Kaelen’s smile was gentle, crinkling the corners of his startlingly blue eyes.

  “A cloth and some water will do for now. We can oil that sword and your leathers properly later. The important thing is to wipe away the blood and viscera before it corrodes the steel.”

  “Viscera,” I echoed, the word tasting foul in my mouth. I glanced at the dark, chunky smears on the blade. It smelled coppery and vaguely like old garbage. “Right. Viscera. Fun. I guess I skipped the lesson on post-troll-slaying weapon maintenance.”

  Bartholomew, having finished his prim grooming, sauntered over.

  “The beast’s ichor is remarkably acidic. To allow it to linger upon good steel is akin to using a royal decree to wipe one’s hindquarters. A grotesque misuse of a fine instrument.”

  “Thanks for that image, Barty. It’s exactly what I needed right now,” I muttered, wiping my sweaty palms on my leather breeches. “And I think you’re seriously overestimating Rusty’s pedigree.”

  Kaelen, ever the patient instructor, produced a waterskin and a square of linen from his saddlebag. He demonstrated on his own sword, which was disappointingly clean. “Use a firm, downward stroke. Away from your body. A blade this sharp has no concept of friend or foe.”

  I followed his lead, my movements clumsy and stiff. The cloth came away stained a sickening shade of brownish-red. Each wipe felt like reliving the fight—the creature’s guttural roar, the weight of the sword in my hands, the wet, crunching sound as the blade found its home. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I wasn’t just cleaning a weapon; I was wiping away the evidence of a life I’d just taken. A monstrous, ugly life that had been seconds from ending mine, but a life nonetheless. My personal hygiene standards had hit rock bottom, but apparently, my existential crisis meter was still fully functional.

  “Adequate,” Bartholomew sniffed, inspecting my work with a critical golden eye. “For a novice.”

  “I’ll take it.” I sheathed the sword, the clean scrape of steel on leather a strangely satisfying sound. My entire body felt like one giant, throbbing bruise. My armor was splattered with things I didn’t want to identify, and I was pretty sure I had a piece of troll stuck in my hair.

  Against my protestations, Kaelen helped me back onto the horse. I sat in front of him this time, the saddle horn digging into my lower back, his solid chest a warm presence behind me. His arms bracketed me as he held the reins, and I was hyper-aware of the scent of leather, horse, and the clean, woodsmoke smell that seemed to cling to him. It was a hell of a lot better than the Eau de Troll I was currently sporting.

  The ride out of the canyon was a slow, weary affair. The sun, a fat, molten orange ball, began to bleed into the horizon, painting the clouds in shades of violent purple and soft rose. The stark rock walls of the canyon gave way to rolling green hills, dotted with copses of silver-leafed trees that shimmered in the twilight. It was beautiful, a landscape straight out of a fantasy art book. I was too sticky to appreciate it properly.

  “You’re quiet,” he said, his voice a low rumble near my ear.

  “Just processing,” I replied, my voice hoarse. “In my world, the most dangerous thing I had to fight off was a sales pitch about my car’s extended warranty. This is a bit of a steep learning curve.”He chuckled, a warm, genuine sound.

  “You are adapting faster than anyone I have ever seen, Paige Hawking. You should be proud.”

  “I feel less like a hero and more like a disgruntled butcher’s apprentice,” I grumbled, shifting uncomfortably. “Seriously, I would commit unspeakable crimes for a hot bath right now. A very, very long bath. With soap. Maybe some of those fizzy bath bomb things.”

  “Bath… bombs?” he asked, the confusion evident in his tone.

  “Never mind. A primitive tub of hot water will suffice.”

  “Patience, fledgling,” Bartholomew chimed in from his perch on the saddlebag behind Kaelen, where he rode like a tiny, furry king. “Your obsession with ablutions is borderline maniacal. Cleanliness is a virtue, but so is fortitude.”

  “Easy for you to say, Mr. Self-Grooming,” I shot back. “You weren’t used as a troll-gut slip-n-slide.”

