He didn’t bristle. Lyssara never used that word lightly. Compromise meant altered priorities. Altered priorities got people killed. He just disagreed about who was at risk.
“Feelings later,” Lyssara clapped dramatically. “Coin now. Move it, ducklings.”
Nythir cursed again.
Luna’s tavern was quieter in the daylight. Last night’s chaos had boiled down to sticky tables and the faint smell of ale clinging to the beams. The lantern orbs dimmed for morning, bathing everything in soft amber.
The window Essie had cracked was boarded up, leaving the corner dark and sullen. Vorrik had conveniently been tossed through it during their tavern brawl, so they weren’t responsible for repairs. He was useful sometimes—but never when he meant to be.
Sable stood by the job board, arms crossed, now looking twenty years younger and twice as annoyed.
“Stop staring,” she growled as they approached.
“I’m not staring,” Nythir lied. “I’m observing the outcome of irresponsible healing.”
“Tell your mage duckling she owes me ten years of back pain,” Sable said. “But my knees haven’t felt this good since I was twenty.”
“You’re welcome,” Essie said shyly. “Actually, I have a tiny, little, unimportant question.”
Sable’s stony expression cracked into a quick, fond grin before she could stop it. “Yeah, yeah. What do you need, Cinabun?”
Nythir hated them calling her that.
Essie leaned in close and whispered, “How old is Luna?” She needed to work on her whispering skills.
Sable barked out a laugh as Luna ran over frantically before anything could be revealed. She jabbed a thumb at the board, changing the topic. “Caravan to Greyhollow. Three wagons. Paying well above average. Leaving in an hour. Their usual escort fell sick. I told them we’d take it.”
“Greyhollow,” Vorrik said happily. “Home sweet miserable home.”
Lyssara elbowed him. “It’s not miserable. It just smells like wet sheep.”
“And sweat,” he added.
Essie leaned closer to the parchment, distracted from her previous question. “How far is Greyhollow?”
“Four days at caravan speed,” Nythir said. “A little longer if the road’s bad.”
Her eyes widened in awe. “Four days,” she said, voice hushed. Four days of open road. Four days away from the palace. Four days where anything could happen. She looked like an adorable barn owl about to take its first flight.
Sable cleared her throat. “Caravan master’s waiting in the yard. Try not to terrify him.”
“Who, me?” Nythir asked innocently.
“Yes,” Sable and Lyssara said in unison.
The caravan master was a compact dwarf with a beard so carefully braided it could have been used as a measuring tool. It nearly reached the ground, covering the entire front of his body. He checked them over as if buying horses: weighing armor, scars, the set of Nythir’s shoulders, the gleam of Lyssara’s sword.
Then his gaze landed on Essie. Nythir saw the exact moment the man decided she was too soft for the road.
“This one,” the caravan master said, pointing. “What does she do?”
“She’s with me,” Nythir said smoothly. Essie’s brows shot up, but he ignored it.
“She’s a mage,” Lyssara added. “Very efficient at… crowd control.”
The man’s eyes flicked to the faint scorch marks on Nythir’s sleeve, then to the way his cloak had been neatly burned shorter on one side.
“I see,” he said slowly. “Does she behave?”
