By that point we were already deep in Lycan country.
Real country.
Mountain country.
The sort where the forest doesn't thin for roads — it swallows them.
There are no proper highways out there. No milestones. No patrol lanterns marking safe passage. Just a labyrinth of logging paths carved by necessity and abandoned the moment the timber runs dry.
You walk one trail for an hour and it splits into three.
Two of those circle back.
One leads into a valley that looks identical to the last five you crossed.
Pine everywhere.
Sap thick in the air.
Too foggy to fly safely, let alone see something.
Axes ringing from distant camps you never quite reach.
Scattered huts clinging to slopes like they grew there by accident. Smoke leaking from chimneys. Iron bars on cellar windows. Chains nailed to timber beams outside, just in case the moon rises wrong.
Hamlets that don't show up on any map because no one lives there long enough to matter.
And us?
We had Ogden's masterpiece.
A scrap of parchment he'd sketched under duress with a charred stick while I held my foot on his ribs and the Dragon described, in detail, how many bones a human hand contains.
The ink had run where blood soaked through.
Half the landmarks looked like smudges.
The forest might've been pines or a donkey, and somewhere beyond it — if the lying bastard hadn't been lying again — stood a skull-shaped cliff where the Duke's silver payroll was buried.
So we made camp.
Temporary.
Strategic.
A cave tucked into the Redwall slope — high enough to see the timber valleys, low enough to stay hidden from patrol glints.
The Dragon liked it.
Stone ceiling. Narrow mouth. Good acoustics for brooding.
He folded himself inside like a storm put on pause, smoke curling lazily from the entrance crack like the mountain had taken up pipe-smoking.
From there we watched traffic move through the forest arteries below.
Baronial patrols.
Timber carts.
Occasional wolf shapes slipping between trees at dusk.
Waiting.
Planning.
Arguing about whether Ogden's donkey-forest was north or northeast.
Eventually someone had to go down.
Ask around.
Find anyone who knew the passes well enough to recognize a skull cliff when described as "looks like death but geological."
So that someone… was me.
I like walking into trouble on my own two feet. Makes it feel negotiable.
The path down toward the timber inns was muddy and torn up, wagon ruts filled with old rain. Pine sap thick in the air. Somewhere far off, axes were biting wood with patient rhythm.
Then I heard it before I saw it.
Not wolves.
Men.
Breathing like they'd swallowed gravel.
A band of baronial soldiers stumbled around the bend. Six of them left from what looked like twelve. Armor dented. Cloaks ripped. One limping so badly another had to hold him up.
They had a cart.
And in the cart—
A wolf.
Huge. Matted fur dark with dried blood. One foreleg twisted wrong. A silver-tipped spear still lodged deep in its ribs.
Flies already bold.
One of the soldiers spotted me and stiffened.
"Gods," he muttered. "Another one."
"Another what?" I asked sweetly, adjusting the strap of my little satchel. "Charming woman on a road?"
They spread slightly. Not coordinated. Not confident. Just reflex.
Their captain—if that's what he was—looked like he hadn't slept in days. Beard crusted with blood that wasn't all his.
"You headed to the Timber Goat?" he asked.
"That depends. Is the ale drinkable?"
He didn't smile.
"You don't want to go alone."
"I usually do," I said.
One of the younger soldiers jerked his chin toward the cart.
"We got attacked not half a league from there."
I let my eyes drift to the wolf.
Big. Old scars under the fur.
"What happened?" I asked, lighter than I felt.
The captain spat into the mud.
"What happened is we hired a guide. Local. Knew the mountain passes. Quiet sort. Carried our packs. Showed us the safe forest trails."
He kicked the wheel of the cart.
"Turns out he knew them real well."
Another soldier, pale and shaking, cut in:
"Full moon rose and he—he just—"
He made a ripping motion with his hands.
"Half the squad before we got the spear in him," said the captain flatly. "Silver tip. Only thing that took him down."
They all looked at the spear as if it were holy.
One of the men, narrow-eyed, scar across his cheek, stepped closer to me.
"You from around here?"
"Seebulba," I said cheerfully. "Canal district. Very humid. Very sinful."
He didn't laugh.
"You traveling alone?"
"Yes."
"Odd place for a woman to wander. Wolves about."
I shrugged.
