High Valmere did not wake quietly. It woke up in layers.
First came the rumble of cart wheels grinding over stone, a low, rhythmic vibration that seemed to travel up through the foundations of the inn. Then the low murmur of vendors setting up their stalls, voices rising and falling like the tide. Somewhere nearby, a baker threw open his shutters, and the smell of fresh bread drifted through the narrow street below, warm and comforting in the cool morning air.
Inside his modest inn room, Aleric woke up in pain. It was a heavy, suffocating companion.
A deep, steady throb beneath his ribs reminded him of every breath he took. When he inhaled too deeply, the fractured bone protested with a sharp, biting sting. When he shifted, pressure flared along his side and crept into his shoulder. Every movement was a negotiation with his own skeleton.
He tried sitting up. He regretted it immediately, a groan dying in his throat as the world tilted.
The door opened without ceremony as Athena stepped inside.
She was already armored—though without her helm—her spear resting casually against one shoulder, shield secured across her back. She hadn't come from sleep. She had been awake for some time, her grey eyes clear and preternaturally alert. She stopped when she saw him halfway upright.
"Lay back down."
"I was just—"
"Don't."
She crossed the room in three strides and placed her palm against his stomach, guiding him firmly back into the mattress. Her touch was steady. The look in he eyes left no room for questions. The heat of her hand seeped through his tunic, a grounding force against the throb of his ribs.
"You have a fractured rib," she said calmly. "Possibly two. If you exert yourself, the bone may shift and puncture a lung."
"That sounds dramatic."
"It is factual and a very real possibility."
She sat on the edge of the bed and began untying the bandage from the night before. Her fingers moved with careful precision, checking for swelling, discoloration, and signs of infections. Aleric tried not to breathe too deeply. He failed. Then winced. The sound was small, but in the quiet room, it sounded like a gunshot.
Her eyes sharpened instantly. "You see?"
"I see that breathing is inconvenient for the moment."
"Until you have healed, you will stay in bed and limit your movements."
"That wasn't agreed upon."
"I'm telling you now."
She rewrapped the bindings carefully—tighter this time. He felt the air leave his lungs as she pulled the linen taut. His pulse faltered once beneath her fingers due to pain. She rechecked his pulse. Then counted. One. Two. His heart beat stayed steady.
His wounds were survivable. She believed his wounds were her mistake. She had been too far from him during the attack. She would not allow that mistake to happen again. The guilt she felt was a cold weight she carried deep in her chest.
Once she finished checking him, she didn't move away. She remained seated beside him. Watching.
"You don't have to sit guard," he said quietly, his voice rasping.
"I am not guarding."
"Well then you're hovering."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, a faint spark of defiance in the grey. "I am here to prevent you from doing something stupid."
While the two argued, Fenrir left the room and padded down the stairs and slipped out through the inn's rear entrance. The wolf had already made two circuits of the surrounding streets that morning.
He moved silently through the waking city, massive paws soundless against the stone. His nose worked constantly—mapping scents, tracking patterns, identifying those who lingered too long near the inn. To him, the city was a map of intentions written in musk and sweat.
Stone held scent differently from the forest. Too many scents mixed together. Too many paths became layered together. But beneath the chaos, patterns only he could see, began to emerge.
Oil and iron from a guard patrol. Cheap perfume masking nervous sweat near the alley mouth. Three men who had passed the inn twice already that morning. That seemed suspicious. He'd remember their smell.
The city believed its walls created safety. The city misunderstood. Safety was not created by stone. It was created by the forces within its walls. And while the citizen relied on the patrols around the city, he took it upon himself to be his groups protector. Aleric's room and the others. He took their safety as his responsibility. No human guard can give them protection. That was his job.
During their travels, Fenrir's view on Aleric and the others changed. They weren't just strangers anymore. After sharing life and death battles, he began to trust them. He began to view them as his pack. As members of his pack, it was up to him to protect them when they were hurt. It was his responsibility to protect Aleric as he recovers.
