"Is this even legal?" I snap, toeing some dark lump in the hall.
Miriam gives me a blank look, then starts patting the scarred walls with both palms. There's a light-artifact hidden here somewhere—she's hunting it by feel.
We've been inside all of five minutes, and I already know: this place needs rebuilding, recharging—or, better yet, abandoning.
"Don't worry. I'll find the artifacts—bedroom first, then the kitchen," Miriam says, sneezing through the dust, hands whispering over plaster.
I'm skeptical, but I won't crush her spirit. Sell the shack, grab Miriam, buy a tiny place in the capital with the proceeds.
Stop it. No spirals, Lili. You'll cope. When she starts feeling along a third wall, I step outside.
Darkness. The deep kind. The capital's far from the mountain giants; less snow here, warmer too.
I pull my bags from the mobile, telling myself not to load the only person still standing with me. I'm mid-thought—two mouths to feed if I split from the dragon—when a white flare ignites to my right.
Cold light floods everything. That's a mansion, I think, staring at the source.
Then darkness again. But now I know: neighbors to the right—a massive two-story with wide windows running the perimeter.
Miriam bolts out."Madam! Are you all right? That light nearly blinded me." She's honestly shaken.
"Do you know who lives next door?" I ask, because of course I do.
"N-no. But I hope—no one," she says, odd and evasive, and disappears back inside.
Right. She's from this world, but she's a migrant on dragon land. Came to Asgarn six months ago chasing a better life. I never pried into her past, but the carefully hidden scars on her arms do the talking.
"Inside!" she yells from the doorway. "Found a few amulets. Not brimming with charge, but enough for tonight."
I shake my head and go in. I don't want this. I won't live off someone else's scraps. I'd be ashamed to offer a wreck like this as severance.
I wake the light amulets—and huff. Figures. So much work it'd be smarter to sell the plot and run. I level a look at Miriam's soft, busy hands as she tests kitchen tools lacquered with ancient grease and hoists a wooden bench that's seen better centuries.
"Light—check. Next mission: find the heat amulet so we can make two rooms livable," I tell myself like a coach at halftime.
We're in a squat wooden cottage that, by some clerical error, sprouted a second floor. The stairs complain all the way up to a bedroom with a single round window—pure hobbit, from my favorite movie. The place has been empty forever; the house too. A big bed sulks in the center like an abandoned lover. Fitting.
Gray sheets, a moth-chewed blanket, the whole sad tableau. How exactly does Inar imagine visiting this place? Or did he not even look at what he "gifted" me?
New thought, new burn. I dig into my messenger-bag—Earth relic, mail-carrier chic. Dragon ladies wouldn't touch it, but I was never nobility. It holds everything that fell through worlds with me.
I unroll the deed and squint. Apparently I own a property called the Yellow Rooster. Of course that's its name. I can do whatever I want with it—except sell. Any money matters tied to the house or the surrounding lands (yes, lands) must be discussed with the Dragon Minister, Inar DelVer.
Heat flashes up my spine; the scroll almost goes up with it. He can't even manage a clean gift—always a loophole. Snake. Or he's betting I'll crack and crawl back. Why bother? He's the one who shipped me off.
And I didn't weep. I left head high. That's why he bristled when I walked out with a few things and no goodbye—he wanted me to beg. To stay. Oh, no. I'd rather this roof cave in.
"Miriam! Rags—let's make her shine!" I rally, voice all brass.
"No shine. I'll handle it," she says, spooked more than inspired.
"Don't fret. This time, we win." I smile and raid the cupboard under the stairs for rags, a mop—anything with bristles.
It's very hobbit-house, minus the cozy: narrow rooms, humble furniture, ceilings you can touch. Lucky for us; dragons would have to fold themselves in half. Giants, the lot of them.
"To war!" I cry, general of the mop brigade, and march on the kitchen.
Yes, I'm playing brave. What's the alternative? I'm a foster-home kid who made it to eighteen. I pulled a child out of the street and took the car hit myself.
Then Asgarn. Then a man I thought was wonderful. I loved him. I believed I finally mattered. Turns out I didn't. A year later, tossed like a grown kitten. Abandoned again. But I belong to me—and that ends here.
Anger and grief fizz together while I scrub—floors, walls, windows, anything that'll hold still.
"I'll make him pay," I tell the bucket. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But I will." And I plunge my aching hands into the cold, dirty water.