The Guild doors swung open again as they stepped back into the city light, then closed behind them with a solid thump. Too many forms and people pretending not to notice the three beasts flanking him like it was normal. All of the attention was starting to grate on Ethan. His shoulders ached. His head buzzed. He was more tired than he realized.

  “Inn’s in the residential quarter,” Lyra said, gesturing northeast. “We can take the tram. It’ll be faster.”

  “The what?” Ethan asked.

  She pointed to the overhead rail. Arches crossed the city tiers in layered stone, copper-lined and mana-lit. He’d seen them on the way in—just hadn’t realized they were part of the transit system.

  “It’s public,” she said. “Next platform’s just ahead.”

  Pixie’s head snapped up. “WAIT. The city has MOVING BOXES?!”

  The Guild Square tram platform rose just past the plaza, built into the stone wall like the city had grown around it. A curved stair led up to the rails, with a glowing transit glyph marking the stop. Copper tracks traced the arches overhead, pulsing faintly as the mana flared in sync with the approaching tram. It rumbled in moments later, stone-sided and mana-bound, riding the line smooth as glass.

  A few people were already waiting. A pair of adventurers with scuffed boots and half-polished swords. A merchant muttering at his cart’s mana lock. A scribe from the Guildhall clutching a scroll case too tightly.

  Pixie bounced as the tram hissed to a stop. “It’s even better up close!”

  Ethan paid the fare—two copper bits per rider, including the dogs. The conductor didn’t raise an eyebrow, just touched a sigil pad to verify the payment and waved them aboard. The Pack filed in behind him, finding space near the center of the tram’s open floor. Wooden benches lined the sides, some already occupied. Moose sat and stayed still. Buster dropped into a half-sprawl like he owned the place. Pixie ducked under the bench first, then popped up onto the seat beside Ethan and pressed her nose to the glass, tail twitching with anticipation. Amelia gave Lyra a brief look, then climbed into her lap without a word.

  A woman near the front turned her head slowly, taking in the group with the kind of expression people usually reserved for the smell of sewage. She was overdressed for public transport—velvet cloak, polished gloves, an oversized hat, and a little too much perfume. Her gaze lingered on the dogs, then drifted to Lyra.

  Pixie’s voice hit the bond like a siren.

  That’s a Cruella hat.

  Ethan blinked once. Seriously?

  Pixie’s mental tone sharpened. Ethan. ETHAN. I told you. Monsters. Always. Wear. Hats. Big hat. Big feather. Too much perfume. SHE IS TRYING TO COLLECT OUR FUR.

  Ethan didn’t laugh, but his jaw tensed. The resemblance was... upsetting.

  Then the tram lurched into motion, carrying them toward Marketline Station.

  "Unbelievable," the woman said, loud enough for the entire car to hear. "I suppose we let beasts ride alongside citizens now. And that one—" she looked directly at Lyra, not bothering to lower her voice, "—should know better than to bring her kind here."

  No one in the carriage responded. The guards kept their eyes forward, the scribe buried himself deeper in his scroll, and the conductor suddenly found something fascinating about his ledger.

  Then every dog turned their head at exactly the same moment.

  Moose's gaze locked onto her first, steady and unblinking. Buster shifted his bulk to face her completely. Pixie pulled away from the window and stared. Even Amelia, still in Lyra's lap, turned to fix the woman with those bright blue eyes.

  Ethan met her gaze next, followed by Lyra.

  Six pairs of eyes, all focused on her with perfect synchronization. The dogs' stares held an intelligence that didn't belong in mere beasts. Ethan's was calm but unyielding. Lyra's ears lay flat, but her amber eyes never wavered.

  The woman's hand tightened on the support pole. Her perfume couldn't quite mask the sudden nervous sweat.

  The synchronized attention of the Pack had done what words couldn't. The woman who'd entered ready to make a scene now looked like she desperately wanted to disappear into her expensive cloak. The other passengers, who'd been carefully avoiding eye contact moments before, were now stealing glances at Ethan's group with something approaching curiosity.

  The woman lifted her chin, still trying to hold onto her authority even as her confidence wavered. "They shouldn't be allowed on public transport," she said, her voice tighter now. "Not with children nearby, or respectable citizens. It's unsanitary, and it's dangerous, and that girl should know her place—"

  "Is there a problem?" Ethan asked quietly.

  She glanced at Lyra again but quickly looked away when those amber eyes didn't waver. Whatever else she'd planned to say seemed to die in her throat. She made a show of adjusting her gloves, then turned to stare at the wall of the tram as if the plain wood paneling had suddenly become fascinating.

