That afternoon, I informed Viking—very calmly, very professionally—that I would be traveling to the capital.
He listened. Arms crossed. Shirt still absent for reasons I was beginning to suspect were deliberate. "You may need me," he said.
I blinked.
Need him… for what, exactly? Need muscles? Need abs? Need moral support in the form of intimidating biceps?
He might not be wrong. Still, there was the small issue of me being a terrible host. I was supposed to tour him properly—show him my territory, the way the cold wind sang over the hills, the farms rising from ice and ruin, the people rebuilding under skies that refused to break them.
But he was volunteering. And I was tired. "Fine," I said. "Come with me."
Coffi and Latte immediately grinned like they had just won a bet.
