We shoved back through the guild doors at twilight, boots leaving faint red prints on the floorboards. The receptionist didn't even look up from her ledger; she just slid a small canvas sack across the counter (three hundred coppers clinking like cheap wind chimes). The weight felt pathetic in my palm, but the metallic smell of fresh coin still made my chest buzz.
Rill spun the sack on one finger, tail flicking. "So, Red-Eyes, where you crashing tonight?"
I gave her the blankest stare I could manage with soot still crusting my eyelashes. "I arrived in this world this morning. I own exactly one shirt and half a slipper."
Lioren snorted. "Perfect. Three broke idiots, one room. Let's go."
The inn was two streets over, sign creaking in the evening wind, painted rooster faded to a pink ghost. Inside smelled of lamb stew, pipe smoke, and the honest sweat of a day's work. The innkeeper, a one-eyed dwarf with a beard like steel wool, took one look at our blood-spattered clothes and the tiny sack of coppers and sighed the sigh of a man who'd seen every flavor of stupid. Still, he handed over a single iron key for the attic room. "No fires, no orgies, or farm animals," he grunted. We promised nothing.
Up three flights of stairs that groaned like they personally resented us. The key scraped in the lock, the door swung open, and the room hit me with a wave of warm cedar, candle wax, and sun-baked sheets.
One bed. One very large bed, thank whatever gods ran this place. Quilt thick as three blankets, straw mattress that actually rustled instead of stabbing. A single window open to the night breeze carrying roof tiles and distant tavern songs.
I took three steps in, face-planted straight into the quilt, and died. Goblin guts, fireball smoke, and six hours of walking had turned my bones to wet sand. The pillow smelled like lavender and someone else's good day; I was unconscious before my cheek finished sinking in.
I vaguely registered the floorboards creaking, Rill kicking off her boots (thump, thump), the soft rustle of Lioren unbuckling her quiver and letting it drop. Then the mattress dipped on both sides, once, twice. A warm calico tail flopped across my calf. A cool elven hand brushed hair off my forehead, lingered a second, then settled.
Someone blew out the candle. Darkness smelled like cedar, well, us now: smoke, pine needles, blood, and the faint mint of Rill's fur. The quilt rose and fell with three different rhythms of breath until they slowly matched, like lazy waves finding the same shore.
Outside, the village quieted to crickets and the occasional drunk singing off-key. Inside, three exhausted level-ones slept tangled together without a shred of awkwardness, because tomorrow we'd be richer, and tonight we were finally, safely, not alone
Morning came in slow, golden layers.
The first thing I felt was heat: Rill's tail draped across my ribs like a living furnace, fur soft and faintly damp from night sweat. Her breath puffed against my collarbone, warm, smelling of mint and the coppery ghost of yesterday's blood. Lioren was curled against my other side, cooler, her long hair spilled over my arm like cold silk, carrying the sharp green scent of crushed pine needles and bowstring wax. The quilt had twisted around our legs sometime in the night; my bare foot stuck out into open air and met a sunbeam that felt like warm honey.
Downstairs the inn was already alive: floorboards creaking under heavy boots, the sizzle of bacon fat popping in a pan, fresh bread tearing with that perfect crusty crack, coffee beans grinding with a sound like distant thunder. Someone laughed too loud and a dog barked once, sharp and joyful.
Rill's ears twitched. She inhaled through her nose, stretched like a cat until every joint popped, then flopped back down with a contented growl. "Food," she mumbled into my shoulder, voice gravelly with sleep. "I smell bacon and I will commit crimes."
Lioren lifted her head, braid half-undone, silver strands sticking to her cheek. Her eyes were still soft, sleepy green. "We have two hundred seventy coppers," she said, precise even half-dead. "That buys bacon, eggs, bread, and exactly one mug of coffee to share. Choose wisely."
I sat up, straw crackling under me, and the room spun pleasantly. Sunlight poured through the crooked window, painting dust motes gold and turning the worn floorboards amber. My linen shirt had ridden up in the night; the air kissed the small of my back, cool and startling. I scratched dried goblin blood off my forearm; it flaked away like black snow.