  Ethan maintained his gaze for another moment, then deliberately turned away, releasing her from the silent confrontation. Through the bond, he felt the Pack's quiet satisfaction as they all looked elsewhere at the same time.

  Pixie muttered smugly, Told you it was a Cruella hat.

  The rest of the ride passed in tense silence. The woman kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead while the other passengers seemed to relax slightly, as if the Pack’s quiet display had reminded everyone that judgment could flow both ways. When the tram finally ground to a halt at Marketline Station, she was the first one off, gathering her skirts and hurrying down the platform without a backward glance.

  "Well," Ethan said as they disembarked into the bustle of the market district, "that was educational."

  Pixie's nose was already twitching at the array of food smells drifting from the vendor stalls. "I smell EVERYTHING. Is that meat? And bread? And something sweet?"

  "Eating, then shopping," Ethan decided, his stomach reminding him they'd been moving since dawn. "Then we find that inn."

  The Marketline platform opened into a broad cobbled square edged by vendor carts, cloth awnings, and shopfronts crammed between older stone buildings. Runes flickered above some of the stalls, identifying licensed sellers or offering faint enchantments to preserve goods. The air smelled like charcoal, hot bread, grilled meat, boiled herbs, and half a dozen kinds of oil.

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  Pixie darted from scent to scent, her whole body vibrating with excitement. “That one’s cooking meat! That one has soup! That one smells like sugar and heat and I don’t even know what it is but I want it!”

  Buster moved slower, but his eyes were locked on a spit turning above an open flame. “That one. Definitely that one.”

  Ethan paused to take in the options. Vendor rows stretched in three directions, each promising different combinations of smoke and spice. His stomach growled loud enough that Amelia looked up at him with concern.

  “Alright,” he said. “Meat skewers first. Then we grab something we can carry—bread, dried stuff, whatever travels.”

  Moose’s ears swiveled as he tracked movement through the crowd. “Three pickpockets working this square. One near the water barrel. Two more by the cloth merchant.”

  “Thanks.” Ethan double-checked his money pouch. “Pixie, stay where I can see you.”

  “I AM RIGHT HERE,” she said from directly behind him. “But also three feet that way.”

  Then she took off—zipping left, then right, then circling the nearest vendor cart twice before planting herself directly in front of him. Her tail was still wagging like a flag on fire.

  “NOW YOU CAN SEE ME,” she declared. “Because I’m in front of you!”

  Ethan stared at her for a beat. “I should’ve left you where you were.”

  Pixie was running around like a scent-drunk missile, weaving between carts with her nose pressed to the cobblestones. Her tail wagged in chaotic bursts as she tried to chase every smell at once. She made three full circuits near the spice vendors before Ethan gave up trying to track her.

  “Moose,” he said. “Table over there. Round everyone up.”

  Moose let out a short huff and padded off without a word. Amelia followed easily. Pixie took more effort, but Moose eventually corralled her with practiced patience. Lyra fell in behind them without being asked.

  Buster didn’t move. He was still locked onto the meat.

  Ethan gave his shoulder a light tap. “You’re with me.”

  Ethan led Buster toward the nearest skewer stall, where a wide-shouldered man in a soot-streaked apron was fanning coals beneath a rack of sizzling meat. The air was hotter up close, thick with smoke and salt. Most of the skewers were stacked with blistered onions, blackened peppers, thick-cut meat, and chunks of sweet root vegetable still dripping onto the coals below.

  He stared at the lineup like a man stuck at the front of a fast food counter after a twelve-hour shift, trying to remember a six-person order while the cashier waited and someone behind him sighed loudly. The moment felt so familiar it was almost disorienting—the same pressure he'd felt a hundred times back home with his dogs waiting in the car, judging his every food choice through the window.

  "Okay," he muttered. "One for Pixie, one for Amelia, one for Moose, one for Buster... those all need to be root veg only, no onion. That's four. I'll take... two with vegetables, I think. And Lyra..." He hesitated, glancing back at her. "I don't know what Lyra likes. One of each type, I guess? Just to be safe."

  He counted on his fingers. "That's... four plus two plus two... nine. No, wait..."

  "Eight," Buster corrected, his eyes locked on the meat. "Four for us, two for you, two for Lyra. Basic meat math."

  Ethan recounted. "You're right. Eight."

  "It's meat math," Buster said seriously. "My favorite kind of math."

  The vendor wrapped the order in thick paper and handed it over. Buster's gaze stayed fixed on the meat rack, eyes tracking every skewer with scientific precision.

