They joined the back of a long line leading to the main gate. The stone arch ahead framed a heavy iron grate, raised for the day, its shadow striped across the road. Sunlight caught on spear tips and polished breastplates, turning every movement of the guards into a small flash of white.

  Wooden barriers funneled people into two narrow lanes where armored sentries checked papers, glanced at wagons, and mostly tried not to look too bored.

  James shifted his weight from foot to foot and tried not to think about how long it had been since he’d slept in a proper bed. Or any bed, really.

  Mira, beside him, clutched her staff in both hands. Her eyes kept drifting toward the walls, the towers, the banners snapping in the breeze. She looked like someone standing on the threshold of a childhood home that had grown bigger and more complicated while she was gone.

  Vhara stayed half a step to James’s right, arms loose at her sides, gaze sweeping slowly over the crowd. Her posture said she was relaxed. Her eyes said several people would die very quickly if they made the wrong kind of noise.

  To distract himself from the endless Mira and Vhara tension humming in the air, James let his attention wander down the line.

  A wiry man lurched forward ahead of them, coughing so violently that the birds on the wall took off in a burst of wings. His cloak bulged oddly at the stomach, twitching now and then as if something inside was trying to punch its way out. The guards glanced once, one of them wrinkling his nose, and then waved the man through without a single question.

  James watched him disappear under the archway.

  “Reassuring,” he muttered.

  Next came three dwarves pulling a low handcart overflowing with metal scraps and half-melted ingots. The cart squealed with every bump, one wheel sparking angrily against the stone. The dwarves didn’t slow at all. They slapped a pair of stamped papers into the nearest guard’s hand without even looking at him.

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh, all in order,” the guard mumbled, not bothering to read more than the first line. “Go on.”

  The dwarves trundled past the gate, still arguing heatedly about ore quality.

  A merchant wagon followed, pulled by two shaggy horses. Wind tugged at the canvas cover just enough for James to see the inside: a wooden crate bound with six leather belts and three chains, rattling so hard it made the entire wagon shiver. Dust fell from the boards with every muffled impact.

  The guards did not even glance in.

  Behind that wagon, two teenage travelers strolled forward, eating skewers dripping bright red sauce. They handed over a single folded paper, got a quick nod, and passed through the archway still laughing at some private joke.

  James stared.

  “Good to know Min City takes security very seriously,” he said under his breath.

  The line crept forward. Heat pressed against the back of his neck. Somewhere behind them, a child started whining about the sun. Somewhere ahead, a man insisted loudly that his four barrels of ‘medicinal herbs’ did not require inspection.

  Finally, it was their turn.

  One of the gate guards glanced up. His helmet sat a little crooked on his head, chin strap half twisted. His gaze slid from James to Mira.

  Then to Vhara.

  It stayed on Vhara.

  The color drained slowly from his face, like someone was squeezing it out.

  He lowered his spear so that the tip angled across their path.

  “Hold there,” he said. “Step aside, please.”

  James blinked. “Sorry, what?”

  “Routine check,” the guard answered, shoulders tightening inside his armor.

  James squinted at him. “No, it isn’t.”

  “It is,” the man insisted.

  “I’ve been watching for twenty minutes,” James said, stabbing a finger back down the road. “You let a walking disease cloud in without a word. You let the dwarves push a cart held together by prayer and rust. And that wagon—” he pointed toward the one with the chained crate, which was now partway through the gate “—is smuggling something that wants out badly enough to invent tools. But sure, we’re the problem.”

  The second guard stepped closer, hand resting on his sword hilt. “It’s for security.”

  James swung his arm toward the man two wagons behind them. The man’s burlap sack bulged and writhed like it contained five angry cats and a bad idea.

  “That guy’s bag is alive,” James said. “Why is that not a concern?”

  The guard sniffed. “It is none of your business.”

  “It becomes my business if it hatches in the middle of the street and starts eating toddlers.”

  Vhara leaned in, her voice flat and calm. “If it eats toddlers, I will kill it.”

  She paused.

  “If the guards are the problem, I will kill them instead.”

  James whispered back, horrified, “Please don’t kill anyone at the city gates. I’m trying to blend in.”

  Mira moved quickly to cut in, staff held close to her chest. “Sirs,” she said in her politest voice, “is something wrong? We are just travelers returning to the city.”

  The first guard cleared his throat, eyes still fixed on Vhara. “Your companion,” he said stiffly, “is of a kind known for trouble.”

  Vhara stared at him with the sincerity of a statue. “I do not cause trouble. Trouble comes to me. I just fix it.”

  “That,” the guard snapped, “is exactly what someone with a bounty would say.”

