of them leapt.
Straight onto a red-trimmed robe.
"What—get it off—" one of the Wizards snapped, swatting as the squirrel scrambled up his sleeve and vanished inside with offended chatter.
Another squirrel chose the second Wizard's shoulder as a landing point, claws digging in as it squealed triumphantly.
The street erupted.
Shouts overlapped—panic, outrage, laughter—attention fracturing as people spun in place trying to decide what to react to first.
The pink-haired woman stared, stunned.
"…Okay," she said faintly. "That's new."
Her gaze snapped up as two robed figures forced their way through the chaos, movements precise despite the squirrels clinging, darting, and refusing to respect personal space.
Her face drained of color.
"Oh," she whispered. "That's very bad."
She turned and bolted—straight into me.
The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. She grabbed my sleeve, eyes darting wildly as the Wizards fought to regain composure amid the fur and shrieking.
"Please," she hissed, words tumbling over each other. "They can't take me. I can't let them. I don't care where—we just need somewhere now."
Imoen took in the scene in a heartbeat—the Wizards distracted, the squirrels multiplying chaos, the crowd pressed tight.
"This way," she said sharply.
She yanked open the door of a nearby shop just as its owner ducked behind the counter, panic winning out over propriety. We slipped inside, the door slamming shut behind us as a squirrel ricocheted off the window with a muffled thump.
Inside, the pink-haired woman sagged against a shelf, breathing hard, hands trembling.
"Thank you," she said. "I—thank you."
"Stay," Imoen said. "Do not move."
She nodded frantically, then added, breathless, "I'm Neera. I—this isn't usually how I make first impressions."
I stepped back outside.
The street was still in disarray. One Wizard was trying to shake a squirrel loose without tearing his own robe. Another was issuing clipped orders while batting at a second that refused to dislodge.
I raised my voice before they could regroup.
"She ran east," I said sharply, pointing down a side street away from the inn. "Nearly knocked over a cart and kept yelling about never trusting cows."
One Wizard stopped.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned toward me. His eyes narrowed—not confused, not flustered, but assessing. Calculating. The chaos seemed to slide off him as he took a single step closer.
"You are certain," he said, softly enough that it felt meant only for me, "that this is the truth."
For a heartbeat, the street held its breath.
A squirrel chose that moment to launch itself from his shoulder to the top of his head, claws scrabbling as it squealed triumphantly.
"…Search the alley," he snapped. "Now."
They moved at once, boots pounding in the wrong direction as the last of the squirrels scattered after them like malicious punctuation.
I waited a breath longer.
Then I slipped back inside.
The shop was quiet in the way places get when they're pretending nothing happened.
Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, some knocked askew where someone had ducked beneath them. Ceramic jars lay scattered across a worktable, lids askew, the sharp, bitter smell of crushed leaves lingering in the air. The shopkeeper rose slowly from behind the table, eyes flicking between us and the door like he expected it to burst open again at any second.
"No," he said flatly. "Absolutely not."
Imoen turned. "We're just—"
"No," he repeated, straighter now, voice tight. "I don't care who you are or what you're running from. I sell herbs and simple remedies. Trouble follows magic, and I won't have it linger here." He jerked his chin toward the door. "Out. Now. Before the Flaming Fist decides to ask why my shop smells like scorched stone."
Neera straightened immediately. "Right. Yes. Completely fair. My fault." She winced. "Very much my fault."
She turned to me before I could respond and—without warning—threw her arms around me.
It was sudden, tight, and earnest enough to knock the words clean out of my head. Her grip was warm, trembling slightly, and for a brief, disorienting moment my cheek brushed against the edge of her ear—just pointed enough to notice.
"Thank you," she said into my shoulder. "Seriously. You didn't have to do that."
Imoen stepped forward at once, planting herself neatly between us and easing Neera back by the shoulders. Not rough. Just decisive.
"Team effort," she said. "You don't get to credit-steal."
Neera blinked, then laughed softly. "Right. Yes. Of course. Team." She glanced between us, something unreadable flickering across her expression before she nodded. "Still—thank you. Both of you."
She took a breath, steadying herself.
