The days held their cold. The Dragon’s trail held it deeper, frozen in memory as much as underfoot. About a week had passed since Tyrus had committed his sin against me, and the bitter echo of it still resonated deep in my bones.

  “We just need a little more coin. Then we can book passage on an Evokian ship to the Walls. This is the last run.”

  I did not need to convince her. Jenny carried the barrels without protest, as she always did. No matter the weight, she kept her steady rhythm, hoof after hoof, like some quiet testament to persistence.

  “They charge more for you because of your size. If they did not, I would have enough for myself.”

  Her ears flicked once, dismissive. I imagined her thinking nothing of it, and that suited me. The world had made a fool of me before. I would not make the same mistake again.

  The barrels knocked softly against the saddle and sloshed with each step. I had tasted the wine before we left. Not my best work. Not even close! Still, it would have to pass. Coin was often purchased at the price of compromise.

  “When we reach Evokia and find that Terra, I will capture her! Then I will make that bastard chase ME through the cold of this rotten place!” The wind found every hollow beneath my coat, biting my ribs. “Maybe I will even make her my wife.”

  Jenny’s gaze stayed forward. Steady and unwavering.

  I let the words linger, bitter and harsh. “I suppose…I am being petty. BUT! HE stole the Red Dragon from me!”

  A short, sharp exhale from her nostrils answered me, faint against the frost.

  “That might be true… But! Why did he abandon ME!? I thought…WE were doing this together…!” The road thudded beneath us, empty and indifferent.

  “You always take his side.”

  The words hung. And in the echo of the trail, I felt the old calculation stirring. The path ahead would not forgive hesitation. I had learned that before.

  After that, only the wind kept us company. I let the silence sit between us, stiff and deliberate. If Jenny noticed the change in my mood, she did not show it.

  Truthfully, she may have welcomed the quiet.

  We reached the port town of Carum by late afternoon.

  I had been told Evokian soldiers were stationed there. In my experience, tired soldiers cared less about refinement and more about effect. Sour wine still warmed a belly.

  The town was hushed when we arrived. The cold pressed everything inward. Along the coast, the sea had stiffened into sheets of dull ice. Ships stood trapped at their moorings, hulls locked in place, ropes drawn tight as wire. No sway. No creak. Even the gulls had abandoned their posts.

  “Even the Evokians are hiding inside. What kind of fools are we to be out here in this?”

  Jenny’s ears twitched, but she kept her steady pace.

  “Well. I am glad one of us is unbothered.”

  I tied her to a post outside the pub and brushed a hand along her neck before stepping in.

  The room carried the smell of smoke and old ale. Only a handful of locals lingered near the hearth. No uniforms. No polished boots. No Evokian guard.

  “Afternoon, sir. I was told the Evokian navy had a post somewhere in town.”

  The man behind the bar looked up. He was older, his beard thick and carefully kept, the sort of beard a younger man imagines will grant him authority if he can grow it.

  “You have not heard. They are gone.”

  The words settled wrong.

  “All gone.”

  He wiped a mug with slow attention. “Some trouble down in the jungle.”

  Just my luck.

  I moved closer to the counter, mind already turning.

  I can salvage this.

  “Well, friend, I have a few jugs of wine outside. Perhaps we could discuss a bit of business.”

  I lowered myself onto one of the stools and understood at once why the others had avoided the bar. The wood bit through my coat with the cold.

  “Wine. What kind of wine?”

  “The good kind.” I uncapped the small canister from inside my coat and pushed it across the counter. He leaned forward and drew in the scent.

  “You made this.” Interest sharpened his gaze.

  “Yes, sir! A Kesh brew, I’ll have you know!”

  He inhaled again, slower this time. “Smells cheap! Forest herbs? And…Moonshade oi!?” He was not wrong.

  “It is a guarded recipe.” I lied.

  He lifted the canister again, breathing it in deeper, slower. “Smells like moonshade oil to me! That is not wine, boy. That is poison!” He pushed it back across the counter.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “It’s not poison. And it’s not moonshade oil. Sir, it is earthy!” I tipped the canister to my lips, tasting it deliberately. “Herbal!” Another swallow, longer this time. The burn worked down with more honesty than I liked. I forced a final gulp and met his eyes. “There’s no poison in it!” I offered it again, letting the tilt of the canister linger like a question.

  His eyes stayed locked on mine, calculating. “I am allergic to moonshade oil. If you are lying, boy, then may they hang you for murder!” A low chuckle left him, and he lifted it toward his mouth.

  Just my rotten luck. A flicker crossed my mind. If he tipped his hand too far, if he misjudged the burn, it could gravely cost him. I closed my fingers around the canister before it could tip, pulling it back an inch from his lips. But I let some of the wine slide. Only a little close to the edge.

  “What is this supposed to mean?”

  “I am trying to make coin, not bury you…”

  He moved faster than I expected, fingers snapping around the metal and reclaiming it. The canister tipped. He swallowed a heavy gulp. His face twisted as though he had bitten into bark.

  “THIS IS FOUL!” He wiped his tongue with the same rag he had been using on the counter.

  “I THOUGHT YOU WERE ALLERGIC TO MOONSHADE!” I slid from the stool, boots thudding against the floorboards.

  “You think you are the first fool to water down moonshade and call it wine?” He set the canister down with a dull knock. “If the guards were still here, I would have you fined before sunset!”