  James threw his hands up. “She doesn’t have a bounty. We checked. Twice. Why is everyone else walking in like it’s market day while we have to audition for the privilege of standing in your presence?”

  “Rules are rules,” the guard insisted.

  James shifted his weight, anger bleeding into his voice. “No. Rules are excuses. And you’re applying them selectively.”

  Murmurs stirred in the line behind them. People leaned sideways to get a clearer view. A few careful souls took a step back from the brewing argument.

  The guard’s jaw clenched. “Sir, I am warning you—”

  “And I am warning you,” James shot back. He jabbed a thumb at Vhara. “If you keep blocking us for no reason, she will get offended. When she gets offended, trees die. Possibly gates. Maybe guards.”

  Vhara nodded once, like she’d been complimented on her haircut.

  Both guards blanched in the same heartbeat.

  Mira groaned into her hands. “James, why would you say that…”

  A frantic, rapid-fire whisper session broke out between the two guards. One darted a glance at Vhara’s arms, as if measuring how long it would take her to crush steel. The other looked at the nearby trees. Then at the gate. Then at his own life choices.

  Five seconds later, the wooden barrier rattled upward so fast it nearly bounced.

  “You may enter,” the first guard croaked. “Please enjoy your stay in Min City. And… please do not cause trouble in the city.”

  James smiled pleasantly. “We will do our very best.”

  They stepped past the guards and under the archway, the cool shadow briefly swallowing them before they emerged back into sunlight on the other side.

  “You are going to get us banned,” Mira muttered.

  Vhara shrugged. “If they ban us, we walk through the wall.”

  “STOP SAYING THINGS LIKE THAT,” Mira hissed.

  James just sighed and kept walking.

  The world changed the moment they cleared the gate.

  Noise hit first. Vendors shouted from both sides of the main street, hawking everything from skewers of sizzling meat to woven charms that supposedly warded off bad dreams. A fishmonger slapped a silver-scaled trout onto his counter with a wet smack, sending a spray of water onto the cobblestones. A woman on a second-story balcony shook out a bright red rug, dust falling in a fine storm over a complaining passerby.

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  Two kids ran circles around a fountain shaped like intertwined dragons, their bare feet slapping on wet stone as they shrieked with laughter. Somewhere nearby, a lute struggled through a cheerful melody, only slightly off-key.

  The smells came right after. Fresh bread and yeast from a row of bakeries, fat popping on hot iron from some street grill, cinnamon and pepper drifting from the direction of the spice sellers. All of it laced with the less charming tang of horse, sweat, and on the left side of the street one very powerful sewer vent.

  James inhaled deeply, eyes closing for a second. “Is that fresh bread? And meat? And… caramelized onions?” He turned to Mira, serious. “Mira. This place smells like a festival.”

  “That is bakery row,” Mira said, pointing to a line of stone-front shops where ovens exhaled hot air every time a door opened. Pride crept into her voice. “And over there is the spice quarter.”

  “And that?” James asked, sniffing toward a suspicious gust.

  “That is the sewer vent,” she admitted.

  James gagged. “Perfect. Balance.”

  People shifted around them as they advanced. Most pretended not to stare, but eyes still slid their way, lingering on Vhara’s height, her stance, the way her hand rested near her weapon. People stepped aside a little sooner than they needed to, giving the trio an oddly clear path down the crowded street.

  Mira’s steps grew a touch quicker the closer they got to the broad plaza at the center. Her shoulders straightened. Her grip on the staff loosened, then tightened again, like she couldn’t decide whether to pretend she belonged here or not.

  Vhara walked with the same measured stride as always, but her gaze never stopped moving. Rooftops. Alley mouths. Window shadows. Anyone whose stare lingered too long.

  “JAAAAMES!”

  The shout tore through the noise like a thrown brick through glass.

  James turned just in time to see Marty barreling toward him, half-running, half-tripping over a stack of empty crates. Pedestrians scrambled out of the way. Someone swore as Marty clipped their basket.

  Behind him, Gerrard followed at a completely normal walking pace, arms crossed, expression somewhere between annoyed and relieved.

  Marty skidded to a stop so close that James had to lean back to avoid taking a forehead to the nose. The young man’s eyes were wide and shiny.

  “You,” Marty panted. “You’re alive.”

  James blinked. “Usually, yes.”

  “You left with Villen,” Marty said, voice cracking. “VILLEN. And now you show up with two women? What in the nine spice markets happened out there?! And where’s Villen?”

  Gerrard’s brows climbed slowly. “You really are full of surprises.”

  James rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s… a long story. Involves fear, fire, mana, unconsciousness, and I’m emotionally not ready to relive it in public.”

  Marty latched onto his shoulders, bouncing slightly on his heels. “We’re staying at the Ox and Ember Inn. Big yellow building near the west fountain, you cannot miss it. Come find us later, alright? We need to hear everything.”

