For a long moment, Lia just blinked. Then the corners of her mouth twitched. “You can’t ride a horse.”

  John spread his hands. “Not well. Or, at all.”

  Garren’s sigh was heavy enough to rattle tankards on the next table. “By the Saints. The hero of Greyford felled a Carrion Mother and can’t manage a saddle.”

  “I’m great at walking,” John offered.

  Lia pressed a hand to her forehead, laughing softly despite herself. “We’ll find you a docile one. Old, slow, and preferably deaf.”

  A stocky villager, boots still caked in mud, stepped forward. “I’ll lend you Old Bristle! My mule. Smarter than most men, and tougher than any horse.”

  “A mule?” John echoed.

  The villager grinned proudly. “Much easier for new riders, and raised with my stockmanship skill. You could pass out drunk and not fall. Which I do. All the time. Here—” He pressed a carrot into John’s hand. “Give him this, and you’ll have a friend for life.”

  John held up the carrot like it was a diplomatic offering. “You’re serious.”

  “Deadly,” the villager said, already jogging off.

  Molly appeared next, arms full of supplies. A bedroll, bread, and something clinking faintly in a flask. “You’ll be wanting this,” she said, thumping it against his chest. “Don’t tell me you planned to wander off with nothing but that fancy sword.”

  “You didn’t have to—”

  “I did.” Her tone softened. “You’re the reason anyone’s alive to search at all.”

  John looked away, uneasy with the weight of gratitude.

  “I’m just trying not to make things worse,” he said.

  “Then you’ll fit right in,” Molly replied, pushing the bundle more firmly into his arms. “Go. Before Garren starts pacing holes in my floor.”

  ——

  The sun hit him hard as he stepped outside. The world was bright, almost too bright after the dim tavern. The air smelled of hot straw and dust, and somewhere a blacksmith’s hammer rang out steady as a heartbeat.

  Searchers moved between the stables, horses stamping restlessly in the heat. The villager waved him over.

  “Old Bristle,” the man said with pride. The mule stood half-asleep in the sun, tail flicking at flies.

  “Go on,” the villager urged. “Best way to start.”

  Awkwardly, John held it out the carrot. Bristle took it without hesitation, crunching with pleasure. Then it snorted and pressed its head against John’s chest, leaving a smear of snot across his shirt. “Gross”. John whispered.

  The villager grinned. “Told you. Friend for life.”

  Lia watched from her saddle, amusement tugging at her lips.

  “Friend for life,” John echoed, wiping his shirt with as much dignity as he could muster.

  Lia’s mare shifted beneath her, hooves clicking on the cobbles. “Then mount up, hero. The day’s not getting any younger.”

  “Right.”

  The villager gave a few vague instructions about reins and posture, most of which John immediately forgot as he swung a leg over Bristle’s broad back. When John finally managed to sit upright, the mule gave a low, resigned sigh and started forward on her own.

  Lia’s horse fell into pace beside him. “See? You’re a natural.”

  They moved through the gate and out onto the main road, the town noise fading behind them. The sun was warm on John’s shoulders, and a breeze stirred the long grass lining the path. Birds scattered ahead, flashes of white and gold against the deep blue sky.

  Garren rode at the front, ever alert.

  The road wound between fields and low hills, the forest hemming them close at times, opening at others to show a sky so wide John had to stare. In the light of day the world was completely different.

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  Blue. Not the pale, washed-out blue he knew from home. This was a fierce, endless azure, a color so sharp it felt alive. White clouds piled high like mountains, and when the wind shifted, it carried nothing but green and clean. No exhaust, no chemical tang, no distant hum of traffic. Just air.

  A dragonfly skimmed past his face, wings glinting emerald in the sun. Then another. And another. John swatted idly at a beetle buzzing near his ear before realizing the sheer volume of life in the air. Butterflies by the dozens danced over wildflowers along the ditch, moths clung to the tall grass, and insects hummed in a chorus that never faltered.

  Suppose that’s what happens when there aren’t a million cars obliterating them with their windscreens, he thought.

  After a stretch of silence, he asked, “So what brought you to Greyford? Not exactly a popular spot.”

  Lia tilted her head, smiling faintly. “I’m traveling until the Academy opens in spring.”

  “The Valen Arcanum?”

  She brushed a strand of hair back, eyes on the horizon. “I passed the entrance trials last summer. But the term was postponed, so I travel instead. Healing, reinforcing wards, sometimes clearing smaller threats.”

