So what if I was dancing on the tables.
Honestly.
You try spending two weeks wandering wolf country with nothing but a soggy charcoal map and a Dragon breathing existential disappointment down your neck and see if you don't end up barefoot on a tavern plank at midnight yelling sea shanties with strangers.
Girl's got stress.
You think treasure hunts are glamorous? You think it's all heroic vistas and meaningful glances at the horizon?
No.
It's mud.
It's wrong turns.
It's asking the same five suspicious lumberjacks if they've seen a skull-shaped cliff and getting the same five variations of "All cliffs look like skulls if you squint."
It's baronial patrols sniffing the roads like hounds.
It's locals clamming up the second you mention silver.
It's revolutionary wolves giving speeches instead of directions.
It's five days of pine trees that all look identical and one charcoal drawing that might be a forest or might be a donkey having a religious experience.
So yes.
I started frequenting the inn.
Every night.
Same timber lodge. Same crooked beams. Same stew that tasted like boiled regret.
At first it was practical.
Intel gathering.
You drink with loggers. You flirt with hunters. You listen for rumors about buried war chests and skull cliffs and mercenary pay routes.
You smile.
You lean.
You ask leading questions.
You get absolutely nowhere.
Because nobody knows anything.
Or worse — they know and don't trust you enough to say.
After a week you stop pretending it's about information.
After ten days you stop pretending you're pacing yourself.
By the second week?
You're a fixture.
They know your drink.
They know your laugh.
They know you travel with the Dragon — capital D — who sleeps in the hills like a disgruntled thundercloud and occasionally sends smoke signals of disapproval down the valley.
And they know if music starts?
You're climbing on the tables.
Barefoot.
Hair loose.
Coin chains jangling.
Because sometimes the only way to stop thinking about patrols and wolves and missing treasure and whether Ogden scammed you again…
…is to get drunk enough that the map stops mattering.
So yes.
I danced.
And yes.
I was making out with that Lycan bitch.
There.
I said it.
Don't rewind. You heard me.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
That whole feral confidence thing where you're not sure if she's about to kiss you or start a fight over you.
Which — let's be honest — is half the appeal.
She'd been watching me for three nights straight.
Not subtle either.
Full predator stare from the back wall while I drank and failed to extract useful geographic intelligence from men who smelled like pine sap and suspicion.
Fourth night she finally approached.
Bought me a drink.
Growled at a logger who looked at my legs too long.
I found that… weirdly flattering.
Next thing I know?
We're kissing.
Full tavern watching like it's theater.
Coins hitting the table.
Someone cheering.
Someone taking bets.
And yes — we were still kissing mid-transform.
…That part might've been poor risk assessment.
Because there's a moment — right — where the teeth get longer and you realize maybe your tongue is now operating in a professional hazard zone.
But listen.
We are deep in Lycan country.
Forest so thick the moonlight has to negotiate entry.
Half the tavern smells like wet fur and iron.
What did you expect was going to happen if I kept showing up alone, drunk, and asking about hidden silver?
This is networking.
Predatory networking.
And frankly?
After two weeks of dead ends, speeches, patrol scares, and donkey-maps…
…dancing on a table and kissing the apex wolf woman in the room felt like the most productive thing I'd done all trip.
Even if I did wake up the next morning scratching like I'd rolled in a flea nest while the Dragon watched me with that expression.
You know the one.
That I told you so, you absolute gutter nymph expression.
Worth it though.
Mostly.
Ask me again when the itching stops.
We're upstairs.
Which already tells you the evening escalated.
The bed is narrow, timber-framed, creaks if you breathe too hard. Furs thrown over it that smell faintly of smoke and wolf oil. Window cracked open just enough to let the cold mountain air in.
She's sprawled on her back like she owns the place.
Which, judging by the boots tossed on the chair and the quality of her cloak, she probably owns something.
Name's Rheva.
Didn't tell me that until after.
Before that she let me guess for a while. Thought it was funny.
Rheva watches me from the pillow, one arm behind her head, the other lazily tracing a claw along my thigh like she's inspecting merchandise she's already bought.
Bare.
Not a shred of shame.
Smug smile.
Aloof eyes.
The kind of confidence that doesn't come from surviving hardship — it comes from never having to.
"You're staring," she says.
"I'm thinking."
"Dangerous hobby."
I prop myself up on one elbow, studying her properly now that the heat's burned off and the room isn't spinning.
She's mid-shift — but controlled.
Fur along the shoulders, faint. Jaw heavier but not fully extended. Eyes that glow just a bit too bright in the candlelight.
Too clean.
Too… curated.
"Wait," I say slowly. "So you weren't born a lycan."
