We're crouched over the map like it's sacred.
It isn't.
It's a ragged scrap of parchment that looks like it lost a fight with a stew pot. Soggy at the edges. Browned in places that might be blood or gravy or Ogden's idea of cartographic flourish. The whole thing smells faintly of smoke, wet leather, and betrayal.
I flatten it against a rock.
"Right," I say, squinting. "So this line here—this is the road."
The Dragon lowers his massive head beside mine, one golden eye narrowing at the parchment.
"That line," he rumbles, "is crooked."
"It's a mountain road."
"It wiggles like a drunk eel."
"Have you met Ogden? He wiggles like a drunk eel."
He grunts.
We both stare at the smear of charcoal that snakes upward across the parchment. It forks once. Then again. One branch ends in a blob that looks like someone dropped soot and panicked.
"What's this?" I ask, tapping it.
Dragon squints harder.
"A forest, perhaps."
"It looks like a donkey."
"It does not look like a donkey."
"It has ears."
"It has… vertical strokes."
"Exactly. Ears."
"It could be pines."
"It could be a fish."
He turns his head slowly to look at me.
"How would a fish be north of the mountain pass."
"I don't know, Dragon, maybe Ogden got artistic."
He exhales a thin ribbon of smoke directly over the map. I wave it away.
"Don't fog the donkey."
"It is not a donkey."
I lean closer, turning the parchment sideways.
"See? If you tilt it, the ears become fins."
"That makes it worse."
"Or antlers."
"It is charcoal smudging."
"Then why did he cluster it like that?"
"Because he is incompetent."
We stare at it in mutual contempt for a moment.
I slide my finger further north.
"Alright. This bit I understand."
A crude circle.
Two dots inside.
Jagged teeth underneath.
"The skull cliff," I say.
Dragon nods once.
"That at least is unmistakable."
"It looks like a potato."
"It looks like a skull."
"It looks like a skull if the skull had rickets."
He huffs.
"The eye sockets are clear."
"They're asymmetrical."
"Erosion."
"Bad drawing."
"Both."
I trace the line that leads past the skull shape and into a shaded mess of charcoal where Ogden clearly ran out of patience or stick.
"This is the mountain range?"
"Presumably."
"Looks like he wiped his hand there."
"He may have."
I flip the parchment over.
Nothing.
Back again.
Still nothing.
"Right," I say. "So we go north. Past the donkey forest. Up the eel road. To the skull potato."
Dragon lowers his snout closer, studying the lower corner where a crude X has been gouged so hard it nearly tore the parchment.
"There," he says softly.
"The treasure mark," I nod.
"Duke's payroll."
I whistle low.
"Silver livres. Whole war chest meant for mercenary wages."
"Pure silver," Dragon adds, voice sharpening slightly. "Coin. Coin. Coin."
I glance at him.
"You're salivating."
"I am calculating."
"Same face."
He ignores that, gaze drifting back to the map.
"Yes, but which mountain? We are at the foothills of Redwall... there are mountains upon mountains"
I nod almost in despair.
Then he says, almost idly:
"Tell me, Saya. If you were hiding a sack of pure silver in these lands… where would you put it?"
I blink.
"Well… buried, obviously."
"Yes. But where."
I look down at the charcoal mess again.
Mountains.
Pines.
Roads.
River maybe.
Or a crack in the parchment.
"Somewhere hard to reach," I say. "Cliffside. Cave. Under a shrine. Inside a hollow tree. Standard criminal creativity."
He shakes his head faintly.
"No. Think simpler."
I frown.
"Hidden but safe."
"Safe from whom."
"Bandits. Soldiers. Opportunists."
He tilts his head.
"And the locals?"
I pause.
"Same category."
"Not entirely."
He taps one claw gently beside the skull cliff.
"Where is the one place locals would not touch it… even if they found it by accident."
I squint at the parchment again.
Mountains.
Pines.
The donkey-fish forest.
Then it clicks.
I look up slowly.
"Oh."
Dragon's eye gleams.
"Yes."
I lean back on my heels, grin spreading despite myself.
"You're right."
"Of course I am."
I tap the map again, this time with recognition instead of guesswork.
"Lycan lands."
He nods.
"Deep lycan territory. Old packs. Old forests. No baronial patrols without escort."
"And no curious villagers digging random holes," I add.
"Precisely."
I snort.
"Because if they did, they'd find a sack of silver."
"And silver burns lycans."
I wince slightly.
"Not just burns. Sizzles."
"Blisters."
"Smokes."
"Puckers."
We both look back down at the charcoal X.
"Clever bastard," I mutter.
Dragon exhales through his nose.
"Very."
I grin crookedly.
"Hide treasure in the one place no one wants to touch it."
"And guarded," Dragon adds, "by beings naturally resistant to theft."
"Because anyone sniffing around risks getting eaten."
"Or worse," he says.
I fold the parchment carefully, despite its crimes.
"So," I say, tucking it into my belt, "we head north."
"Through wolf country."
"Through wolf country."
He watches me for a moment.
"You have experience with Lycans."
I smirk.
"Professional experience."
"That is not reassuring."
"It should be. I speak fluent growl."
He groans softly.
I start up the trail, boots crunching pine needles.
Behind me, Dragon unfolds his wings with a leathery sigh.
"Very well," he says. "Let us retrieve our silver from the only place in the world where no one wants to touch it."
I glance back over my shoulder.
"Except us."
He bares a row of ancient teeth.
"Especially us."
And somewhere far north, beyond donkey forests the skull potatoe mountains wait.
Full of wolves.
And buried silver that bites back.