  I let him linger in uncertainty. Not enough to provoke, just enough to remind him I wasn’t finished pressing for coin. I had learned these games well. Profit came to those who watched, who waited, who knew when to push.

  He pushed it back toward me.

  I took another sip, slower this time. It nearly persuaded me he was right.

  “I will tell you what, kid.” His gaze drifted toward the window. “I will give you a few coins for that donkey out front. Fair price.”

  “Jenny? My Jenny?” My fingers tightened around the canister. “Sir, I could not sell her. She means more to me than coin ever could.”

  That was true. And yet, for a fraction of a moment, I imagined the numbers stacking. A bed. Passage. Warmth. Coin could solve the practical problem. Tyrus would have used brute force the moment he smelled the need; Master Omni would have calculated the leverage and would never flinched. I, for once, paused.

  “Well. That is a shame.” He did not sound disappointed.

  But I did not leave.

  “What would someone pay for such a sturdy and loyal beast?” He squinted through the frost at Jenny, who stood with her head low and patient. “Six gold.”

  “Six.” I let out a quiet breath. “For a donkey that can haul twice her weight and never balk at ice?”

  He scratched at his beard. “Seven, then.”

  “She carried wine across three frozen provinces.” I folded my arms. “Eight would be an insult.”

  A slow look slid back to me. “You are not selling.”

  “No.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “Curiosity.”

  A grunt from the old man. “Eight gold. Final offer.”

  I shook my head once and stepped back from the counter. “Have a good day, sir.”

  “Hold on now.” His gaze caught the silver at my throat. “That scarf.”

  My hand rose instinctively to the fox fur wrapped at my neck. I eased it free and laid it out between us.“This thing?”

  He lifted it, running his fingers along the pelt, testing the underfur. “My wife would like this.”

  “Three gold.” I initiated.

  A sharp breath left him. “Three? For something you trapped yourself.”

  “One gold would not even buy the fox.”

  “Ten copper.”

  I let the silence stretch, and for a moment I calculated: what I could give, what I could take. If I pushed just a little, he might loosen a coin more that I could use. Survival was quiet work.

  “One gold,” the old man persisted.

  The scarf paused mid-fold.

  “One gold and seven copper.” I countered.

  “Make it three copper.” The old man was bending.

  “One gold and five.” I tested my luck.

  He held my gaze, measuring how much hunger sat behind my eyes. I matched it. Practical. Cold. Calculated.

  “Deal! One gold. Five copper.”

  I considered the room, the empty stools, the cold pressing at the windows. If I could not secure a ship, I could at least secure a bed.

  “Good. Done deal.” Our hands met over the counter, firm and brief. He disappeared into the back and returned with the coins, counting them out one by one.

  As I gathered them, the question surfaced.

  “You would not happen to have seen a young man with ruby eyes and long yellow hair?”

  He did not answer at first.

  “Carries a large red sword?”

  His chin dipped once.

  My chest tightened. “Was he here?”

  “We do not get many strangers around these parts.” He pushed the last copper toward me. “Not in this weather. Especially not with the army gone.”

  “Gone, you say?”

  “With the Great General Dresdi dead.” He wiped his hands on the rag again. “Things are unsettled everywhere.”

  Unsettled was an understatement.

  “Thank you, sir.” I left the fox on the counter and stepped back into the cold.

  Jenny lifted her head when I returned. I told her the news: no soldiers around, no ship available, and no easy way to make coin. She blinked once and shifted her weight, as if I had only remarked on the weather.

  “You know I would never sell you!”

  The lie rested lightly on my tongue, but I felt the faint tickle of calculation still lingering. Warmth, passage, survival, all practicalities. None of it mattered yet. None of it would matter if I had to make the choice.

  I stroked her neck before climbing onto her back.

  “Let us find somewhere warm. My treat this time. You can repay me later.”

  We moved through the narrow streets of Carum. Frost clung to the shutters. Lamps burned low behind thick glass. The town had the look of a place waiting for something that refused to arrive.

  There was little to see. A frozen harbor. Locked hulls. Ropes drawn tight. I imagined Tyrus had passed through, taken one look at the ice, and kept moving. He was never one to linger where nothing stirred.

  Night settled without ceremony.

  A small fire beyond the last row of buildings. A crust of bread. The wind worrying at the edges of my coat. Jenny cropped at a patch of stubborn grass beneath the snow. It was familiar work. Distance. Rough roads. Sleeping where you could. I had known worse.

  But the silence was new.

  For all Jenny’s steadiness, she could not replace the crude back-and-forth with Tyrus. The arguments that spiraled into laughter, the careless way he would throw a punch my way to see if I flinched. Or Master Omni, standing in the firelight, long lectures curling into the night, voice threading through the dark to remind me I was not alone. A fragment of their faces flickered in my mind, and I shoved it away. Not now. Not here.

  No prayers. No debates. No voices cutting through the cold. Only wind. Only breath. Only the soft scrape of snow against wood.

  I stared into the fire and thought of Tyrus, somewhere beyond this frost, untroubled by absence. Would the Gods grant him this same quiet? Would they let it press in, pressing him as it pressed me? I did not care for mercy, but the thought lingered, sharp as ice.

  “It is just us now, Jenny.”

  She shifted closer to the warmth, solid, certain. Her body pressed against mine, indifferent to the memories that clawed at me. She would be there in the morning. For now, that would have to be enough.