I slammed the mug down so hard the ale tried to flee. Splash. Foam. Full tavern judgment.
"He had the audacity," I said, stabbing a finger into the bar, "to tell me I was being dramatic."
The barkeep wisely stepped away. The dwarf next to me didn't flinch—just grunted and reached for his own drink like this was background noise.
"Dramatic!" I barked. "After he incinerated a hundred men and vaporized a temple wall because the vault 'smelled promising.'"
The dwarf cleared his throat. "Did it?"
"Oh, it smelled, alright. Like bat guano and shattered dreams. There were thirty coins, one dented goblet, and a priest who thought divine bathing was an investment strategy."
The dwarf raised an eyebrow. "And you?"
"I was ready to salvage something. I was mid-robbery. Had the priest down to his gilded socks. And then Sir Scales-for-Brains hauls me off like I'm his naughty niece caught mugging the altar boy."
"You were mugging the altar boy."
"He had ivory jewelry! That's high-end heresy!"
He sipped, unimpressed. "So what was the fight about?"
I glared into my cup. "He said I was embarrassing. That it 'wasn't a good look.' Me! I'm the one who kept us from walking out empty-handed! I got the cup!"
"Tin-plated."
"It's called resale value!"
The dwarf scratched his beard. "Let me guess. He said something smug. You screamed. He sighed. You bit his tail."
"I almost bit his tail. But then he called me small-time."
The dwarf's mug stopped mid-air. "Oof."
"Right?" I hissed. "Said I should have more 'vision.' That 'true thieves don't grovel for sandals.' As if he didn't just barbecue half a city for a pile of lint and a fiscal ghost story!"
I was still seething.
"He's the one on a twelve-month deadline and somehow I'm the embarrassment?"
The dwarf muttered, "Didn't he also moan in his sleep about sniffing gold?"
"Thank you!"
Another splash of ale hit the bar as I slammed the mug again. "I told him, if he ever wants to fund his damn gout remedies, maybe don't torch the only bathhouse in town."
The dwarf coughed beer.
"And then—then—he has the nerve to suggest I open a bank account."
"A what."
"A bank account. For my 'hoard.' Says if I had long-term financial planning I wouldn't be trying to hock priest underpants in the black market."
The dwarf choked.
I stared into space. "I'm not over it. I'm so not over it."
"Are you talking to him?"
"I told him to sleep on the other side of the camp. With the fleas."
He took a slow sip. "Are you letting him bonk you?"
I stared. "What."
He gestured lazily. "The dragon. You two. You know. Doing the… beast with many backs."
I gasped theatrically. "He's a dragon."
The dwarf raised an eyebrow. "You've bonked worse."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. "That's—objectively—not the same."
He started counting on his fingers. "Let's see. That ogre in Targel Pass. The fishman from Deepmarsh. That masked thing in the steam house—"
"I thought it was decorative!"
He kept counting.
"Also," I snapped, "anatomical differences. He's got wings. And scales. And a snout. And gout."
"Nothing says romance like arthritis and keratin plates."
"And he's gay!"
The dwarf snorted. "Since when has that stopped you from trying?"
I kicked him under the bar. "Just saying."
"Even if he weren't gay. Even if he weren't ancient. And cranky. And scaly. Still a no."
He looked at me. "You sure?"
I hesitated for a fraction of a second too long.
I squinted at him. "Hey. How do you know about the masked thing?"
He smirked.
"And Targel Pass? You weren't there."
He leaned back slightly, smug as a fart in a pew. "Word gets around the taverns."
I groaned. "Of course it does."
"You leave a trail of confused men and traumatized livestock behind you, girl. It's a wonder half the continent doesn't carry a cautionary sketch."
"Blame the girl for trying to make a living."
"I'm not blaming. I'm impressed. Takes dedication to turn that much chaos into income."
"You're just mad I overcharged you."
He coughed. "Fair."
Then, with infuriating calm: "Weren't you one of the sluts at Madam Zoobya's? The one at Mildew Ford?"
I winced like someone had flicked my soul. "I was indentured!"
He blinked. "You mean identured?"
"That's what I said."
He chuckled. "Sure you did."
"She gave me a room with curtains!"
"Ropes count as curtains now?"
I threw a peanut at his forehead. He didn't dodge. He just grinned.
"It wasn't that bad," I muttered. "Zoobya ran a clean house. Sort of."
"She also branded her girls."
"She said it was traditional."
He looked at me.
"I was young. And broke. And high on tulip wine half the time."
"And now?"
"Older. Broker. Slightly more sober."
He raised his mug. "Progress."
I clinked his again. "And still prettier than you."
"That's not hard."