  Before the cat could offer a suitably scathing retort, we crested a low hill. Below us, nestled in a gentle curve of the valley, was a beacon of hope: a long, two storey building of timber and fieldstone, with warm yellow light spilling from its windows and a plume of smoke curling merrily from a stone chimney. A wooden sign, creaking gently in the evening breeze, depicted a mug overflowing with foam.

  “The Full Flagon,” Kaelen announced, a note of relief in his own voice. “We’ll find shelter there for the night.”

  My heart soared. Shelter. Food. A bed that wasn’t the cold, hard ground. And, God willing, a bathtub.

  The inn’s common room was a chaotic symphony of noise and smells. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, spilled ale, and damp wool. A fire roared in a massive hearth at one end of the room, casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls. A motley collection of patrons—grizzled merchants and weary travelers—huddled around wooden tables, their voices a low, rumbling cacophony.

  As we entered, a few heads turned. Kaelen, with his knightly bearing and fancy sword, drew immediate respect. I, on the other hand, looking like I’d lost a fight with a meat grinder and smelling even worse, drew looks of overt disgust. Bartholomew, of course, drew sheer confusion.

  A mountain of a man with a beard like a burst mattress and an apron stained with the ghosts of a thousand meals, stomped over from behind the bar.

  “Room for two?” he grunted, his eyes flicking from Kaelen to me, then widening slightly as they landed on Bartholomew, who was now being carried in Kaelen’s arms.

  “And a cat,” Kaelen said smoothly, placing a few silver coins on the man’s meaty palm.

  “We’ll need two rooms. And your largest tub prepared with your hottest water. Immediately.”The innkeeper squinted.

  “The cat… did it just…?”

  “Address me directly, you oaf,” Bartholomew declared, his high-pitched, aristocratic voice cutting through the din. The common room fell silent. Every eye was on us. “I require a bowl of fresh cream, unsullied by the filth of this establishment, and perhaps a morsel of poached fish if your larder is not entirely composed of gristle and despair.”

  The innkeeper stared, his jaw slack. He looked at Kaelen, then at the talking cat, then at my blood-and-guts-caked armor. A slow, weary sigh escaped his lips, as if this was just the latest in a long line of absurdities the world had thrown at him.

  “Right,” he finally rumbled, pocketing the coins. “Two rooms. One bath. And… cream for the… lord cat.” He gestured with a thumb toward a dark wooden staircase. “Up the stairs. Last two doors on the left. The girl will be up with the water.”

  Relief, so potent it almost made my knees buckle, washed over me. I could have kissed the grubby, bearded man.

  “Thank you,” I said, my voice cracking with emotion.

  He just grunted and turned away, yelling at someone in the kitchen about a “bloody talking cat” and “fish.”

  Kaelen gave me a small, amused smile.

  “Your bath awaits, my lady.”

  As we headed for the stairs, the common room’s chatter slowly resumed, now peppered with hushed whispers of “did you see that?” and “talking cat.” I didn’t care. All I could think about was steam, soap, and the sublime pleasure of scrubbing away the last 24 hours. My old life of doom scrolling and lattes felt like a distant dream, but a small piece of civilization felt within reach. And it was shaped like a wooden bathtub.

  The wooden stairs groaned under the dead weight of my exhaustion, each step a small victory. Kaelen, ever the gentleman, walked a pace behind me, his own movements far more graceful despite the clink of his mail. Bartholomew, however, had trotted ahead, his fluffy tail held high like a banner of feline entitlement.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “I do hope ‘the girl’ is cognizant of the proper temperature for cream,” he sniffed, pausing at the landing to look down his nose at us. “Slightly warmed, but not so much that it scalds the palate. It is a delicate art.”

  “I’m sure they’re well-versed in the temperature preferences of divinely appointed talking cats,” I muttered, leaning heavily on the railing.

  “He grows on you, doesn’t he?” Kaelen’s low chuckle was a warm sound in the dim hallway.

