"I mean that as a compliment."
We finish the stew together, talking about nothing important. What herbs to add. Whether the vegetables are soft enough. She passes the salt before I ask for it. I adjust the heat without being told.
Kestria sets her bowl down. "So we're doing this."
"Tomorrow. Early. Before anyone can argue about it."
"Market first?"
"Market first. Then the moonbright field. Then back before dark if we move fast."
"With chickens."
"With chickens. And a rooster. And possibly a goat."
"Possibly."
"Probably. Almost definitely." I ladle stew into bowls. "You should rest. Your wound—"
"Is fine. I've been resting for days."
"You took a poisoned blade to the side."
"I didn't die. I'm here. I'm helping." She takes her bowl and settles beside the fire. "Tell me about the market. What's it like?"
I tell her. Small trading post, barely a village. The woman who sells chickens always haggles but her prices are fair if you know what you're doing, which I do—years of practice. The route, how long it'll take, what we'll need.
The food is warm and the fire is bright and Kestria is here, alive and healing, asking whether roosters are actually necessary or just ornamental.
I don't sleep well. Coin math and goat prices and the faces of children I haven't lost yet, all tangling together until I give up and pack in the dark.
Morning comes too fast, and I'm awake before dawn loading supplies into the cart I spotted behind one of the storage structures—wheels rusted but functional, bed solidenough. Rope—check. Water—check. Coin from my dwindling reserves, enough for chickens definitely, rooster probably, goat maybe if I haggle well and the chicken woman isn't in one of her moods. Prices always go up. Baskets for the moonbright, multiple sizes—need at least three because the petals bruise if you stack too deep. Extra cloth. Bandages—always bandages. Knife. Where's my—pocket. Good.
Nugget watches me from her corner, pink and judgmental.
"You're staying here."
She clucks.
"I mean it. You'll attack someone at the market and I'll get banned and then where will we be?"
More clucking. Aggressive. I point at her.
Nugget clucks once more, final word, and goes back to pecking the corner.
Kestria appears at my dwelling's entrance, dressed for travel, color good despite the early hour. Moving easier than yesterday—no hitch in her step, no guarding of her side.
"Ready?"
"Almost." I stuff the last basket into the cart and step back. "Food. Water. Coin. Rope. Baskets. I'm forgetting something."
"Knife?"
"Have it." I pat my pocket. "Something else."
"Bandages?"
"Have those. But there's—what am I forgetting?" I count on my fingers. "Two people, full day of walking, possibly longer if we dawdle at the market—I always dawdle at the market—plus water for chickens in transit because dehydrated chickens don't travel well—"