"I've met wolves."
His gaze sharpened.
"Have you now."
The air shifted.
They were tired. Wounded. Half-feral with fear.
Fear makes men suspicious of anything with teeth.
"You sure you want to head that way?" the captain said. "If that one had kin—"
He didn't finish.
The suspicious one circled slightly, as if trying to catch my scent.
"You're not one of them, are you."
I widened my eyes.
"One of what? Underpaid mountain laborers?"
"Lycans," he snapped.
The word landed hard. Ugly. Wet.
The suspicious one stepped closer.
"You like silver?" he asked.
"Love it," I said lightly.
He moved fast.
Grabbed my wrist.
Not cruel. Not gentle either.
Another soldier fumbled at his belt and pulled free a bright baronial coin. Real mint. Clean edge. Cold shine.
They didn't ask.
They pressed it into my open palm.
Hard.
For a heartbeat no one breathed.
The metal sat there, cool against my skin.
No smoke.
No blistering hiss.
No dramatic sizzling.
Just silver.
I looked down at it.
Then back up at them.
Slow grin.
"See?" I said. "I don't sizzle."
The suspicious one squinted at my hand like it might burst into flames out of spite.
"Hold it," he muttered.
I closed my fingers around the coin deliberately. Turned it in my palm. Rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger.
Still nothing.
I lifted my hand and tapped the edge of it against my teeth.
Clink.
"Mm," I said. "Tastes like taxes."
One of them almost laughed. Almost.
The man holding my wrist loosened his grip, just a fraction.
"You don't smell like one," the pale soldier said again.
"I bathe," I replied primly.
The captain finally waved a tired hand.
"Let her go."
"But—" the suspicious one started.
"If she was pack," the captain said, eyes flicking to the dead wolf, "she wouldn't be walking the road alone."
That shut him up.
They started moving again, cart wheels creaking.
As they passed me, I glanced into the cart one more time.
The wolf's eyes were still open.
Clouded.
Not theatrical. Not noble. Just dead.
A guide.
A man who knew the passes.
Now meat on a cart.
The captain's voice drifted back to me:
"We trusted him."
I stood there a moment after they'd gone.
Wind moving through the pines.
Somewhere far off, an axe stopped mid-swing.
I slipped the coin back into my satchel and continued toward the inn.
The Dragon would say this was baronial stupidity.
Saya would say it was bad luck.
The mountain, I suspected, would say nothing at all.
***
The Timber Goat was packed like a sack of onions and about as fragrant.
I slid in next to a baronial soldier whose armor looked like it had been argued with repeatedly. One shoulder plate dented. One eye swollen. Nose crooked in a way that suggested prior educational experiences with fists.
He was already mid-drink and mid-sentence to absolutely no one.
"—I'm telling you, I fought orcs in Hanigalbat," he was saying to his cup. "Actual orcs. Green. Smelled like onions and rage. You see an orc, you stab an orc. Very straightforward profession."
I leaned in.
"Straightforward is underrated," I purred.
He blinked at me like I had just materialized out of ale foam.
"Then I fought the Sisterhood," he continued without missing a beat. "You ever see a griffon dive at you while someone screams about ideological purification?"
"I try not to," I said, gently tracing a finger along the rim of his mug.
"Clear lines though," he went on. "You know who wants to kill you. They know who wants to kill them. Everyone's color-coded. Beautiful system."
I shifted closer, letting my knee brush his thigh.
"And now?" I asked sweetly.
"Now?" He threw both hands up. "Now I'm in the mountains chasing wolves who sometimes aren't wolves."
I tilted my head.
"Ah."
"Look at this place," he said, gesturing so wildly he nearly knocked a passing tavern wench with his elbow. "Anyone here could be one of them."
I glanced around.
Loggers.Traders.A very quiet man with sap on his boots.A woman in a shawl staring into the fire like it owed her money.
"Could be me," I suggested.
He squinted at me.
"Could be you."
"Do I look suspiciously fluffy? Care to inspect?"
He ignored that.
"You don't know who you're fighting," he said, voice rising. "You hire a guide. Nice mountain fellow. Knows the passes. Says 'evening' like he means it. Then the moon comes up and suddenly he's chewing on your lieutenant."
I winced sympathetically.
"That's inconvenient."