She arches a brow.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Bitten by accident? Hunter incident? Family curse?"
She snorts softly.
"Gods, no."
She rolls onto her side to face me, propping her head on her hand.
"Voluntary."
I blink.
"Voluntary."
"Mhm."
"How—"
She waves a claw lazily.
"Oh, the usual."
I stare.
"The usual?"
"Cults. Societies. Invitation circles."
I keep staring.
She sighs like she's explaining etiquette to a child.
"Secret gatherings. Initiation rites. Blood ceremonies. A few theatrical orgies in castle crypts. You know how it is."
I do not know how it is.
She continues, almost fondly.
"Cellars beneath old baronial estates. Masked guests. Silver chalices. Philosophical speeches about liberation and the tyranny of inherited flesh."
She smirks.
"Very fashionable."
I blink again.
"Oh."
She watches my face carefully, amused by the processing lag.
"Yes. Oh."
I lie back beside her, staring at the ceiling beams.
"Well," I say after a beat. "That explains it."
"Explains what."
I gesture vaguely between her and the window — the forest beyond, the valley, the logging camps.
"You."
She tilts her head.
"And?"
"And why every lycan I met on the coast was… like you."
"Refined?" she offers.
"Posh," I correct. "Perfumed. Talkative. Very into eye contact and philosophy mid-thrust."
She laughs softly.
"And here?"
I jerk my thumb toward the tavern below.
"Here they're all lumberjacks."
She grins.
"Yes."
"Big hands. Sap in their hair. One-word vocabularies."
"Yes."
"More instinct than introspection."
She nods, pleased.
"Locals."
The word lands with polite disdain.
"Born to it. Raised in it. Entire families chained in basements every full moon."
She shrugs one shoulder.
"Necessary, I suppose. But uncouth."
I glance at her.
"You don't like them."
"Oh, I like them," she says lightly. "In moderation."
She stretches — slow, feline — showing off muscle under fur like it's deliberate theater.
"They're fun on occasion."
I raise a brow.
"Occasion."
"But terribly boring long-term," she adds. "No conversation. No ideology. No ambition beyond surviving winter."
She leans closer, voice dropping conspiratorially.
"Revolution doesn't interest them the way it interests us."
Us.
There it is.
"You're here for the revolution," I say.
She smiles.
"I'm here because this is where things are happening."
"Uh-huh."
"And because it's… invigorating. Living outside the estates. Among the transformed. Among the awakened."
I watch her carefully.
She doesn't say it's fashionable.
But she doesn't have to.
I've seen girls like her in temple courts, noble salons, pirate dens — chasing whatever identity feels most exciting that season.
"So," I say slowly, "you turned yourself into a wolf…"
She smiles.
"…because all the cool kids were doing it."
She laughs outright at that — rich, amused, not offended.
"When you say it like that it sounds shallow."
"If the fur fits."
She reaches out, hooks a claw under my chin, tilts my face toward hers.
"And you?" she asks. "You're exotic here too, you know."
"Oh?"
"A Seebulban harlot," she says, almost tasting the words. "Coastal silk. Saltwater skin. Tavern myth made flesh."
I snort.
"Hardly myth."
"You are," she insists softly. "Do you know how rare you are this deep inland?"
"Rare like a disease."
"Rare like luxury."
Her eyes flick down my body, appreciative, acquisitive.
"You're something imported. Decadent. A story the locals only hear about."
I roll my eyes but don't move away.
"So what am I then," I ask. "Your revolutionary experiment?"
She smiles lazily.
"My indulgence."
Honest at least.
I lie back again, staring at the ceiling.
"Well," I mutter, "this explains a lot."
"Such as?"
"Why the coastal lycans talk like poets."
"And?"
"Why the mountain ones just throw you over a table."
She grins wider.
"Different breeding grounds."
"Different priorities."
We lie there in the dim light, mountain wind creeping through the shutters.
Downstairs, someone starts singing again.
Revolutionary anthem or drinking song — hard to tell up here.
I glance sideways at her.
"So tell me, Rheva."
"Yes?"
"You revolutionary types… you ever hear about a skull-shaped cliff around here?"
She smiles faintly.
Rheva doesn't answer right away.
I notice because she goes still beside me — not tense, just… calculating.
Her claw, which had been idly tracing my hip, stops.
Instead of replying my question, she rolls onto her back and stares at the rafters like she's considering how much I'm worth telling.
Then she says:
"He noticed you."
I blink.
"Who noticed me."
She glances sideways, amused at my immediate suspicion.
"You know who."
"I absolutely do not."
She exhales a quiet laugh through her nose.
