The night air hit us like cold silk after the tavern's furnace.
It smelled of river fog rolling in off the water, wet stone, crushed underfoot, and the last stubborn sweetness of the honeysuckle that climbed the inn's back wall. The moon hung low and swollen, the color of fresh cream, turning every roof tile silver and making the puddles in the street look like scattered coins.
We were drunk, but the good kind: warm in the bones, loose in the joints, edges soft. Rill's tail kept curling around my ankle like it had decided I was furniture. Lioren walked on my other side, barefoot too now, her soles slapping softly against the cool cobbles; every few steps she'd exhale a small, contented laugh that tasted like mead on the air between us.
The inn's back door creaked when I pushed it open. Inside, the common room had gone quiet; only embers glowed in the huge hearth, pulsing red like a sleeping heart. The air still carried the ghost of dinner: roasted garlic, spilled ale, woodsmoke soaked into the beams for decades. Our footsteps echoed too loud, then softened as we climbed the stairs, wood warm and smooth under my palms where generations of hands had worn it glossy.
Our attic room felt different at night. Moonlight poured through the crooked window in a thick silver bar, cutting the darkness like a blade and painting everything blue-white. The bed looked enormous, quilt kicked half off from this morning, sheets still holding the faint heat of our bodies from the night before. The air smelled of cedar, leftover bathhouse steam clinging to our skin, and something new: the sweet-salt scent of three people who'd fought, bled, and feasted together.
Rill flopped face-first into the mattress with a muffled "mrrrf," tail flicking once before going limp. Lioren followed more slowly, crawling across the quilt on hands and knees, hair sliding over one shoulder like liquid starlight. I stood for a second, swaying, tasting honey and smoke on the back of my throat, feeling the pleasant ache in every muscle, the cool night air kissing the sweat at the small of my back.
Then I fell in after them.
The mattress sighed under my weight. Sheets cool against my chest, then instantly warming. Rill rolled over, burrowed into my left side, one arm flung across my ribs, claws sheathed but still pricking faintly through my shirt. Her breath was slow, hot, smelling of mead and rare steak. Lioren curled against my right, cool cheek against my collarbone, one long leg hooked over mine, hair spilling everywhere like spilled cream. I could feel her heartbeat, steady and calm, against my ribs.
Somewhere below, the innkeeper banked the fire; the last ember popped like a distant firework. The moonlight shifted as a cloud crossed it, turning the room from silver to indigo and back again.
I listened to them breathe (Rill's tiny sleepy growls, Lioren's soft elven almost-purr) and felt the day settle into my bones: goblin ash, hot springs, sizzling fat, fiddles, honey, blood, laughter, the weight of silver earned and immediately spent on joy.
My eyes slid shut.
Tomorrow could bring dragons, demon lords, whatever. Tonight there was only this: three heartbeats slowly syncing, the faint taste of mead still on my tongue, the quilt smelling like all of us now, and the moon keeping watch through the window like it approved.
I smiled into the dark, let the warmth pull me under, and slept without a single dream of voids
Dawn crept in like a thief, soft and gold and smelling of yesterday's smoke still clinging to my hair.
The first thing I felt was warmth, everywhere. Rill had migrated in the night and was now sprawled half on top of me, one calico ear flopped over my mouth, her breath puffing slow and humid against my neck. She smelled of honey mead, steak fat, and warm cat—one of her legs was still hooked over Lioren's thigh, tail curled possessively around my wrist like a furry manacle. Lioren herself was pressed along my right side, cool skin now sun-hot from sleep, silver hair fanned across my chest and shoulder in a tangled river that caught every stray sunbeam and threw it back as pale fire. Her fingers were loosely curled against my ribs, nails short and clean, but I could still feel the phantom memory of bowstring calluses.
The quilt had surrendered completely; it pooled around our waists, heavy and cedar-scented, trapping last night's heat so the air under it felt like the inside of a bread oven. My shirt had ridden up again; the sheet under my back was damp with sleep-sweat and smelled faintly of sulfur from the bathhouse and the sweet-salt musk of three bodies that had earned every inch of exhaustion.
Outside, the village was already moving. A rooster crowed somewhere close, hoarse and indignant. Cart wheels rumbled over stone, iron rims clacking. Someone opened the bakery ovens two streets over; the smell of browning butter and yeast rolled through the open window on a cool ribbon of air that kissed every patch of exposed skin and made me shiver deliciously. Church bells answered the rooster with three lazy bronze notes that vibrated through the floorboards and into my spine.