"Inconvenient?!" He slapped the table. "Half the squad! And Lerida sells us this."
He fumbled in his belt and produced a dagger with a flourish.
"Behold," he said dramatically. "Pure silver."
He handed it to me like a sacred relic.
I examined it. Scraped a nail along the blade.
A streak of dull iron showed beneath the shine.
I looked at him.
"It's painted."
"Yes!" he shouted triumphantly, as if I had just solved a riddle. "Silver paint! From Lerida! Supposed to burn wolves like holy fire. Instead it catches rust like old ship nails."
I handed it back.
"Perhaps the wolves can catch lockjaw."
He stared at me.
"I fought in the Empire," he said, leaning in, breath thick with ale. "Mercenary work. Sand. Heat. Very clear contracts. You get stabbed, you get paid. Simple."
I placed a hand on his forearm.
"I also offer clear contracts."
He didn't even glance down.
"And out here?" he continued, building steam. "Out here you share a drink and wonder if the man across from you is going to sprout teeth."
I smiled brightly.
"I have teeth already."
He nodded solemnly.
"Yes. Everyone does. That's the problem."
I tried a little harder. Let my shoulder slip just enough. Let my voice soften.
"You seem very tense," I murmured. "Perhaps you need… decompression."
"I need transparency," he declared.
"That too."
My patience was starting to run out.
He gestured wildly at the room again.
"Look at them! That one. That one. That one."
He pointed at a log-cutter who froze mid-chew.
"Could be wolf. Could be man. Could be both. And then you've got these gentry brats coming up here howling about liberation."
My ears perked.
"Gnetry brats?"
He rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might detach.
"Baronial sons with silk cloaks and poetry. 'We choose the burden of the beast.'" He wiggled his fingers mockingly. "They don't even know how to sharpen a blade."
"Do they pay well?" I asked carefully.
"They pay in philosophy," he groaned.
I sighed.
"Tragic."
"And then when patrols tighten and hunts begin," he continued, undeterred by my attempts to redirect him toward more practical matters, "it's the locals who bleed. The timber men. The sap collectors. The actual mountain folk."
He took another swig.
"Worst gig I ever took."
I leaned closer, practically in his lap now.
"I could improve it."
He blinked at me slowly.
"I'm too drunk," he said gravely. "And also possibly about to be eaten by someone."
"I promise not to chew."
He studied my face as if weighing existential risk versus pleasure.
"Anyone here could be one of them," he repeated softly.
I widened my eyes.
"I like silver," I offered.
He squinted.
"Does it burn you?"
"Only when I don't have it," I said.
He watched me, then nodded once.
"Good teeth," he said.
"Excellent services," I added helpfully.
He pushed his empty mug away with the solemnity of a man concluding a treaty.
"I've paid enough tonight," he muttered. "In blood and rusty blades."
He stood. Wobbled. Corrected himself with military dignity. Then trudged off toward the stairs like a man determined to lose a fight with gravity in private.
I sat there for a moment.
Then I pouted.
Actually pouted.
Lower lip. Slight frown. The works.
"Godsdamn mountains," I muttered. "Girl can't earn coin in this cursed country."
The bench dipped suddenly under fresh weight.
I didn't even turn.
"Oh it's you again," I said flatly.
The Dwarf grinned at me from under his beard, which smelled faintly of pine sap and poor decisions.
"Always," he said.
"Of course it's always you," I sighed. "Every inn. Every province. Every moral collapse. There you are."
He lifted a tankard.
"I am a constant."
"You're a rash."
He chuckled.
"Rough crowd tonight?"
"Hopeless," I said dramatically. "Soldiers too drunk. Loggers too suspicious. Tower brats too theoretical. No one knows anything."
"About what?"
"About where Ogden hid the duke's silver," I hissed, leaning closer. "That's why I'm here, in case you forgot. Not for rustic charm. No one knows a thing. I've asked three men and a very shifty sap merchant."
The Dwarf nodded sagely.
"Sodden place."
"It is sodden," I agreed. "Emotionally and meteorologically."
He took a drink.
"Everyone's paranoid," he said. "Soldiers don't trust the locals. Locals don't trust the soldiers. Wolves don't trust anyone. Rich pups think they're revolutionaries. Poor wolves think they're doomed."
I frowned.
"You forgot me."
