Dawn came sideways, pale and thin, the color of watered blood.
The mist had thickened overnight into a cold, wet shroud that pressed against the skin like damp wool. Every breath tasted of wet ash and the sour-metal stink of cooling blood. The fire was dead; only a circle of black char and greasy white ash remained, still radiating faint heat that turned the mist into slow, ghostly spirals. When I shifted, the log under me released a puff of trapped smoke that smelled of burnt hair and applewood bones.
We woke tangled together under a single cloak (someone's, didn't matter). Rill's ears were iced at the tips; when she twitched in her sleep the frost crackled like thin glass. Lioren's hair had frozen into stiff silver ropes that clinked softly when she turned her head. My own breath hung in front of my face in white plumes before the mist swallowed it. The cloak was stiff with dried blood and dew; peeling it off felt like ripping off a scab.
The clearing looked like a butcher's fever dream in the half-light. Bodies had bloated overnight, skin gone gray-green and shiny, eyes milky and staring at nothing. Fluids had seeped into the soil, turning it into a black, glistening mirror that reflected the bruised sky. Crows had come while we slept; they hopped among the corpses now, wings slick with gore, beaks clicking as they worried at soft places. Every tug released a wet sucking sound and a fresh waft of rot so thick it had texture.
I stood and my boots made a sound like pulling a boot out of deep mud. Blood had frozen in the treads overnight; little red ice crystals glittered when the weak sun finally broke through. My joints cracked, stiff and cold, and every bruise from yesterday sang in a new, bright key.
Rill hacked up something dark and spat it into the ashes. The glob hissed when it landed. Lioren silently began braiding her hair again, fingers trembling from cold, working frost out of the strands one by one. The motion left faint pink streaks on her pale skin where the blood-crusted ends brushed her throat.
We didn't bother with breakfast. The merchants were already hitching oxen, faces gray, eyes avoiding the battlefield. The sack of ears had frozen solid; when I lifted it the contents shifted with a sound like wet gravel in a leather drum.
We rolled out before the sun cleared the treetops.
The road through the rest of the Hollow was mercifully quiet, brutally cold. Frost glittered on the black grass like powdered glass. Every wagon wheel left dark scars that steamed faintly. The oxen's breath steamed in huge white clouds, and their hooves struck sparks from hidden stones. The mist clung low, waist-high now, swirling around our legs so we walked through smoke made of ice.
No one spoke for hours. Only the creak of harness, the slow grind of wheels, the occasional wet pop from the sack when it swung against the wagon side.
By midday the Hollow began to release us. Pines reappeared, first blackened skeletons, then living green, needles dripping meltwater that smelled sharp and clean after the reek of death. The mist thinned to silver ribbons, then to nothing. Sunlight finally broke through full and harsh, turning every frost crystal into blinding fire.
I tasted pine sap again, cold water, living air. My lungs burned with it.
Rill's ears perked forward. Lioren's shoulders dropped a fraction. I felt the exact moment the Hollow's weight slid off our backs, like shrugging out of frozen armor.
Behind us, crows rose in a black cloud, cawing outrage at being disturbed.
Ahead, the road widened, the trees turned gold and alive, and the wind carried the far-off scent of chimney smoke and civilization.
We didn't look back.
Three days of easy travel left.
One hundred and eighty-five gold waiting.
And the jawbone trophy tied to my staff, clicking softly with every step like it was keeping count.
The frost melted off our cloaks in slow, dark drops that steamed when they hit the warm road.
We walked on, smelling of death, pine, and the particular sharp brightness that only comes after you've burned a piece of the world down and kept walking anyway
The last three days on the road tasted like thawing.
The frost melted into cold, clear water that ran in silver threads down every pine needle and dripped from wagon covers in steady, musical plinks. The air turned thin and sharp, full of green resin and wet earth breathing again after winter's grip. Sunlight slanted low and golden through the way honey pours, thick and warm, turning every droplet into tiny prisms that threw rainbows across our arms.
We smelled alive again.
Rill's fur dried into soft calico tufts that caught the light like burnished copper; when the wind moved through it she purred without meaning to, the vibration rumbling against my shoulder when she leaned against me on the wagon seat. Lioren's hair had thawed into heavy silver ropes that steamed gently in the sun, releasing the clean scents of pine soap from the village bathhouse and something faintly floral that was only her. My own cloak no longer reeked of blood and ash; the cold had scoured it clean; now it smelled of horse, woodsmoke, and the warm leather of my new boots finally molding to the shape of my feet.
Each evening we camped beside streams so cold the water burned the throat like mint. The stones were slick with bright green moss that smelled like crushed cucumbers when we sat on them. Fish jumped at twilight, silver flashes that left rings spreading across black water, and the smoke from our fires carried the sweet bite of cedar and the fat sizzle of trout wrapped in alder leaves.
On the third night we crested a ridge and saw Veyris spread below us like spilled treasure.
The city sat in a wide river valley, white stone walls glowing rose-gold in the setting sun, banners snapping crimson and indigo above towers that caught the light like spears of fire. The wind shifted and brought us the smell of a hundred thousand lives: fresh bread, hot iron from smith-row, river mud, spiced with water lilies, roasting chestnuts, incense from temples, the faint briny promise of the sea thirty miles beyond. Church bells rolled across the valley in overlapping bronze waves, deep enough to feel in the sternum.
Rill's tail went bottle-brush with excitement. Lioren's breath caught, a small, wondering sound.
