Morning detonates. I wouldn't have moved if the racket downstairs—and Miriam's voice—hadn't yanked me out of bed.
Boom. Boom. Bang. Confident knocking turns demolition. I'm pretty sure the front door dies a valiant death.
After last night's patented routine—Rag Between Teeth: Go Mode—even my hair follicles hurt. I don't want to budge. I'm wrung out, but in a good way; the scrubbing scoured my thoughts clean.
We quit at dawn. While tucking sheets, I tried to craft a punishment so elegant even Inar would applaud. Alas—muse on leave. Revenge postponed.
The second the door gives, chaos takes the stage. One heartbeat of silence—then a man's voice:
"My gracious ap-pologies, al-though…" On although, I can just see the drunk hand-wave. "Ma—madam—mademois—uh—how do they style you—"
From upstairs I hear Miriam's wounded huffing. My sweet bun is not amused.
Who storms a house at daybreak? Irrelevant. No one bullies my Miriam. Yes, she's soft around the edges and past thirty—but she's kind to the bone.
I'm grateful for her, salary or not. And clearly, despite his best efforts, the dragon never molded me into a lady. I got attached to my maid—scandalous, by his standards.
I pop up—my feet complain. Familiar reporter's ache: the "working callus." I wrestle into the least-terrible clean outfit. Truth? My "wardrobe" is a tragedy.
"You! You!" Miriam bursts—offense with a righteous afterbite.
Coming, love. All right, sir, let's dance.
"…"
"Who are you?" I plant my hands on my hips and hold the stair like a battlement.
Thank the stars I'm on time; one more sentence and Miriam might've had him discreetly interred behind the shed.
"I told you—I'm the n-neighbor… d-down below," he slurs. That tongue? Mortal enemy of good fences and good neighbors.
"I see you. Now how about you get off my floor and stop using my front door as a wind tunnel? It's freezing, and we're not an artificer's stall," I tell the stranger.
Hard to snap on principle at a man like this—even tipsy. He's massive, door-toppling massive. The second thing I clock: eyes—steel gray, slit pupil, watching me with a tired kind of sorrow.
Dragon? Not quite. Likely a half-blood. The capital sniffs at their kind; they build their own mansions near the fun instead. Short-cropped hair—not a purebred's style. The rest is a mess: beard, rumpled clothes, and the reek of a long drunk.
"So. What do you want, sir?"
I'm done with outworld men—pure trouble. I stop admiring the architecture of his shoulders.
"Miriam, you can go. We'll need more artifacts. Make sure there's enough charge for tea at least."
Braced on the jamb, he pushes to his feet in one clean lift and watches me come down the narrow hall.
"But—ma—Lili," Miriam sputters. "He killed our door. Are we meant to live like a stable now?"
"I can fix it," the uninvited neighbor says.
"I'll pass." I flick a hand. "State your business, or did you come to bless us with your hangover breath?" A shiver skates my spine. It really is cold.
The artifacts are nearly spent, and he just… stands there, swaying, staring like I'm a miracle. I'm two seconds from saying boo.
"What's a lady like you doing in this dead end?" A faint color softens his sharp cheekbones, shaving years off. He ignores my barbs—maybe shame finally found him.
"She lives here. See?" I fling my hands wide and gesture at the cramped room.
In a blink, he changes. A cough, a straight spine, a quick tug at the hem of a thin wool sweater—and the drunk is gone.
He's barefoot. Not cold? Maybe he's so pickled he could summit barefoot. A new ping in my gut: soldier. The thought isn't fully shaped, but my instincts nod.
"Apologies for the hour and the damage," he says, voice low and steady. "I didn't mean to disturb you. Someone will come fix the door."
With one hand he hefts the fallen slab and leans it against the wall; with the other he rakes his hair into order. A short bow—and he's out.
The whole wordless theater makes me want to laugh. Oh? So that's how it works? What charm did I throw to sober a man and send him packing?
"This is improper!" Miriam sniffs, near tears, setting a kettle on. It looks like an induction model from home—only this one won't run without an artifact. "Breaking into a maiden's house—human, no less—and behaving so. Now there'll be talk. How do we shake it?"
"What talk?" I ask. "Miriam, honestly."
"What talk?! If your patron, Lord Dragon Inar DelVer, were the only caller—none. But like this—"
"Don't," I cut in. I don't need a sermon.
It hurts. Like yesterday belonged to another girl. Why say his name? Did she forget we were tossed out?
"Miriam, do you regret getting stuck in this hole with me? Do you want to go back to the master's manor? Say it—I'll understand."
"What? No!" She blurts it fast. "Where you go, I go. It's just…"
I nod and head upstairs. I need real clothes for this weather—not rags. And a free way to fix a door? Haven't cracked that spell yet…
The decision's made for me by the stomp of boots below. I come down—and a squad of short, bearded tanks pours into my foyer.
No way. Dwarves. Actual dwarves. For once, Inar didn't lie. They shift from foot to foot on my threshold, all beard and bulk. I wouldn't have cheered this hard for elves—dwarves are practically cousins to my beloved hobbits. I'm absurdly happy. Also: what are they doing here? I can't afford dwarven rates.
"Gentlemen?" I school my face and try on the lady-of-the-house voice.
"Gentlemen your granny, you sack of bones!"
Plot twist. My hobbits are heroes—these guys are alley goblins with a vitamin deficiency.
"Step aside—too late to repair you," one grunts, giving my backside a scandalous shove.
"Hey, kid, watch the hands—this auntie bites," I snap, mostly on principle. Curiosity beats primness.
Five dwarves fan out, muttering into their beards. The one who seems in charge starts scribbling on a sheet.
"Is that an estimate?" I ask over their shoulders.
They look at me like I'm slow and keep working. If they were ordinary men, I'd have chased them out with a mop. But dwarves come with…effects.
They do fix the door—eventually. It takes ten days, during which my wreck of a cottage turns into almost a new house.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.