As he continued his patrol, a butcher tossed scraps of meat towards him, the meat hitting the cobblestone with a wet thud. Fenrir didn't lower his head. He wasn't hungry. He just watched.
Let them pass. Let them linger. Let them test. He would remember every scent. And if one he deemed suspicious entered the inn, there would be no warning.
He circled the block twice more. Then vanished briefly down a side street, only to reappear minutes later near the inn's front entrance. No one approached without being noted. No one lingered without being remembered.
When he returned upstairs, he lay across the threshold of Aleric's room, chin resting on his paws, ears angled toward the stairwell. Watching. Listening.
Fafnir stepped out of his room shortly after, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. He glanced once at Athena sitting beside Aleric's bed. She was still there fussing over him. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, his emerald eyes dancing with amusement.
"I see recovery is… supervised."
Athena didn't look at him. "He has to rest but as soon as he woke up, he thought it was a good idea to force himself up in his bed."
"Of course that happened."
Aleric closed his eyes briefly. "You know I can hear you both."
"Good," Fafnir replied lightly. "Then you didn't go deaf too."
He descended the stairs and stepped out into the city. High Valmere rose in layers—outer districts crowded with traders and craftsmen, inner tiers climbing upward toward the Baron's keep like a stone crown.
Fafnir walked without a destination. He enjoyed cities. Too many people. Too many secrets. Too many ambitions are brushing against each other like exposed wires. The air was thick with the scent of greed, and it tasted like wine to him.
He passed a smithy where sparks leapt bright against shadow. He passed a fountain where children chased each other through the cold mist. He crossed path with two mercenaries arguing loudly about contract percentages. He slowed beside a fountain, watching sunlight fracture across its water.
Humans. So many of them. Layered in noise, ambition, and petty rivalry. They bartered over copper and insulted one another over percentages as though the world revolved around them. They never looked up. They were too blind to their surroundings.
They did not feel the subtle pressure in the air when walked walked past them. They did not sense the monster walking past. If only they knew a dragon took a leisurely stroll in their streets.
Yet not one of them noticed. Not the guards. Not the merchants. Not the mercenaries boasting about contracts they had barely survived. Their senses were dull. It made them blind.
Fafnir found the thought neither insulting nor flattering. To him, it was merely predictable.
Just as he mused about humanity—he felt it. A rhythm behind him. Footsteps that did not pass him. A presence matching his pace without falling directly in line.
He turned left without warning. The presence turned left. He slowed near a fabric stall. The presence slowed. Well, if he wants to play, let the games begin.
He kept moving through the streets, trying to lose the one following him. His jaw tightened. The tails' persistence was irritating. He crossed into a narrower street and subtly increased his pace. The footsteps behind him adjusted. They were never close enough to provoke but not distant enough to ignore.
He turned sharply into a narrow alley between two stone buildings, ducking beneath a line of hanging laundry. The footsteps followed. They were still measured. Still careful.
His irritation sharpened. He quickened now, weaving through intersecting passages, slipping past stacked crates and abandoned barrels. A startled boy carrying a basket of onions nearly dropped it as Fafnir brushed past.
The tail did not break. Good, it was better this way. He managed to annoy a dragon. Time to face the consequences.
He turned one final corner into a narrow alley boxed in by brick walls. It was a dead end. He walked calmly toward it. At the last moment, he stepped onto a low crate, pushed off the wall, and vaulted upward. His fingers caught the roof edge effortlessly.
The manouver was executed flwlessly and as quietly as a whisper in the wind . He pulled himself onto the rooftop and watched from above. Seconds later, the tail entered the alley.
It was a man. Mid‑thirties. he wore a plain coat and had a knife strapped at his hip. His eyes looked sharp but cautious. He stopped as soon as he noticed the alley was empty. Confusion flickered across his face.
Fafnir dropped.
