Marron woke to the sound of goats bleating and children laughing outside.
For a moment, she didn't remember where she was. Then it came back: the village, the mediocre stew, the exhausting day of cooking without magic. And—more importantly—the kindness of the inn's owner, who'd offered them the small guest hut behind the main building at a reduced rate because "anyone who feeds travelers deserves rest themselves."
She sat up on the thin mattress and stretched, feeling yesterday's labor in her shoulders and back. Beside her, Mokko was still snoring softly, his arm flung over his face to block the morning light.
Marron pulled on her boots and stepped outside.
The guest hut was simple—four walls, two beds, a small table, and a window that looked out on the village square. But it was clean and dry and blessedly free of rocks digging into her spine. Real shelter. The kind that came from community rather than coin.