  “So does fungus,” I shot back, though there was no real heat in it.

  The last two doors on the left were identical slabs of rough-hewn pine. Kaelen stopped at the first.

  “This shall be mine. Leave your armor in the corridor, and I will see that it gets cleaned. If you require anything else, Paige…” He trailed off, his gaze serious for a moment, lingering on the dried splatters of god-knows-what on my cheek. The amusement was gone, replaced by a quiet concern that did funny things to my stomach. “Just call.”I nodded, my throat suddenly tight.

  “I will. Thanks, Kaelen.”

  He gave me a curt, knightly nod and disappeared into his room, the latch clicking shut behind him. That left me, a sarcastic communications major in a dead man’s armor, and a cat who was currently inspecting my door for splinters.

  “Well?” Bartholomew prompted. “Are you intending to stand there all night? My whiskers are practically drooping with fatigue.”

  Pushing my door open, I was met with a room that was… a room. It had four walls, a floor, and a ceiling, which was a marked improvement over our recent accommodations. A lumpy-looking bed covered with a patchwork quilt was pushed against one wall; a small, rickety table and a single stool were its only companions. A lone window, its panes wavy and distorted, looked out over a muddy stableyard. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke and dust, but to me, it was the Four Seasons.

  “Home sweet home,” I sighed, dropping my sword belt with a heavy clatter on the floor.

  Bartholomew hopped onto the bed, testing the mattress with a disdainful paw.

  “Serviceable, I suppose. It lacks a certain… refinement. And a silk pillow.”

  “I’ll add it to the suggestion box.”

  The process of removing my armor was an ordeal. Each piece felt like it had fused to my skin. The leather was stiff and stank of sweat, blood, and the swampy marsh we’d slogged through. As I unbuckled the last strap, the whole apparatus fell to the floor with a thud. Everything underneath the armor was crusty with who knows what and smelled sour. I pulled off my mud-stained boots and tossed them aside. Blisters covered my feet, and when I pulled off the stained trousers, I saw the constellation of bruises blooming across my legs. My body was a roadmap of this insane new life, each purple and yellow splotch a souvenir from a near-death experience. A few weeks ago, my biggest physical complaint was a paper cut. I caught my reflection in the grimy windowpane – a wild-haired stranger with haunted eyes stared back at me.

  A soft knock at the door startled me.

  “M’lady?” a timid voice called.

  “Come in.”

  The door creaked open to reveal a young girl, no older than thirteen, with a freckled nose and wide, curious eyes. She was struggling with two large wooden buckets, steam rising in fragrant clouds from the water within. An older boy followed her with two more. He set his buckets down and left, only to return a second later with a large wooden tub. They moved with practiced efficiency, the hot water creating a steamy atmosphere in the small room, a luxury I hadn’t dared to hope for.

  The girl placed a small, rough-spun towel and a misshapen lump of brownish soap on the stool.

  “Is there anything else, m’lady?” she asked, her eyes darting from my gore-stained tunic to Bartholomew, who was now preening on the lumpy pillow as if it were a throne.

  “No, this is… this is perfect. Thank you.” I could have wept with gratitude.She bobbed a curtsy, but lingered.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady, but Da said you was in a right scrap. I can stay and help you scrub. Your back and all.”

  My brain short-circuited. A stranger? Washing me? My modern sensibilities screamed in horror. Back home, I barely made eye contact with people in the elevator and practically ran from the idea of a locker room. The idea of this child seeing me naked and scrubbing my… well, everything… was a level of personal intimacy I wasn’t prepared for.

  “Oh. No. That’s… incredibly kind of you, but I can manage,” I said, trying to sound gracious and not like a socially anxious weirdo.

  The girl looked confused, a small frown creasing her brow.

  “Are you sure, m’lady? It’s no trouble.” It was clearly a standard part of the service, an offer of help to a noble lady. Which I decidedly was not.

  “Positive,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m just… really looking forward to being alone. It’s been a long day.”