  "One more," he said. "All meat. No vegetables. That equals perfect."

  His tone was earnest—the polished evolution of the begging technique he'd used back home when Ethan was eating drive-thru burgers on the couch. He wasn't whining, but there was something unmistakably hopeful in the way he watched the remaining skewers.

  Ethan sighed. "Fine. Nine total. One extra. Meat only."

  The vendor added it to the bundle without a word, like he'd watched this exact negotiation a hundred times before. Ethan handed over the Bits for the full order, then added a few more on top. Not enough to make a scene—just a quiet thank-you for not asking questions.

  Ethan returned to the table where Moose had gathered the rest. Pixie was still vibrating with excitement, nose twitching at the bundle in his hands. Amelia sat patiently beside Lyra, her blue eyes focused entirely on the food. Even Moose's calm exterior couldn't hide the subtle lift of his ears when the scent of meat reached him.

  He set the skewers down and started distributing them. “Vegetables for me, meat and root for you four. Two for Lyra—one of each. Wasn’t sure which you’d want.”

  Lyra looked them over, then reached past both and took the one skewer Ethan hadn’t meant to offer—the plain meat, no garnish, still wrapped separately. “This is perfect,” she said simply, and sat down to eat.

  Buster stared at the remaining skewer. It wasn’t quite sulking. More like watching someone else unwrap your lunch. Ethan slid it toward him with a sigh.

  “Fine. That’s your extra. But no math for at least an hour.”

  Buster accepted the meat-and-root skewer without complaint. “Acceptable,” he said, and immediately started eating.

  For a few minutes, there was nothing but quiet chewing, tail flicks, and the occasional breeze cutting through the square. Pixie devoured hers in record time, licking the skewer like she was trying to get flavor out of the wood. Amelia ate in tidy bites, sorting the components like it was a puzzle. Moose sat calmly, chewing in steady rhythm while watching the crowd. Lyra finished hers neatly, without a single drop of grease out of place.

  Ethan leaned back against the wall and let the moment hold. It wasn’t perfect. But it was calm. And after the day they’d had, that was something.

  Buster set his second skewer down with exaggerated care. He stared off into the middle distance like a monk preparing to speak truth.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly.

  Pixie didn’t even look up. “Uh oh.”

  “My dimensional bag,” Buster continued, “has twenty cubic feet of storage. If one skewer averages about twenty cubic inches, that’s roughly... one thousand, seven hundred and twenty-eight skewers.”

  He looked at Ethan. “That’s a lot of backup food. I love you. I just want you to know that.”

  “You’re not getting seventeen hundred skewers,” Ethan said.

  “I was thinking fifty,” Buster offered. “As a starting point. That’s not unreasonable.”

  Ethan held up one hand spreading his fingers apart. “You get five.”

  Buster gave a solemn nod, like a general accepting the terms of a ceasefire. “Five is noble.”

  Ethan stood up and handed the empty paper bundle to the nearest trash barrel, then turned back to Buster. “Five more. That’s it.”

  It should’ve taken five minutes.

  When Buster returned, he looked like someone had tried to dress a dog for a Renaissance picnic. A small bag was slung awkwardly over his shoulders like a sideways saddle, the strap half twisted around one leg. One loaf of bread stuck out from the side pouch, another dangled by its string from the corner of his mouth. A third, somehow, was cradled between his jaws alongside the drawstring of a second cloth bag. He was panting slightly but trying not to drop either item.

  Ethan stared at him. “How did this happen, and what are you doing?”

  “I panicked,” Buster said through a mouthful of bread and rope.

  Pixie took one look and collapsed sideways, rolling onto her back and kicking her feet in the air. She wasn’t barking—she was laughing. Short, wheezy gasps, tail thumping against the stone, paws flailing like she couldn’t breathe.

  Ethan tried to stay mad. He really did. But watching Pixie spiral into a full-body meltdown was somehow funnier than Buster’s entire overloaded situation.

  “I hadn’t realized dogs could laugh,” he muttered.

  “You have a bag,” Ethan said louder. “A dimensional bag.”

  “I forgot in the moment,” Buster admitted.

  They unpacked him together. The skewers had made it into the snackmergency pack. The bread and roast hadn’t. They sorted it all—meat here, bread there, mystery roast sealed for later. Buster watched the process like it was a sacred ritual.

  “You’re a genius,” Buster said. “A bag-packing, food-saving, meat-optimizing genius.”

  “You looked like a medieval sandwich mule,” Ethan said.

  “I was proud,” Buster replied. “I thought I was being efficient.”

  “You were being something,” Ethan muttered.