The western road stretched beneath a bruised sky, lined with crooked pines and the scent of wet soil. The fires of Solvane were far behind now — only a faint orange glow on the horizon, like the last ember of a dying storm.
Ryn trudged ahead, hands in his cloak pockets, boots squelching in the mud.
Beside him, Princess Lysandra rode quietly on a borrowed mule, her torn gown fluttering in the wind like shredded moonlight.
The two looked like a mismatched pair of travelers — one a royal exile, the other a hooded thief with half his face hidden by a black mask that had definitely seen better days.
For once, the world was quiet.
No dragons. No flames. No shouting nobles. Just wind, mud, and the occasional frog that leapt across the road like it owned the place.
Ryn stretched his arms and sighed. "Ahh, peaceful silence. I'd almost forgotten what it's like not to be on fire."
Lysandra gave him a look. "That silence would be more peaceful if you didn't keep talking."
He grinned beneath his mask. "If I stop talking, my brain starts thinking. And that's dangerous for everyone."
She rolled her eyes, though a faint smile betrayed her amusement.
They walked on until the sun dipped behind the trees. Ahead, a small village appeared — smoke curling from chimneys, lights flickering like warm fireflies. A wooden sign read:
"Slumber at West — Honest Folks, Honest Ale."
Ryn tilted his head. "Honest folks, huh? Guess I'll have to lower the average."
Lysandra ignored him, sliding off the mule with a quiet groan. The hem of her gown caught on a branch, tearing again. She looked down and sighed. "Wonderful. Royal attire reduced to rag cloth."
Ryn glanced at her, then at the ruined dress. "Yeah… you're one good breeze away from accidental scandal."
She glared. "You could phrase that differently."
"I could," he said cheerfully, "but I won't."
They entered the village square. Lanterns hung between wooden stalls, the air thick with the smell of bread and roasted nuts. Children darted past, laughing. Merchants shouted over each other.
Lysandra pulled her hood low, trying to hide the shimmer of her hair. "If we're heading to my homeland, we'll need supplies. Food, clothes, horses—"
Ryn stopped mid-step. "Clothes. Right."
He eyed a nearby clothing shop across the street, its window displaying dresses, coats, and cloaks finer than anything this dusty town should afford.
"Yeah, that'll do."
Lysandra followed his gaze, then looked at him skeptically. "You have money for that?"
"Of course!" Ryn said confidently.
Then he checked his pockets.
And pulled out a single copper coin.
It glinted sadly in the lamplight.
He coughed. "...I mean, I could have money for that."
Lysandra crossed her arms. "You don't."
He sighed dramatically. "Ah, your royal highness wounds me. Have a little faith."
"In what? Your poverty?"
Ryn gasped. "Wow. Harsh but accurate."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a mischievous whisper. "All right, stay here. The Ice Fox is about to work his magic."
Before she could protest, he was gone — slipping into the crowd like a shadow with confidence and zero morals.
The village square was bustling. Farmers, traders, travelers — all too busy haggling or gossiping to notice a gloved hand brush past their belts.
Ryn's fingers moved like smoke. A coin pouch vanished here, a ring disappeared there. He spun between stalls, his mask hiding the grin spreading beneath it.
"Easy money," he murmured. "People really should hold onto their wallets tighter. It's practically an invitation."
A vendor shouted behind him, waving a ladle. "Hey! Someone dropped their coin bag!"
Ryn turned. Sure enough, a small pouch lay in the dirt. Coins glimmered inside. The crowd turned toward it, eyes widening.
"Oh no," Ryn said quietly. "Temptation time."
He bent down, scooped up a handful of coins, and — with theatrical flair — tossed them high into the air.
Silver and bronze scattered across the square like rain.
Instant chaos.
People dove for them, shouting, grabbing, scrambling. Even the guards dropped their spears to snatch a few.
Ryn whistled appreciatively. "Never fails."
While the crowd wrestled for their sudden fortune, he slipped between them like a ghost, cutting coin strings, swapping purses, and pocketing enough gold to buy not just a dress — but the entire shop.
Five minutes later, he strolled back to where Lysandra stood, carrying a small mountain of jingling pouches.
Her eyes widened. "You didn't."
"I absolutely did," he said proudly.
"You stole from all of them!"
He shrugged. "They started it. They were greedy. I just encouraged community sharing."
"That's not sharing!"
"Sure it is. They shared the distraction; I shared the profit."
Before she could scold him further, he grabbed her hand. "Come on, before they realize the math doesn't add up."
They darted down the street, weaving between alleyways until they reached the far end of the village — where the lanternlight dimmed, and the night smelled faintly of river mist and freshly washed cloth.
There it was: a small, cozy clothing shop with a painted sign that read "Silken Thread & Sons."
Inside, mannequins in gowns stood frozen mid-twirl, and rows of cloaks hung neatly on carved racks. The window shimmered with candlelight, and a bell chimed softly as they approached the door.
Ryn stopped at the entrance, breathing hard, his cloak rustling. "All right, princess. Step one of operation 'Not Look Like You Fell Through a Fireplace' begins now."
Lysandra eyed him, unimpressed. "You stole half the village's money for this?"
"Correction," he said, wagging a finger. "I borrowed it indefinitely for a noble cause. Specifically — preventing you from freezing or being arrested for royal indecency."
She sighed, though her lips twitched. "You're impossible."
"Thanks," he said brightly. "It's my charm."
He reached for the door handle, glancing over his shoulder at the bustling square far behind them — the faint sound of townsfolk still arguing over their scattered coins.
"See?" he said. "Smooth, subtle, and absolutely moral if you squint."
Lysandra folded her arms. "You do realize you're wanted across three empires, right?"
"Four," Ryn corrected. "But who's counting?"
He pulled the door open. A warm rush of fabric-scented air drifted out, and the little bell above the frame chimed gently.
"After you, your royal fashion emergency."
Lysandra shot him a glare that didn't quite hide her smile and stepped inside.
Ryn followed, brushing the snow from his cloak, the faint jingle of stolen coins echoing like mischief itself.
Behind them, the chaos of the market faded into quiet.
Before them — shelves of silk, ribbons of color, and a tailor who would soon wonder how two "travelers" could afford royal fabric.
Ryn grinned beneath his mask.
The Ice Fox had work to do.