He glanced at me.
"You don't trust anyone."
"That's different," I said. "That's professionalism."
He grinned wider.
"Silver's not here in town."
I perked up.
"Oh?"
He jerked his thumb toward the mountains.
"Not where soldiers drink. Not where loggers talk. Somewhere no one wants to look."
I narrowed my eyes.
"Wonderful."
He clapped me on the back.
"Cheer up."
"I am not cheered," I snapped. "This whole place is damp and tense and no one is spending."
He raised his brows.
"Hard to be generous when you're wondering if the woman next to you will sprout fur."
I glanced around the inn again.
Loggers. Hunters. A quiet man by the hearth. Two silk-cloaked youths arguing about liberation near the door.
Everyone watching everyone.
I sighed.
"Godsdamn country," I muttered. "Can't earn coin. Can't get answers. Can't even find one decent drunk with loose lips."
The Dwarf leaned closer.
"Maybe," he said, eyes twinkling, "you're asking the wrong questions."
I squinted at him.
"And maybe," I said, "you're about to tell me something useful for once."
He grinned.
"Always," he said again.
I leaned in closer to the Dwarf, lowering my voice like I was about to confess a crime.
"I don't understand this place," I muttered.
He took a slow drink.
"Lycans I met before? Working at Madam Zoobaya's?" I waved a hand vaguely. "Different breed entirely."
"Oh?" he said, amused.
"Oh yes," I nodded. "They had manners."
"That sounds inconvenient."
"They were cocky," I continued. "Alright—pretentious as fuck—but you know… re-fined."
The Dwarf snorted into his beard.
"They'd talk philosophy," I went on, warming to my rant. "Order wine they couldn't pronounce. Ask for scented oils. One of them insisted on discussing 'embo—embo-diddled… embo-died slover—solver-sovereignity' before taking his trousers off."
He blinked.
"I don't know what that is either," I said. "But he tipped well."
The Dwarf chuckled.
"And these ones up here?" I jerked my chin toward the door, toward the dark mountains beyond. "Supposedly the originals. The authentic wolves."
He raised a brow.
"Well?"
"Well one of them pissed next to the barn after we were done."
The Dwarf nearly choked on his drink.
"Pissed," I repeated, offended. "Like a dog. Marking territory."
He wheezed laughter.
"I mean I've had men fall asleep, cry, propose marriage, confess crimes—fine. Occupational hazards. But territorial urination?" I shook my head. "That's where I draw a professional line."
He wiped his beard.
"Mountain habits."
"It was rude," I insisted. "No post-coital courtesy. No poetry. No attempt at meta—meta… meta-foor." I flapped a hand. "You know. Big-thinking comparisons. Just… trousers down, barn wall, stream."
He laughed harder.
"And the ones down by the coast?" I continued, indignant now. "They knew all those big words. The ones the Dragon uses when he's feeling thio-theo-… theatrical."
"Such as?"
"Oh you know—'exit-tent-aal,' 'archie-typical,' 'deca-dent deca-dence of empire'—that sort of thing."
"Important pillow talk."
"Exactly," I said. "You felt intellectually enriched afterwards. Like you should charge extra for educational services."
"And these ones?" he prompted.
I made a face.
"Ugh. Like turnip farmers."
"Turnip farmers?"
"Gruff. Mud on boots. One-word answers. No theory. No sym-bol-ism. No scented oil requests." I shuddered slightly. "One of them tried to pay me in cured meat."
The Dwarf grinned.
"Good meat?"
"Not the point," I said. "The point is the cultural decline."
He lifted his mug.
"Tragic."
"I just assumed lycans were all brooding, well-read, emotionally complicated creatures with commitment issues and strong thighs," I sighed. "Turns out half of them are just overworked lumberjacks with anger problems."
The Dwarf nodded sagely.
"Different packs. Different lives."
I slumped onto the table.
"I liked the coastal ones better. They at least had the decency to intel-lectu-ali—intel-lectu… think about it afterwards."
He patted my shoulder.
"You prefer wolves who use words."
"I prefer wolves who don't pee on agricultural structures immediately after," I corrected.
He laughed into his drink while I glared into mine, deeply offended by the rustic downgrade of lycan standards.
"Gods," I muttered. "This whole country is culturally dis-appoin-ting."