One hand seized the man's throat. The other caught his hand as he reached for the knife. He lifted him cleanly off the ground, the man's weight nothing against the strength of a dragon.
Boots kicked. Hands clawed uselessly at Fafnir's forearm.
"You have been following me for a while now," Fafnir said quietly.
The man gasped. "I—I don't—"
Fafnir tightened his grip slightly. Air vanished. "You will choose your next words carefully."
"The Baron—" the man rasped, his face turning a bruised purple. "Orders—observe—report—no interference—"
"Why?"
"I don't know—just watch—"
The terror in the man's eyes proved that he was too afraid to lie. Even so, annoyance flickered in Fafnir's eyes but soon curiosity followed. He had hoped for something more deliberate. Perhaps he thought he could kill time fighting off bandits or find and loot their den. Instead the one following him was a spy. Sent for surveillance of their group.
Fafnir shifted his grip. Then hurled the man sideways.
The spy struck the brick wall with a sickening crack. The masonry fractured under the impact. The man collapsed into a shallow crater in the form of his own body where the wall used to be, breathing shallowly but alive. The sound of the impact from the throw echoed in the narrow space, a brutal punctuation mark.
"If you continue," Fafnir said mildly, adjusting his sleeve, "prepare for the repercussions."
He stepped back into the street, leaving the man there for anyone to find.
The alley was discovered not long after. Two dockworkers cutting through the side streets stopped short when they saw the shattered brick and broken man lying within it. Guards were soon summoned after that.
The injured spy drifted in and out of awareness as he was lifted onto a stretcher. "…roof… dropped… strong…"
The description was recorded. By late afternoon, the report reached the inner district. By evening, it reached the Baron.
The Baron of High Valmere stood over a war table marked with trade routes and patrol lines when the steward finished speaking.
"One of our observers was discovered. He suffered severe fractures, and internal bleeding. Luckily he was found in time and survives."
"What was the cause of his injuries?"
"He reports being attacked by the one he was tasked of tailing."
Silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.
"The mercenaries then," the Baron said.
"Yes, my lord."
"Good."
The steward hesitated. "Good, my lord?"
"The fact he is still alives proves they are not reckless," the Baron replied, his eyes tracking a line on the map. "They did not kill him." A pause. "Summon all observers back. Surveillance has ended."
"My lord?"
"We saw how they react when being followed. We will change tactics."
The steward straightened slightly. "You intend to withdraw?"
"No." The Baron's gaze drifted toward the lower districts beyond his window, the city lights twinkling like fallen stars. "We will approach them openly."
"You wish to meet them?"
"I wish to measure them." He turned back to the map, one finger resting lightly on the southern road where the six ogres had been killed. "Any group capable of destroying a gnoll pack, slaughtering ogres, detecting trained spies, and responding proportionally… is either an asset." A beat passed. "Or a problem."
"And you intend to determine which?"
"Yes."
"How, my lord?"
A faint smile touched the Baron's mouth. "Invite them here."
Back in the lower district, Fenrir waited outside the inn when Fafnir returned. The wolf rose immediately and fell into step beside him. They climbed the stairs together.
Inside, Athena still sat beside Aleric. He had leaned back now, exhaustion finally overcoming stubbornness. Fenrir resumed his place across the threshold.
Athena's hand rested near Aleric's side. Close enough to steady him if needed. The room felt small, intimate, and dangerously quiet.
Fafnir leaned lightly against the doorframe. "I was followed."
"Was it the guild?" Aleric asked.
"No, he was one of the Barons' men."
Aleric exhaled carefully, the movement making him wince. "So we've drawn attention."
"Yes."
Fenrir's chest rumbled softly, a low, protective thrum.
Outside, messengers moved. Orders were given. Attention sharpened. Within the Baron's keep, strategy changed.
They were no longer watched from the shadows. But soon, they would be approached openly. The game had shifted. And this time, it would begin with an invitation. Aleric looked at the ceiling, wondering if he was ready for the weight of a Baron's gaze.