River steps into the clearing like a ghost crawled in from last night’s fire. Limp’s better, but her shoulders are wound tight. She’s wrapped in one of my blankets, hair tangled, blood crusted on one cheek. But her eyes—damn if those things ain’t fire and fog, burnin’ and unreadable.
“You makin’ food or boiling corpses?” she asks, voice sandpapered from sleep.
“Bit’a both,” Veeto mutters.
I hand her a slab of root-bacon and a wooden cup of brewed herb tonic. “Try not to bite the cup.”
She stares at it like it might bite back, but takes it anyway. “Thanks.”
Small word. Bigger impact than it should have.
We eat in silence. She picks apart the bacon with careful fingers, eyes always darting around like she’s tracking exits. I don’t blame her. Place like this—it ain’t exactly built for comfort. But it’s mine.
“You wanna see where I live?” I ask after a beat.
River squints. “This isn’t it?”
“Nah. This is just breakfast pit. Come on.”
She hesitates. Then nods, slow.
I lead her under the bridge—through the arch carved from mossy stone, past the distillery barrels and into the shaded heart of my home.
It ain’t much to outsiders. But to me? It’s a palace.
The floors are worn smooth from centuries of footsteps—mine and older still. Stone walls are chiseled with old troll glyphs, layered like veins. Shelves carved right into the rock are lined with jars of herbs, bottles of moonshine, bones carved into tools and art alike. A hearth blazes on one side, crackling warmly, lighting up the deep recesses where my bedroll lies piled high with pelts and furs. The ceiling’s high, the arch perfect. The whole place smells like peat smoke and pine, with a trace of metal—iron ore and stone sweat.
River steps inside, her mouth slightly open.
“It’s…” she starts, then stops.
“Ugly?” I offer.
She shakes her head. “No. It’s… raw. Real. Like someone lives here and means it.”
I grin. “I do mean it.”
She runs her fingers along one carved beam, pausing over a spiral etched with runes. “What’s this one mean?”
“Home,” I say.
She nods. Just once. Then lowers herself to sit by the hearth, wincing as she does.
“You’re not scared,” I note.
River looks up at me, eyes sharp. “I’m always scared. But I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
Fair enough.
I sit opposite her, stretching out my legs. Fire crackles between us. I watch the light catch in her hair, in the tight corners of her eyes. Veeto lingers at the entrance, watching us like he’s waiting for something to snap.
But nothing does.
For once, nothing breaks.
Toad Knight explodesfrom a clump of moss like someone set his ass on fire. Sword raised, foam flecking at his froggy jowls. “She’s a spy, Kragna! I smelled subterfuge in her sweat!”
I don’t bother looking up from the stew pot. “You smelled your own swamp-ass again, didn’t you?”