"I'm sorry about the… mess," she added. "My magic doesn't always behave. Sometimes it does exactly what I want. Sometimes it—" She paused, then huffed a quiet laugh of disbelief. "Okay, no. This was the first time it's ever done that." A helpless shrug. "Wild surge. Comes with the territory."
Imoen folded her arms. "You don't say."
Neera smiled sheepishly. "I really do owe you. I—can't explain much right now. About them." Her gaze flicked briefly toward the door, then away. "But if we run into each other again? Drinks are on me. First round. Maybe second. Assuming nothing explodes."
The shopkeeper cleared his throat loudly.
"Yes," Neera said quickly. "Right. Leaving."
She backed toward the door, hand already on the latch. "Really—thank you. For believing me."
Then she was gone, slipping back into the street and the noise of Beregost as if she'd never been there at all.
The door shut behind her.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Imoen exhaled slowly and rubbed the back of her neck. "Well," she said. "That was… something."
I nodded.
She waited a beat longer, then added, more carefully, "I'm not mad."
That got my attention.
"Just—surprised," she continued. "Out there."
"I didn't have time," I said.
"That's what I mean," Imoen replied. She traced a finger through a thin layer of herb dust on the table, not really seeing it. "You didn't freeze. You didn't look to anyone else. You just stepped in. Lied to those men outside. Took control."
It didn't sound like an accusation.
It sounded like recognition.
"Good," she said after a moment. "Because I was starting to worry you were getting used to it."
Silence settled between us—not awkward, but weighted.
After a moment, Imoen straightened and gave a small, crooked smile. "For what it's worth," she added, "you did good. Both of you." A pause. "Just… maybe next time, don't let someone hug you so hard they steal your balance."
I raised an eyebrow. "Jealous?"
She scoffed. "Please. If I were jealous, you'd know."
Then she bumped my shoulder with hers—light, familiar, grounding.
"Come on," she said. "Let's find the others before something else decides to explode."
As we headed for the door, I glanced back once at the scattered jars and crushed herbs.
The street outside sounded normal again.
But Imoen stayed just a little closer to me than she had before.
One of Beregost's wider roads carried us past the smaller buildings—workshops, storehouses, places that existed to be useful rather than impressive. The trees were already behind us now, replaced by squat structures and uneven fences that looked assembled rather than planned. Smoke curled from chimneys without apology, thick enough to suggest no one expected complaints.
Imoen walked at my side, our strides naturally matched. Her attention drifted as it always did—taking in movement, angles, opportunity—while I let the town orient itself around us.
That was when I noticed her.
She was short—even for a halfling—but not halfling-short. Compact, dense, built like someone who had learned early how to live efficiently in a world that rarely bothered to meet her at eye level. A gnome, I realized, watching her stretch on tiptoe as she pressed a scrap of parchment against the wall of a nearby building.
She muttered to herself as she worked, hammer tapping wood with more insistence than precision. The paper fluttered, threatened to tear free, then finally held.
She stepped back, hands on her hips, studying the result with the posture of someone who hoped—very carefully—that this time it would be enough.
Pinned crookedly to the wall was a notice.
Not official. No seal, no flourish. Just ink pressed deep into the parchment, as if the writer had leaned hard into every letter.
The number stood out first.
Seventy-five gold.
Below it, the work itself—large spiders. Three of them. The kind that left bodies behind if things went well, and fewer questions if they didn't. There was a mention of proof. A location. Practical details meant to keep hope from being mistaken for generosity.
Additional lines followed, smaller, more deliberate. A pair of boots. A bottle of wine. Things that didn't justify their own reward but mattered enough to be included anyway.
I read it once. Then again.
Imoen slowed just enough to glance at it with me before we moved on.
The gnome watched us from the edge of her vision, careful not to stare. She gathered her hammer and the remaining notices, tucking them under one arm, and moved down the street to the next empty stretch of wall. There was no flourish to her departure—just persistence carried forward, light but unyielding.
I thought of all the notices I'd passed without stopping. Requests pinned up in public, waiting to be acknowledged by someone with the time, the means, or the inclination to care.
Ahead of us, laughter spilled from the open doors of the Feldepost's Inn, warm and unconcerned, as though nothing in the world had ever needed killing to be made right.
We kept walking.