  “As you wish.” She curtsied again, her curiosity clearly piqued by my strange refusal, and ushered the boy out, pulling the door shut behind them.

  I gathered my troll-encrusted armor and set it in the hall for Ser Kaelen, then shut the door behind me. The moment the latch clicked, I practically dove for the tub. I shed my filthy tunic and smallclothes, kicking them into a heap in the corner as if they were contaminated—which I suppose they were in a way—and sank into the water.

  The heat was a living thing, a shock and a blessing all at once. It seeped into my bones, chasing away the chill that had settled deep in my marrow. My muscles, knotted and screaming from hours of tension, began to unclench one by one. I slid down until the water was up to my chin, the steam filling my lungs, and closed my eyes. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I wasn’t running, wasn’t fighting, wasn’t terrified. I was just warm.

  The lump of soap smelled of lye and something vaguely herbal, a harsh, clean scent that I had a feeling I’d associate with salvation for the rest of my life. I scrubbed at my skin, watching in grim satisfaction as filth and dried blood swirled away in clouds of gray and pink. I washed my hair, working the lather through the matted tangles, feeling the grit and grime dissolve under my fingers. It was a baptism. A shedding of the horror of the past day—the guttural snarls of the bog-lurkers, the sickening squelch of my sword finding purchase, the coppery tang of fear in my mouth. All of it, circling the rim of a cheap wooden bathtub in a backwater inn.

  My mind, finally quiet, started to drift. I thought of Kaelen, his steady presence a strange anchor in this chaotic world. He was the quintessential knight in shining armor, except his was currently dented and splattered with the same monster guts as mine. And underneath the chivalry, there was that glint of amusement, as if my very existence was a fascinating puzzle he was trying to solve. It was annoying. And distracting. And my traitorous heart gave a little flutter that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

  Then I thought of home. A real bath, with bubbles and a bath bomb that turned the water glittery purple. A fluffy towel that didn’t feel like sandpaper. Afterward, I’d put on sweatpants, order a pizza I shouldn’t, and argue with strangers on the internet about a TV show finale. The longing hit me with the force of a physical blow, a hollow ache in my chest so profound it made my eyes sting.

  “Ahem.”

  The sound jolted me back to the dusty room in Eldoria. I cracked an eye open. Bartholomew was sitting primly at the edge of the tub, a small, empty saucer beside him. He was licking a dollop of cream from his whiskers with meticulous care.

  “While I find your aquatic navel-gazing moderately diverting,” he said, pausing his grooming to give me a flat look, “the water is beginning to cool. Furthermore, you are starting to resemble a pale, wrinkled prune. I would advise extracting yourself before you dissolve entirely.”

  I sighed, the brief, beautiful peace shattered by feline pragmatism. He was right. The water was now merely warm, and my fingers and toes were shriveled.

  Climbing out, I dried myself with the rough towel and pulled on the clean, if coarse, peasant clothes I had in my pack. A simple linen tunic and wool trousers. They somehow felt impossibly soft against my clean skin. My hair was damp, my face was scrubbed raw, and I felt more human than I had since I’d first opened my eyes in this insane, magical, terrifying world.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, the lumpy mattress a welcome comfort. The sounds of the inn—drunken singing, the clatter of mugs—filtered up through the floorboards. It was life. It was normal.

  “The girl who brought your bath,” Bartholomew said, leaping gracefully from the tub’s edge to the bed, “she stared at me.”

  “You’re a talking cat, Bart. People are going to stare.”

  “It was not a stare of mere surprise,” he corrected, beginning to knead the quilt with his paws. “It was a stare of… recognition. As if she was trying to place a story her grandmother once told her.” He paused, his yellow eyes locking onto mine. “Be wary of her. The old tales are not always kind to creatures like me. Or to those who travel with them.”

  And just like that, the simple comfort of my bath evaporated. The warmth in my bones was replaced by a familiar, creeping dread. In Eldoria, even a hot bath wasn’t just a bath. It was just a brief, stolen moment of peace before the next danger revealed itself.