  James nodded. “I probably will. I might need a place to stay while I figure some things out.”

  Mira, who had been hovering half a step behind James, perked up instantly. “You can stay at my house,” she said. “It is small, but it is clean. And safe. And—”

  “No.” James cut in quickly, hands raised. “Thank you, really, but no. I don’t want to impose.”

  Vhara tilted her head. “Why reject? Her home is safe.”

  James lowered his voice. “Because then you two will argue over something, and I don’t have the stamina to survive that tonight.”

  Vhara tilted her head. “We do not argue. She simply insists she is right.”

  Mira muttered, “Because I usually am.”

  James sighed. “See? That. Exactly that.”

  Marty’s eyes flicked between them, confusion starting to drown curiosity. “Right,” he said slowly. “You are clearly busy not explaining things. We have to go meet someone at the guild before they close their ledger, anyway.”

  He thumped James once on the arm, grinning. “Ox and Ember. West fountain. If you don’t show up, I will assume you died after all, and I will be very offended.”

  Gerrard gave James a small nod. “Good to see you breathing.”

  Then the two of them slipped back into the flow of the crowd, their voices fading into the general roar of the plaza as they headed toward another street.

  The three of them were alone again.

  For about six seconds.

  “Now that we are here,” Mira said quietly, “what is your plan?”

  James exhaled slowly. “I need to find someone. Bree and Willem’s daughter.”

  “Name?” Mira asked.

  “Gisabelle.”

  Mira’s face brightened. “That is a lovely—”

  James stopped dead, smacking his palm lightly against his forehead. “Oh no.”

  Mira blinked. “What is wrong?”

  “I never asked what she does for a living,” he said. “Or where she works. Or where she lives. Or anything remotely useful.”

  Vhara blinked once, slowly. “So you search for a woman in a city of thousands, with only a name. No clan. No job. No house. No idea where she went.”

  “…Yes,” James muttered.

  “You are extremely brave, James.”

  “That is one word for it.”

  Mira chewed her lip for a second, thinking. Then her expression firmed. “The City Hall keeps records,” she said. “If she is a resident, they might have her listed. Or at least tell you what is possible.”

  She pointed across the plaza.

  A wide flight of stone steps led up to a stern building with tall windows and double doors carved with Min’s crest. People drifted in and out: traders with folded papers in hand, messengers with satchels, and a frazzled woman dragging a sullen teenager by the ear.

  “At least it is a place to start,” Mira said.

  James sighed. “All right. Let’s go annoy paperwork.”

  Inside, City Hall smelled like ink, parchment, and the stale patience of people who had been waiting in line for far too long. Quills scratched somewhere out of sight. A clerk shouted for someone to sign in duplicate. Somewhere deeper in the building, a chair scraped hard enough to make the floor complain.

  They joined a short queue in front of a desk where a man with half-moon glasses and impressive eye bags was shuffling papers. By the time it was their turn, he’d flipped through three stacks and muttered to himself five different times about missing stamps.

  “Yes?” he asked without looking up. “How can I help you?”

  “I am looking for someone,” James said. “Her name is Gisabelle.”

  The clerk finally lifted his gaze, gave James a quick once-over, then reached under the desk and hauled out a ledger thick enough to function as a blunt weapon. He flipped it open and began running a finger down the columns.

  “Family name?” he asked.

  “No idea,” James admitted.

  “Occupation?

  “…Unknown.”

  “District?”

  James stared. “Apparently there are districts.”

  The clerk pinched the bridge of his nose. He breathed in slowly through his teeth, let the breath out just as slowly, and then turned a few more pages.

  “Sir,” he said at last, “there are eighteen women named Gisabelle currently residing in Min City.”

  James felt something inside him sag. “Of course there are,” he whispered. “Why would fate make this simple.”

  “We cannot provide private addresses without official authorization,” the clerk continued. “However, for a small fee you may file a citywide notice. If your… Gisabelle happens to see it, she may contact you at the location you specify.”

  James rubbed his temples. “So my choice is either wander the streets shouting her name or pay the city to shout it for me. Fine. Let’s do the notice.”

  The clerk pulled out a clean form and dipped his quill. “Name of the person posting the notice?”

  “James Gordon.”

  “Description of the person you seek?”

  James hesitated, then gave what he could: farmer parents, old village, the way Bree had looked when she talked about her, the fact that she might be an adventurer.

  “Current place of residence for replies?” the clerk asked.

  James opened his mouth.

  Nothing came out.

  He glanced sideways at Mira.

  “We will stay at the Ox and Ember Inn,” she said promptly. “West fountain.”