The system panel flickered lazily in the corner of my vision, gentle this time, like it knew better than to Windows-update me before caffeine:
**Level 1 → Level 2 requires 200 EXP**
**Current EXP: 0/200**
**Fireball uses remaining until Lv2: 87/100**
Rill rolled off the bed, landed cat-silent, and started pulling on her boots. The leather creaked, still warm from yesterday's sun. "Next quest board opens in twenty minutes," she said, tail flicking. "I vote we eat fast, then go find something that pays in silver instead of pocket lint."
Lioren was already braiding her hair with quick, practiced fingers, hawk feathers sliding back into place like they'd never left. "There was a notice about giant rats in the brewery cellar," she said, mouth quirking. "Double reward if we bring the tails."
I stood, stretched until my spine cracked, and felt every muscle sing from yesterday's massacre. The floor was deliciously cool under my bare soles. Outside the open window, church bells clanged nine times, slow and bronze, and somewhere a rooster crowed like it was personally offended by the concept of sleep.
I grinned at both of them, teeth probably still flecked with soot.
"Then let's go murder some rats," I said, voice rough and happy. "But first, bacon."
Rill whooped once, sharp and delighted. Lioren's answering smile was small, secret, and perfect.
We thundered down the stairs like three disasters who'd just invented tomorrow, leaving the bed a battlefield of twisted quilts and the faint, lingering scent of smoke, pine, and mint.
We spilled into the inn's common room like a small, loud storm.
The air hit first: thick, buttery bacon smoke curling under the low beams, sharp coffee steam, the yeasty warmth of bread still sweating from the oven. Someone had cracked the front windows; cool morning breeze tangled with the heat and carried in the smell of dew-wet cobblestones and distant horse stables. My stomach growled so hard Rill heard it and cackled.
The place was already half full. A pair of dwarves argued over dice at the corner table, coins clinking like hail. A hungover orc nursed a tankard the size of my head, green skin dull in the slanted light. Every chair scraped, every laugh boomed; the floorboards vibrated under my bare feet, sticky in spots from last night's spills.
The innkeeper's wife (round, red-cheeked, smelling of cinnamon and authority) slapped three wooden plates in front of us the second our asses hit the bench. Bacon crisp enough to snap, eggs fried in the perfect orange, crusty bread torn open and steaming, a single pat of golden butter melting into the crumb like it was surrendering. One chipped ceramic mug of coffee, black as tar and hot enough to scald, got passed clockwise without asking.
Rill tore into the bacon like it owed her money. Grease shone on her chin; her tail thumped the bench in rhythm. Lioren ate with infuriating elegance, slicing egg white into perfect squares, but I caught her licking butter off her thumb when she thought no one was looking. I just inhaled. The bacon tasted smoky and salty and like someone had distilled victory into pork. Coffee hit my tongue like a slap and a hug at the same time.
We paid with a handful of coppers that still smelled faintly of goblin blood. The coins clinked into the innkeeper's palm warm from my pocket.
Outside, the village was fully awake. Sunlight poured thick and golden over the rooftops, turning every window into fire. The air smelled of baking clay from the potter's kiln, fresh-cut hay being loaded onto wagons, and the sweet metallic promise of the forge already going. A halfling girl ran past chasing a escaped goose, both of them honking in different keys. Somewhere a church bell gave one lazy clang, like it had overslept too.
We headed for the guild, shoulders brushing, footsteps falling into the same rhythm without meaning to. My soles found every warm patch of sun on the stones and every cool shadow in between. Rill's tail kept flicking against the back of my calf, deliberate now. Lioren's braid feathers fluttered in the breeze like tiny flags.
The quest board waited under the guild's awning, parchment sheets rustling like dry leaves. New ink still wet on half of them. I could smell it: sharp, papery, expensive.
Rill cracked her knuckles. "R "Rats, wolves, missing caravan, haunted mill… pick your poison, Red-Eyes."
Lioren leaned in, hair brushing my arm, cool silk again. "I vote something that bleeds and pays in silver," she murmured.
I grinned so wide the morning light caught on my teeth.
"Dealer's choice," I said, tasting coffee and smoke and tomorrow on the back of my tongue. "Let's go get rich or die laughing."
We turned to the board together, three shadows stretching long and fearless across the sunlit square, while the village noise rose around us like it was cheering already.
I reached out and tore a fresh sheet from the board. The parchment was still damp with ink, cool against my fingers, smelling of crushed gallnuts and something faintly floral.
