The village wasn't even on most maps. One of those backwater clumps of huts where everyone smelled like smoked goat and all directions were "up the hill and then down." But I wasn't here for culture. I was here for sacks. Big ones. Coarse-woven. Preferably not crawling with weevils.
Dragon didn't want to help. Said as usual, he had to do an inventory of the hoard. Fine. I'd get the bags, we'd load up the gold, and we'd disappear into the eastern passes before the elven death squad decided I was lying. Which I absolutely was.
I crept into the warehouse at dusk. Side door. Rusted hinges. Place smelled like dust and fermented oats. I had a hood on and a blade tucked into the strap of my sandal, just in case the locals got twitchy. Or handsy.
The cellar hatch was unlocked. Jackpot.
I slipped down, feet silent on the old ladder. It was cold. Damp. Rows of crates. Stacks of mildew-kissed sacks—yes. My fingers itched. Just a few. Enough for coin, some food, and the big bottle of moonshine I knew the Dragon would pretend not to want.
I crossed to the nearest stack.
And heard… breathing.
Not my breathing.
Not rat breathing.
Human breathing.
Slow.
Careful.
From inside one of the barrels.
I froze. Knife already in my hand. Gods, if some villager tried to jump me, I'd gut him and blame it on ghosts.
The barrel was wedged in the corner, lid half-cracked.
I crept closer.
Closer.
And then—*
A sneeze.
Loud.
Ridiculous.
I flipped the lid and shoved my blade down.
And there he was.
Ogden.
Folded like a dumb golden accordion. Smudged. Shirtless. Smelling like pickled turnip and shame. Blinking up at me like I'd come to collect his soul.
"…Saya?" he rasped.
I didn't move.
Neither did the knife.
He gave a weak smile.
"Fancy seeing you here."
I screamed.
Then punched him.
Then screamed again.
And he didn't even try to block it.
Just sat there in the barrel, stunned and stupid and alive. Alive.
"You faked your fucking death?!"
He raised a hand.
"Okay—before you get mad—"
I punched him again.
"—FUCKER!"
He yelped, head snapping sideways, knocking into the barrel rim with a hollow thunk.
"Fucker! Fucker! Fucker!"
Each word came with another shove, another slap to his shoulder, his chest, his stupid golden face that was supposed to be rotting under a tombstone.
"I thought you were dead!" I screamed.
He tried to speak. I didn't let him.
"I cried, Ogden! I cried! In public! Do you know what kind of reputational catastrophe that is for me? People saw! There were witnesses! I had tears and everything!"
He blinked up at me, stunned, rubbing his jaw.
"Saya, I—"
"Bastard! Turd! Sun-polished asshole!" I grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back so he had to look at me. "You lied! You faked your death! You let me mourn you like some widowed tavern wench while you were hiding in a pickling barrel!"
"It was a grain barrel," he said weakly.
I screamed in his face.
"I don't care what you were marinating in!"
He swallowed hard.
I was breathing fast now, chest heaving, rage and relief and humiliation all tangled so tight I could barely separate them.
"And now," I said, voice shaking, "now there's an elven death squad riding around Hanigalbat looking for you."
He froze.
Actually froze.
Eyes wide. Shoulders locking. Breath stopping.
"…There's a what?"
"An. Elven. Death. Squad." I jabbed a finger into his chest with each word. "Two highblood warriors and a princess who looks ready to give birth to your diplomatic catastrophe any day now."
His face went pale. Impressive, considering how golden he usually ran.
"You're joking."
"I wish I was joking!" I hissed. "They kicked in my door! Nailed a man's hand to furniture! Interrupted perfectly adequate coping sex!"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"AND," I added, voice rising to a shriek, "I lied to them."
He stared.
"I lied to the Grove, Ogden."
That landed.
Hard.
His shoulders sank like someone had just poured sand into his armor.
"You… what did you tell them?"
"I told them you were dead!" I said. "I pointed them to your tomb! Varn's Rise! I even did a sad face for emphasis!"
He groaned, dragging both hands down his face.
"Oh gods."
"Yes, gods!" I snapped. "Plural! Many! All disappointed in you!"
We stood there in the dim cellar, breathing hard, staring at each other over the rim of the stupid barrel that had hidden him from the world but not from me.
I jabbed him one last time in the chest.
"You let me think you were gone," I said, quieter now, but sharper.
He didn't have a comeback for that.
Good.
Because I wasn't done yelling yet.