Rill made a small, grumpy noise when the breeze hit her ear, burrowed deeper, and started purring in her sleep, the vibration rumbling straight through my sternum. Lioren stirred, exhaled once through parted lips (cool breath smelling faintly of wildflowers and last night's mead), then stretched like a cat herself, long and slow, back arching, toes pointing until the quilt slid lower and moonlight-pale skin caught the sun and glowed.
I stayed perfectly still, afraid to break whatever spell had tangled us together like this. The room smelled like cedar, sexless intimacy, and the lingering tavern smoke. Dust motes drifted through the sunbeam like tiny lazy galaxies. Somewhere downstairs a kettle began to whistle, sharp and insistent, promising coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
Rill's tail tightened around my wrist, possessive. Lioren's fingers flexed once against my ribs, then relaxed again. Neither of them opened their eyes.
I smiled into the warm, honey-colored light, tasting yesterday's victory and today's promise on the back of my tongue, and decided the quest board could wait another ten minutes.
Or twenty.
Maybe an hour.
For the first time since the void, I wasn't in any hurry to be anywhere else
Eventually hunger won.
It started as a low growl in my stomach, then Rill's answered like a duet, and finally Lioren's followed with a refined little grumble that made both of us snort. We untangled ourselves slowly, reluctantly, like pulling apart warm taffy. The quilt clung, heavy with trapped heat and night-sweat, and when it finally slid off, the morning air rushed in cool and sharp, raising instant goosebumps across every inch of exposed skin. The sudden temperature drop felt like diving into a mountain stream.
Rill rolled off the bed and landed cat-footed, tail bottle-brushed from sleep. She stretched until her spine cracked, claws flexing, and yawned so wide I saw every sharp tooth glinting. Lioren sat up more gracefully, hair a wild silver storm around her shoulders, and rubbed her face with both hands; the motion left faint pink marks on her cheeks and made the loose collar of her sleep-shirt slip lower, revealing a constellation of freckles across her collarbone I hadn't noticed before.
I swung my legs over the edge. The wooden floor was shockingly cold under my bare soles, almost icy, and smelled faintly of lemon oil and old smoke. My muscles protested every movement: shoulders stiff from throwing fireballs, calves tight from dancing barefoot on tavern floors. The good kind of sore.
Downstairs the inn was already loud with breakfast. We clattered down the steps in a sleepy herd, following our noses. The common room smelled like heaven had a hangover: thick slabs of bacon spitting in a pan, dark coffee boiling over with that bitter-burnt edge, fresh eggs frying in butter that popped and hissed like tiny fireworks. Someone was slicing yesterday's bread; the crust cracked with a sound like splitting kindling, releasing clouds of steam that smelled of sourdough tang and wood-fired char.
The same red-cheeked innkeeper's wife greeted us with raised eyebrows and three loaded plates without asking. Bacon curled and glossy, eggs sunny-side up with yolks trembling like liquid gold, fried potatoes crispy and peppered until they stung the nose, and thick slices of bread slathered with honey butter that melted instantly into the crumb. A single pot of coffee, black as sin, arrived with three chipped mugs.
We fell on it like wolves.
Bacon snapped between my teeth, salt and smoke exploding across my tongue. The yolk broke warm and obscene, mixing with the buttered bread into something indecently good. Coffee scalded all the way down and kick-started my heart like a mule. Rill licked grease off her claws between bites. Lioren made a small, involuntary sound when the honey butter hit her tongue and immediately pretended it never happened.
Outside the open windows, full morning had arrived in a blaze of white-gold light. Heat shimmered off the cobblestones already; somewhere a blacksmith's hammer started its steady heartbeat clang. The air smelled of baking bread, horse sweat, fresh-cut hay, and the faint green promise of the forest beyond the village walls.
Rill wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, tail flicking. "Quest board?" she asked, voice still rough.
Lioren sipped coffee, winced at the heat, then nodded once.
I drained my mug, felt the caffeine slam into my bloodstream like a second heartbeat, and grinned wide enough to taste sunlight.
"Quest board," I agreed. "But first, shoes. I'm tired of stepping on destiny barefoot."
We left a small pile of silver on the table (real silver this time, cool and heavy) and stepped out into the bright, loud, delicious new day smelling of smoke, coffee, and whatever chaos we were about to set on fire next.