**Quest: Clear the Old Brewery Cellar**
**Target: Dire Rats (Level 2–4)**
**Proof: 20 tails**
**Reward: 5 silver per tail (100 silver total), plus salvage rights**
**Note: The brewer will pay double if his prize cask of '92 barleywine is recovered unharmed.**
Rill read over my shoulder, tail curling like a banner. "A hundred silver. That's real money. That's new boots, actual food, and maybe a second bed so I stop waking up with your elbow in my kidney."
Lioren's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Cellar means tight corners. Rats are fast, but fire spreads faster." She glanced at me, one brow arched. "Try not to roast the barleywine, Red-Eyes."
I folded the sheet and tucked it into my shirt; the parchment crackled against my skin like dry leaves. "No promises."
The brewery sat on the eastern edge of the village, three stories of soot-stained brick with ivy clawing up the walls like desperate fingers. The big double doors stood open; inside, the air was cool, thick with the ghost of old mash (sweet fermented grain, sour yeast, a ghost of caramelized sugar). Copper kettles the size of cottages gleamed dully in the shafts of dusty light. But under it all crawled the smell of rat: wet fur, ammonia piss, old blood.
We descended the stone stairs. Each step was slick with condensation; the air dropped ten degrees and turned clammy, kissing the sweat on my neck cold. Somewhere deeper, claws scratched on stone in frantic rhythm, and a low, chittering squeal echoed like rusted hinges.
Torches guttered in iron sconces, throwing orange light that danced over puddles of spilled beer turned black and syrupy. The ceiling dripped, slow, fat drops that hit the back of my neck and slid icy under my collar.
First rat came around the corner the size of a medium dog, mangy gray fur, eyes milky with infection, teeth like broken yellow nails. It smelled like a dumpster left in the rain. Rill blurred. Claws flashed; blood sprayed hot and coppery across my cheek. The rat's body hit the ground still twitching, tail whipping once, twice, then still.
More poured out.
I lifted both hands. Heat roared up my arms, familiar now, delicious. "Ignis globus."
The fireball lit the cellar like a sunrise, rolling thunder in the tight space. It detonated against the far wall; rats shrieked in frequencies that hurt teeth. Charred bodies tumbled, fur igniting in blue-green flames from the alcohol vapors. The air filled with the stench of burning hair, sizzling fat, and sweet, sickening roasted meat.
Lioren's bow sang behind me, steady heartbeat rhythm. Every arrow found an eye or a throat; wet thumps, squeals cut short. Rill laughed like a mad thing, ricocheting off barrels, claws carving red crescents. Blood spattered the brick walls in modern art.
We moved deeper, boots squelching through things I refused to look at. The prize cask sat on a raised dais at the very back (dark oak banded with brass, still intact, sweating in the torchlight). Around it, the biggest rat yet crouched, scarred, one ear missing, tail thick as my wrist. It snarled, showing teeth the length of fingers.
I grinned, tasting smoke and adrenaline. "That one's mine.
The fight was short, loud, and gloriously messy. When the last rat squealed its last, the cellar stank of burnt fur, spilled beer, and victory. Twenty severed tails went into a damp, reeking sack. The barleywine cask (miraculously unscorched) rolled out smooth and heavy between us, sloshing like liquid gold.
We emerged into blinding afternoon sun, covered in blood, soot, and rat guts, laughing so hard our ribs hurt. The brewer took one look, turned pale, then cheerfully handed over two fat pouches of silver that clinked like church bells in my palm.
Ten silver each, plus twenty more for the cask. Real weight. Real money.
Rill spun in the street, arms wide, face tilted to the sky. Sunlight caught the blood drying on her claws and turned it ruby. Lioren leaned against the brewery wall, chest heaving, cheeks flushed rose, braid completely unraveled into a wild silver waterfall.
I wiped rat blood off my jaw with the back of my wrist and felt the grin split my face so wide it hurt.
"New boots," I said.
"Hot bath," Lioren corrected.
"Both," Rill declared Rill, "and then the biggest steak this village has ever seen."
We clinked our silver pouches like champagne glasses and started walking, three silhouettes dripping gore and joy, leaving bloody footprints across the sun-warmed stones while the whole village smelled like summer, smoke, and the promise of tomorrow tasting even better.