  “My brothers call it folly, wasting time in the hinterlands, but I still grow, if slower.”

  Garren shifted in the saddle beside her, voice low but firm. “She’s being modest. My lady is a prodigy. The masters themselves say so.”

  Lia’s cheeks flushed, and she shook her head sharply. “Prodigy? Compared to my sisters? Compared to my brothers? They’re all ahead of me. More powerful, more skilled. I scrape along, doing what little I can.”

  John studied her, hearing the crack in her voice. To him, she’d stood her ground against monsters, poured magic into a stranger without hesitation. Courage beyond her years.

  “Seems to me,” he said at last, “if this is ‘scraping along,’ I’d hate to see what you call talent.”

  Her eyes darted to him, then dropped quickly away. But the faintest smile tugged at her lips before she masked it again.

  The sun slipped behind a hill, painting the sky purple as Garren signaled to stop beside a small cluster of trees. John dismounted with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, while his companions swung down from their mounts as if they hadn't spent hours in the saddle.

  John’s thighs ached, his back ached, and his ass had become one continuous region of pain. He could only watch, equal parts impressed and jealous, as Garren and Lia moved through their camp routine. Quickly unpacking supplies, securing the animals, gathering kindling. Their bodies betraying not even a hint of the day's journey.

  John reached gingerly to massage the ache in his backside. Lia’s gaze flicked sideways, caught him in the act. A grin slid across her lips. “May I…?” she offered, gesturing with her hand.

  He eyed her warily. “You want to heal my ass?”

  Lia closed her eyes briefly, as if in prayer. “You truly have no idea how to speak to a noble.”

  Garran snorted. “Some would cut out a tongue for less.”

  John chuckled despite himself, the sound somewhere between nerves and amusement. Lia shook her head but extended her hand again. John didn't protest this time. Warmth spread through his aching muscles, the soreness ebbing away.

  “There,” she said, withdrawing. “It’s funny, You faced those monsters without a scratch, and this of all things is what you needed healing for.”

  “Can’t dodge a saddle,” John said.

  They finished their camp in silence. Garren stacked the wood, coaxing flame from spark and tinder until a steady fire glowed. Lia busied herself with her satchel, pulling free wrapped parcels that proved to be smoked meat, hard cheese, and travel bread.

  They ate quickly. When the last crumbs were gone, Garren rose. "I'll take first watch." He tapped his sword hilt. "Sleep lightly."

  Lia nodded and set her palms together, murmuring words John didn’t recognize. A faint shimmer flickered over the edge of camp, like a soap bubble stretched into a dome before vanishing from sight.

  They settled onto their bedrolls. The crackle of the fire faded into the background hum of insects and the occasional night bird’s cry. John lay with eyes open, watching the stars, so sharp and plentiful they took his breath away. John’s eyelids grew heavy, his thoughts drifted.

  He woke to a firm hand on his shoulder. Garren’s face loomed above, pale in the firelight.

  “Your turn.”

  John sat up, rubbing his eyes. The embers were low, the night chill biting sharper now. Garren was already lying down, sword at arm’s reach, cloak pulled tight. Lia breathed softly a few feet away, her hair spilling loose from its braid.

  John pulled his cloak tight and took up position by the fire. The ward shimmered faintly in the corner of his vision like heat haze. Bristle dozed nearby, chewing in his sleep, ears flicking at imagined flies.

  The hours crawled by. He poked the fire once, fed it a branch, and tried not to think about how quiet the forest was when the world had no hum of power lines or passing cars to fill it.

  Morning came in a flood of gold through the trees. John blinked at the light, half-surprised he hadn’t fallen asleep. Lia stirred first, stretching with a soft groan before rising and stepping beyond the trees, her ward shimmered faintly as she passed its edge.

  Garren rose with the efficiency of a soldier, gear packed and strapped before John had even finished blinking away sleep.

  They ate quickly and were soon on the road again.

  The sun was high when the forest pressed close again, shadows deep across the rutted path. That was when Bristle’s ears flicked forward, nostrils flaring. Garren’s hand fell to his hilt.

  Something moved ahead.

  A squat figure shambled out of the brush, green-gray skin stretched over wiry muscle, yellow eyes glinting beneath a crude leather hood. A jagged spear dragged in one hand, too long for its frame.

  Goblins. Of course.