I just stood there, staff in hand, jawbone trophy clicking softly against the wood, and felt the gold in our pouch (one hundred and eighty-five imperials) warm against my ribs like a second heart.
The road down was paved with river stone worn smooth by centuries of feet. Every step echoed. Merchants' children ran alongside the wagons waving, their laughter bright and knife-sharp after days of silence. The gates stood open, torches already lit though the sun hadn't fully set; the flames smelled of pine pitch and citrus oil.
We rolled through at dusk, wheels singing over stone, cloaks snapping in the warm updraft from the city's chimneys. The smells layered thick: garlic and lamb from street stalls, hot sugar, spilled wine, horse sweat, perfume from painted balconies, the clean river breeze cutting through it all.
People stared. Of course they did. Three blood-spattered, smoke-scented adventurers with a sack of frozen ears and a human jawbone trophy weren't subtle.
But they parted for us anyway.
We found the guild branch by following the smell of ink, candle wax, and old parchment. The clerk took one look at the sack, went pale, and counted out our gold without a word. Coins clinked into three equal piles, each one warm from the vault, heavy enough to make the table creak.
Outside again, night had fallen hard. Lanterns bloomed along the streets like orange flowers. Music spilled from every tavern. Somewhere a woman laughed like breaking glass.
Rill spun in a slow circle, arms wide, face tilted to the stars. Lioren's smile was small, secret, perfect.
I hefted my pouch (sixty-one imperials and change) and felt it pull at my belt like a promise.
"Steak," Rill declared.
"Bath," Lioren countered.
"Bed big enough for three," I finished.
We walked into the city smelling of pine, blood, gold, and tomorrow, boots ringing on the stones, laughter echoing off the walls, the jawbone clicking softly against my staff like it approved of the playlist.
Veyris opened its arms and let us in.
We were home.
We were just getting started.
The bathhouse we chose was carved from rose-veined marble and lit by floating paper lanterns that smelled of jasmine oil and slow-burning beeswax.
Inside, the air was so thick with steam it felt like breathing warm silk. Every inhale tasted of mineral salt, crushed eucalyptus, and the faint sweetness of orange blossoms someone had scattered across the surface of the main pool. The water itself was almost too hot to stand; when I sank in, the heat punched a groan out of my chest and turned every remaining bruise into liquid. Blood, ash, and three days of road filth lifted off my skin in dark ribbons that dissolved instantly, leaving only the clean, raw scent of my own body underneath.
Rill cannonballed in with a joyful shriek that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The splash drenched both of us; droplets hung in the air like tiny prisms before falling back in silver needles. She surfaced laughing, hair plastered to her skull, calico ears flat and dripping, eyes glowing amber in the lantern light. Lioren entered more slowly, unbraiding her hair one last time so it floated around her like molten moonlight. When she sighed, the sound was soft and filthy with relief.
Attendants (silent, barefoot, smelling of sandalwood) brought rough sea sponges and bowls of coarse salt mixed with crushed lavender. We scrubbed until our skin sang pink, until the water around us turned the color of weak tea and the last of the Hollow finally let go of our bones.
After, wrapped in thick towels that smelled of sun-dried linen and cedar, we were led to a low table where a woman with gold-dusted hands poured hot honey wine into tiny porcelain cups. It tasted like liquid summer: clover, peach pits, and a bite of something sharp that made the back of the throat. My tongue felt suddenly too big, my limbs loose and shining.
We ate in the bathhouse's attached garden under a pergola dripping with night-blooming nicotiana (white trumpets that released dizzying waves of perfume every time the breeze moved). The steak arrived rare, almost blue, so tender the knife slid through like it was cutting warm butter. The char tasted of oak smoke and butter; the inside bled garnet juice that pooled on the plate and smelled of iron and wild herbs. We tore into it with fingers and teeth, licking grease from our wrists without shame, washing it down with dark ale that left creamy foam mustaches and the taste of burnt sugar and roasted barley.
Somewhere a lute player plucked lazy chords that floated through the warm night air like fireflies. The stones under our bare feet still held the day's heat; every time I curled my toes they found new warmth.
Later (much later), drunk on meat, wine, and the sheer luxury of being clean, we staggered into the inn we'd booked on the hill above the river. The room was ridiculous: one absurd bed piled with goose-down mattresses and quilts that smelled of lavender sachets and fresh sun. A single tall window stood open to the city night; river breeze carried up the smell of water lilies, distant bakery ovens already firing for tomorrow's bread, and the faint salt promise of the sea.
We fell into the bed like stones into deep water. The sheets were cool at first, then instantly fever-hot from our bodies. Rill burrowed between us, tail curling over my hip, purring so hard the mattress vibrated. Lioren pressed her cool cheek to my chest, fingers tracing idle circles through the thin linen of my shirt, heartbeat slow and steady under my palm.
Outside, Veyris sang its night song: bells marking the watch, a drunk singing off-key about lost love, the soft slap of river against stone, the rustle of nicotiana leaves in the garden below.
Inside, three bodies breathed the same warm, honey-thick air, skin still tasting faintly of salt and lavender, gold heavy in pouches on the bedside table, the jawbone trophy propped in the corner like a silent guardian.
I smiled into the dark, licked the last trace of steak blood from the corner of my mouth, and let the city rock us to sleep like a ship finally come home.
Tomorrow we'd buy bigger fires, sharper steel, and stories loud enough to make the gods jealous.
Tonight we just slept, tangled together, smelling of soap, smoke, honey, and each other, while the river kept singing below and the whole world smelled like it had decided to let us win for a while.