It started weeks back. Maybe a moon ago. Maybe more. Time gets slippery when you're chasing bastards across borders.
Me and the Dragon—we were hunting Ogden.
He'd swindled us. Again.
Somewhere between Seebulban smugglers and a fake barony toll, he'd conned his way into a pouch full of our hard-earned coins. Slipped off like a fart in the wind, all golden curls and self-righteous smirking. I wanted to wring his paladin neck.
So we followed the trail.
The sign outside was just a warped bit of wood with a faded red stain on it—might've been a kettle once, or a blood puddle, or someone's idea of a joke.
Didn't matter. The real name of every roadside inn past Hanigalbat was the same: Last place to get drunk before you start drinking milk that still remembers the goat.
I pushed open the warped door.
Inside was dim, dry, and full of bad decisions pretending to be people. The kind of place where no one asked your name unless they were planning to sell it.
She stood behind the bar.
Not tall. Not young. Hair in a knot, knuckles like cracked stone, eyes that didn't blink much. And on her cheek—burned into the flesh above the jawline, curling just beneath the eye—that brand.
I knew that emblem.
I'd seen it on thighs. On backs. On the inner wrists of girls who flinched when you poured hot water. If you wore that mark, it meant you ran. If you still had it visible, it meant you ran twice.
The fact that she was here, free, spitting in mugs and slapping down bowls of barley mash?
That meant she'd gotten away a third time.
Our eyes met for a breath too long. She saw me see it.
Neither of us said a word.
I liked her instantly.
I didn't ask for a room. I asked for a drink and whatever stew didn't bite back. She gave me both, and I sat near the hearth, peeling dirt from under my nails and trying not to think about Ogden's stupid face.
I wasn't here to linger on memories. I was here to find him. To make him regret that coin trick he pulled on us. To make him sweat. Maybe scream.
Instead, I got the godsdamn eulogy.
He was a barge of a man—arms like ox thighs, nose broken so many times it looked like a folded map. Smelled like smoke and cured meat. Sat down across from me without asking.
"You lookin' for that paladin?" he asked.
I paused mid-spoonful. "Depends which one."
"Blonde. Shiny. Talks like his mouth was blessed by angels. Big sword. Bigger ego."
My spoon clinked.
He grunted. "Yeah. That one. Ogden the Cuntbastard."
I coughed into my ale.
"You knew him?"
"Knew of him. Shared a patrol out near the western passes last spring. Fool thought he could outrun a dust storm and a wooly rhino. One caught his boots, other caught his ass. Dead before he even got to draw his blade. Fool thought he was made of story and light. Turns out he was made of bones and bad timing."
My chest went cold.
"Dead?"
"Fortnight ago," the man said, gnawing at a toothpick. "Buried out near Varn's rise. Local herd girls left flowers. One pissed on the grave. Evened out, I suppose."
I stared into my bowl.
Couldn't taste the stew anymore.
Back behind the bar, the branded woman was watching me.
No pity in her eyes.
Just recognition.
The kind of look you give someone when you know what it's like to carry grief in your teeth and pretend it's just a bit of grit.
I swallowed.
"Serves him right," the man added, stretching. "Never wanted to listen, that one. Thought he could reason with a rhino. Thought the world would wait for him to pose."
I nodded.
Didn't trust my voice yet.
"Anyway," he said, standing, "if you're here to rob his corpse, you're late."
He left.
I sat there a long time.
Ale gone warm in my hand.
The brand on the innkeeper's cheek still watching me.
Ogden. The Cuntbastard. Gone.
Just like that.
And all the anger I'd been saving up for him? Didn't know where to go.