The money felt heavier than it should have.
Two pouches of silver (warm from the brewer's trembling hands) clinked against my thigh with every step. Real, honest weight. The coins inside rang like tiny bells, bright and clean, nothing like the dull clatter of copper. I could smell the metal through the canvas: cold, sharp, faintly sweet, the way thunderstorms taste right before lightning.
We walked straight to the bathhouse.
The place was built over natural hot springs; steam rolled out the open doors in thick, mineral-scented clouds that smelled of sulfur, wet stone, and wild thyme. Inside, the air hit like a living thing: so hot it burned the lungs at first, then melted every knot of tension out of my shoulders. Lanterns hung from cedar beams, their light turning the mist gold and rose. Water dripped from the rafters in slow, rhythmic plinks into the main pool, sending out rings that shimmered like liquid mirrors.
We stripped without ceremony. Clothes hit the tile floor in a wet, bloody pile that steamed in the heat. Rill's tail flicked water droplets everywhere when she dove; the splash was loud, shocking, perfect. Lioren slid in more gracefully, but the sigh she let out when the water closed over her shoulders was pure, shameless surrender.
I sank last. The heat punched the air from my chest, then flooded in again, scalding and incredible. Every cut, every bruise, every place goblin claws had scratched flared once, then dulled into a throbbing glow. The water smelled faintly of iron and healing herbs someone had scattered across the surface; crushed rosemary and something peppery floated past my chin. Blood and soot lifted off my skin in dark ribbons, swirling away like smoke.
Rill floated on her back, ears half-submerged, eyes closed, purring so hard the water vibrated around her. Lioren leaned against the tiled edge, arms spread, silver hair floating around her like moonlight made liquid. I could see faint pink lines across her collarbone where rat teeth had come too close; they looked almost delicate now, like someone had drawn on her with a rose thorn.
For a long time nobody spoke. Just the drip of water, the soft slap of waves against stone, the occasional lazy splash when one of us moved. The steam tasted of minerals on the back of my tongue.
Eventually Rill cracked one amber eye. "Steak," she declared, voice echoing softly off the vaulted ceiling. "Rare. Bleeding. Bigger than my head."
Lioren hummed agreement, eyes still closed. "And mead. The good honey one that smells like summer."
I tilted my head back until the water lapped at my jaw and grinned at the misty ceiling. "And a room with two beds," I added. "Or one bigger one. I'm not picky."
Rill splashed me. Lioren laughed, low and warm, the sound curling through the steam like it belonged there.
We stayed until our fingers pruned, until the heat soaked so deep I couldn't remember what cold felt like, until the bathhouse cat (an ancient tabby with one missing ear) jumped onto the edge and started drinking the mineral water like it was paying rent.
When we climbed out dripping, skin flushed lobster-red, hair plastered to our skulls, carrying our ruined clothes in a bundle that smelled like death and victory. The evening air outside hit like ice water after the steam; goosebumps raced over my arms and it felt glorious.
The sky had gone violet and gold, the first stars prickle of night cold slipping down the streets. Somewhere a tavern door opened and spilled out the smell of roasting garlic, butter, and searing meat.
Rill's ears perked so hard they nearly touched. "That one," she said, already walking.
Lioren and I followed, barefoot, dripping, laughing underfed and overconfident, pockets full of silver that sang with every step.
The night was young, our stomachs were empty, and the three of us smelled like gunpowder, hot springs, and trouble.
Perfect
The tavern was called The Tipsy Cauldron, and the name was honest.
We pushed through the swinging doors and the smell slammed into us like a living thing: searing beef fat spitting on iron, garlic so strong it stung the eyes, rosemary smoke curling off the spits, dark honey mead so thick you could chew it. The air was warm, almost syrupy, loud with fiddles sawing a reel that made boots stomp in perfect rhythm. Lanterns swung from black iron hooks, throwing gold light over scarred tables and laughing faces. Every breath tasted like butter and woodsmoke and the promise of getting gloriously stupid.
A roar went up when we walked in barefoot and dripping bathwater. Someone whistled. Someone else shouted, "The rat-roasters are here!" Tankards slammed tables in salute.
We claimed the biggest corner table like we owned the place (because tonight we kind of did). The wood was sticky with old ale and new honey; someone had carved a long time ago carved a crude dragon getting drunk into the surface. I traced it with a wet fingertip and grinned.
The serving girl (human, freckled, smelling of yeast and cinnamon) arrived before our asses fully hit the bench. Three steaks the size of shields landed in front of us, sizzling so loud enough to drown the fiddles for a second. The meat was black-charred outside, bleeding pink inside, fat crackling like tiny fireworks. Beside each plate: a mountain of roasted potatoes glistening with duck fat and rosemary, a hunk of bread still sweating from the oven, and a wooden mug of mead the color of candlelight.
Rill attacked first. Knife and claw flashed; juice ran down her wrist and she licked it off without shame. The sound she made was half growl, half moan, tail thrashing hard enough to thump the bench leg. Lioren cut hers with surgical grace, but the way her eyes fluttered when the first bite hit her tongue was pure sin. I didn't even try to be civilized—just tore into it with teeth and fingers, butter and blood and smoke exploding across my tongue, hot enough to scald, perfect.
The mead came next. It tasted like someone melted summer: clover honey, wildflowers, a kick of something sharp that lit a fuse straight to my stomach. One gulp and warmth bloomed everywhere, loosening muscles I didn't know were still knotted.
Music got faster. Someone started clapping rhythm on the table. Rill jumped up, tail high, and dragged me into the tiny dance space between tables. I was barefoot, half-drunk already, and the floorboards were slick with spilled drink; we spun like idiots, laughing, her claws pricking my shoulders, my hands on her waist warm through damp linen. Lioren watched with that slow, dangerous smile, then stood and joined, sliding between us smooth as river water, hair still wet and shining like molten silver under the lanterns.
The room spun. Mead, meat, smoke, sweat, the salt of Lioren's neck when she leaned in close, the mint of Rill's breath when she laughed into my ear. Everything loud and bright and golden.
At some point the fiddler switched to a slow, swaying tune. The three of us ended up back at the table, cheeks flushed, plates scraped clean, mugs empty and refilled twice. Rill's head on my shoulder, Lioren's cool fingers laced through mine on the tabletop, sticky with honey.
Outside, night had gone full dark, stars sharp as broken glass through the open door. Inside, the fire crackled, someone started singing a bawdy song about a dragon and a milkmaid, and the whole tavern joined in off-key and perfect.
I tasted smoke, honey, blood, and tomorrow on the back of my tongue and thought: yeah.
This is what getting a second life is supposed to feel like.
We stayed until the lanterns burned low and the serving girl had to kick us out, giggling, into the cool night air that smelled of river mist and distant pine. Shoulders brushing, pockets lighter, hearts stupidly full, three silhouettes swaying down the moonlit street toward the inn and whatever chaos breakfast would bring.