  The clerk wrote it down without comment. “There is a filing cost of three silver coins.”

  James dug into the pouch Villen had given him and produced the money, trying not to think about how fast it was evaporating.

  Quill scratches. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.

  “It is done,” the clerk said, sliding the form aside. “If someone matching your description responds, a message will be sent to the Ox and Ember. Check with them daily.”

  “Thank you,” James said.

  The word tasted like mild defeat.

  Outside, the plaza felt louder than before. James walked a few steps, then leaned against a stone pillar and let his head bang gently back once.

  “I just filed a missing person notice,” he said, “for someone who is not missing. I am truly a genius.”

  Mira stood beside him, hands folded over the end of her staff. “You did what you could with what you had,” she said. “It is more than most would do.”

  “Also more expensive,” James muttered.

  She smiled weakly. “That too.”

  Vhara glanced at the sun’s position. “Where now?”

  “I suppose we should find the inn Marty mentioned,” James said. “I cannot keep sleeping under trees. They have opinions about my back.”

  Mira straightened. “I know the way. The vendors might have shuffled around, but the big landmarks never change. Come. I’ll get you there… and then I have to go convince my parents I’m not dead.”

  There was a hint of dread on that last part.

  James pushed off the pillar. “Lead the way, then.”

  The Ox and Ember Inn stood beside a wide circular fountain where water poured from the mouth of a stone horse into a shallow pool. Children leaned over the edge to splash themselves. A dog tried to drink from the falling stream and ended up just getting wetter and more confused.

  The inn itself was a sturdy, two-story building with sun-yellow plaster and dark wooden beams crisscrossing the front. Warm light spilled from its windows. Laughter drifted out every time the door opened.

  A hanging sign creaked gently above the entrance: an ox head, carved in rough lines, with a faint carved ember glowing beneath it.

  Inside, the air wrapped around them like a blanket left too long near a hearth. Heat from a large stone fireplace pressed against James’s face. The smell of roasted herbs, spiced ale, and old wood filled his nose.

  Mugs clinked. Voices rose and fell in waves. Adventurers in mismatched armor argued over a map spread across one table. At another, two bards were still engaged in a quiet war over a lute’s tuning. The floorboards complained softly under every step.

  The innkeeper stood behind the counter, polishing a tankard with a cloth that had seen better days. He was a broad man with a thick chestnut beard braided down the middle, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms.

  He glanced up as they approached. “Afternoon,” he said. “How many rooms?”

  James opened his mouth, mind already calculating how much coin he had left and how long it needed to last.

  “One room, two beds, if possible,” he began. “We can—”

  Mira stepped in front of him so fast her cloak flared. “Two rooms, please.”

  James blinked at the back of her head. “Mira—”

  She did not look at him. “Two,” she repeated, cheeks slightly pink. “It would not be proper any other way.”

  The innkeeper nodded slowly. “Two rooms,” he said. “Eight silver for the night, breakfast included.”

  Vhara folded her arms. “I do not have money.”

  James winced. He opened his mouth, already composing a speech about budgeting and how he did not, unfortunately, generate coins by breathing.

  “I will pay,” Mira said quickly.

  James stared. “You do not have to—”

  “I know,” she said, still not looking at him. “I want to. You both helped me reach home safely. Let me do this much.”

  The innkeeper shrugged, clearly unconcerned with the deeper social implications. “As long as someone pays, the rooms do not care who.”

  Mira fumbled with her coin pouch, counted out the silver, and placed it on the counter with slightly trembling fingers.

  Vhara eyed the keys the innkeeper set down. “I could sleep on the floor,” she said. “Or the roof. The roof is acceptable.”

  “No,” Mira replied at once. “You will sleep in a bed. Like a guest. Like a person who almost killed a dire wolf with one swing.”

  Vhara considered this. “Beds are… soft,” she said uncertainly.

  “That is the point,” Mira said.

  The innkeeper slid two keys across. James picked one up, feeling the cool metal against his palm.

  “Thank you,” he said to Mira.

  She finally met his eyes, just for a second. “It is nothing,” she murmured. “Friends help each other.”

  Vhara made a quiet sound that might have been agreement. Or indigestion. It was always hard to tell.

  James let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The road from the village to here, Villen, the forest, the fights, the sleepless nights, everything crashed into him in one heavy wave.

  Noise.

  Crowds.

  A city full of strangers.

  A notice for a girl he barely knew.

  And somehow, two people at his side who had chosen not to walk away.

  He rolled the key between his fingers.

  “Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s get settled before something explodes.”

  Together, loud, mismatched, and very slightly less lost than before, they stepped away from the counter, deeper into the warm light and clamor of the Ox and Ember, and into whatever Min City decided to throw at them next.

  Author’s Note