"Vael."
The name hangs there like it's supposed to mean something.
It doesn't.
I squint at her.
"Is that the guy from the logging camp."
She smirks.
"The one giving speeches."
"Oh."
Beat.
"Oh."
I push myself up on one elbow again, thinking.
"Wait — is that the gaunt one? Tall. Hair tied back. Talks like every sentence ends in a manifesto?"
Rheva nods slowly.
"That would be him."
"The one who kept pointing at the mountains like they personally oppressed him?"
"Yes."
"The one who said 'feudal carcass' three times in one speech?"
She grins wider.
"He's fond of that phrase."
I snort and flop back onto the pillow.
"Him?"
"He noticed you in the crowd."
I groan.
"Gods."
"What."
"I thought he was staring because I heckled him."
"You did heckle him."
"I asked if wolves overthrowing barons meant free drinks or just more speeches."
Rheva laughs outright.
"He liked that."
"That was mockery."
"He interpreted it as spirited dissent."
I cover my eyes with my forearm.
"Of course he did."
She turns onto her side again, propping herself up to study me like I'm suddenly more interesting than before.
"He asked about you afterward."
I peek through my fingers.
"Did he."
"Mhm."
"What did he ask."
Rheva's grin turns sly.
"Who the exotic Seebulban strumpet was."
I drop my arm and stare at her.
"Strumpet."
"His word."
"Charming."
"He meant it admiringly."
"I'm sure he did."
She traces a claw along my collarbone lazily.
"He said you looked… 'uncolonized.'"
I blink slowly.
"Uncolonized."
"He has a way with language."
"He has a way with nonsense."
She shrugs.
"He's important."
There it is — the shift in tone.
Casual pillow talk sliding into movement hierarchy.
"How important," I ask.
Rheva tilts her head, weighing how to phrase it.
"He's one of the central voices."
"Voice meaning mouth?"
"Voice meaning ideological architect."
I snort.
"So mouth."
She ignores that.
"He organizes cells. Coordinates safe lodges. Writes doctrine."
"Writes doctrine," I repeat flatly.
"He's kind of a big deal in the movement."
Ah.
There it is.
I roll onto my side to face her again, propping my head on my hand.
"And this big deal," I say slowly, "wants to meet me why."
Her grin turns predatory again — but in a social way, not a bedroom one.
"Because you're unusual."
"I get that a lot."
"Because you're coastal."
"Saltwater exotic, yes, you mentioned."
"Because you travel with a Dragon."
I pause.
That part lands differently.
"And," she adds lightly, "because he finds you… symbolically interesting."
I squint.
"That sounds like work."
"It's conversation."
"Same thing when revolutionaries do it."
She laughs softly.
"He's hosting a gathering tomorrow night. Private. Strategy and philosophy."
I groan again.
"Philosophy."
"He'd like you there."
"As what, exactly. Entertainment?"
Her smile widens — unapologetic.
"Conversation piece."
I stare at the ceiling again.
"Gods."
"He's curious about you."
"I'm curious about buried silver," I mutter. "Does he know anything about skull cliffs or mercenary payrolls or actual useful geography?"
Rheva hums thoughtfully.
"Maybe."
That gets my attention.
"Maybe?"
"He knows the region. Knows patrol routes. Knows hidden passes."
She leans closer, voice lowering conspiratorially.
"If anyone in the movement knows where something valuable could be hidden without baronial interference…"
She lets the sentence trail off.
I finish it silently.
He would.
I sigh.
"So let me get this straight."
She waits, amused.
"I come upstairs with a fashionable wolf cultist."
"Revolutionary initiate."
"Fashionable wolf cultist," I repeat. "And now I'm being invited to a secret political salon with a speech-happy logging prophet because he liked my heckling."
She smiles sweetly.
"When you say it like that it sounds unserious."
"It sounds exhausting."
She runs a claw lightly along my arm.
"Exhaustion can be productive."
I look at her sideways.
"You just want to parade me around."
"Partly."
"Exotic coastal decadence endorsing the cause."
"Symbolism matters."
I groan into the pillow.
"Fine."
She perks slightly.
"Fine?"
"If he knows routes, passes, patrol gaps — I'll listen to him talk about feudal carcasses for an hour."
She grins, victorious but pretending not to be.
"I'll arrange it."
I close my eyes.
"Gods help me."
"Revolution might," she says lightly.
I crack one eye open.
"If he tries to recruit me—"
"He will."
"—I'm charging speaking fees."
She laughs, low and pleased.
Downstairs the singing swells again.
Up here, the air smells like fur, smoke, and political trouble.
And apparently…
I've just been scheduled for it.