Morning light poured through the narrow window slits, soft and golden, dusting the small chamber in quiet warmth.

  Chickenman groaned, shoved the kettle helmet off his face with a clumsy swipe, and blinked blearily at the ceiling. Sleep still clung to him like damp wool thick, heavy, reluctant to let go.

  Then his gaze drifted sideways.

  Across the room, on the opposite cot, lay a stranger.

  Blonde hair swept back from a face carved with impossible symmetry, features so refined they seemed borrowed from some saintly icon

  A fine blue chaperon lay folded neatly beside the cot, its rich wool still holding the faint scent of pine smoke and distant roads. The man breathed slow and even, one arm resting across his chest like a marble effigy come to life.

  Chickenman sat up slowly, blanket pooling around his waist. "What the hell…?" he muttered under his breath. "Tobias really is an idiot-magnet. This one looks like a bloody noble or a statue that wandered off its pedestal."

  A strange chill prickled along his spine, not fear, exactly, but the instinctive awareness of something vast and old sharing the same small space. The usual herb and wood scent in the chamber was now fully dominated by the smell of perfume.

  Chickenman swallowed, eased his feet to the floorboards, and pulled on his oversized boots with exaggerated care, every creak of the wood sounding thunderous in the stillness.

  He buckled the short sword at his hip, adjusted the kettle helmet so it sat crooked but secure, nit soo much, then slipped out the door, closing it behind him with the softest click he could manage.

  Outside, the yard smelled of fresh hay, horse sweat, and the sharp bite of morning dew. Two sturdy draft horses stamped and snorted beside a weathered but serviceable wagon. Tobias's voice drifted from the front, low, dry, familiar.

  Chickenman's stomach clenched. The memory of Otto and his soldiers flashed bright and ugly, steel gauntlets, mocking laughter, the taste of blood. He hurried toward the front door.

  He flung it open.

  No soldiers. No drawn blades. Just Tobias, plague mask glinting in the sunlight, brushing down one of the new horses with slow, practiced strokes.

  Just two villagers in patched wool tunics were already walking away down the path, backs turned, coin purses lighter than when they arrived.

  Tobias glanced over his shoulder. "Morning, sunshine. Why do you look like you just saw a ghost riding a bear?" He said, sarcasticly.

  Chickenman exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "I thought… never mind." His gaze slid past Tobias to the horses, then the wagon. "You bought horses and a wagon?"

  "Very observant," Tobias drawled, running the brush along the animal's powerful shoulder. "I bought them so that when I inevitably collect another one or two idiots like you and Inferna, I can simply toss them in the back and drive off before they burn the place down." He jerked his thumb toward the wagon. "This place is turning into a house of jesters and clowns. Might as well have the proper transport."

  Chickenman circled the wagon, running a hand along the sturdy sideboards. It wasn't new scratches and faded paint told years of use but the axles were sound, the wheels freshly greased. The horses were big, thick-necked, built for pulling heavy loads without complaint.

  His thoughts circled back to the sleeping stranger. "Say, Tobias… who the hell is that guy sleeping across from my bed?"

  Tobias paused mid-stroke, brush hovering. He turned his masked head slowly. "I actually don't know. Not his name, not his story. But you felt it, didn't you? That… something coming off him?"

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  Chickenman shifted uncomfortably, voice dropping. "Yeah. Kind of. Like standing too close to a storm you can't see."

  Tobias resumed brushing, slower now. He pulled a carrot from his satchel and offered it to the horse, who lipped it up with gentle greed. "He's polite. Perfect manners in a world that chews manners up and spits them out. I assume he's some angel who survived the old wars and lost his wings somewhere along the road. Or maybe his story is deeper, darker and buried so far down even he doesn't look at it anymore." His voice lowered, almost thoughtful. "Either way, I don't particularly want to know what he's hiding. Some secrets are best left sleeping."

  Chickenman stared down at the dirt, turning Tobias's words over in his mind like stones pulled from a riverbed.

  A sudden crash echoed from inside the clinic ceramic shattering, followed by a furious shout and the unmistakable crackle of fire.

  "Oh, what has Inferna got herself into now?" Tobias muttered, already moving. He dropped the brush and strode toward the door. Chickenman hurried after him.

  They burst into the main room.

  Inferna stood rigid, one palm thrust forward, flames licking between her fingers in angry tongues. Across from her, the blonde traveler, now awake, held both hands up in a placating gesture, expression calm but eyes wary.

  "Easy," the traveler said softly. "You don't want to burn this place down. We can talk–"

  "Why the hell should I listen to you?! " Inferna's voice cracked like dry wood. "After you fucking left me with that witch left me to rot in feathers and beaks!" She shout again and stronger.

  "Inferna!" Tobias barked, striding between them. He reached up and gently but firmly pushed her arm down until the flames guttered out. "What are you thinking?"

  Inferna's crimson glare stayed locked on the traveler, chest heaving. Tobias didn't wait for an answer. He gripped her elbow and steered her firmly toward the back door, muttering something low and sharp under his breath.

  The room fell abruptly quiet.

  The traveler exhaled a long rub his forehead, weary sound and murmured something too soft to catch. Chickenman watched Tobias and Inferna disappear outside, then turned back to the stranger.

  "That's quite of a scene, so…" Chickenman said slowly. "What just happened? And… who are you, exactly?"

  The traveler blinked, then smiled small, rueful, charming. He swept the blue chaperon over one shoulder in a graceful motion as he bowed, fabric rippling like water. "You're right. Where are my manners? How indecent of me." He straightened. "My name is Lucien. A traveler, sometimes. Translator, writer, advisor when the occasion calls. At your service."

  Chickenman nodded, still wary. "And… what's your history with Inferna? To me it doesn't look like a happy reunion between you two."

  Lucien's smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. "Ah. Long story, short version is. We met back in Constantine. Traveled together for a time. Then… I had to leave her. Not because I wanted to. I simply couldn't help her." Empathy softened his voice, worry shadowed his eyes as he glanced toward the back door. "I only hope she doesn't hate me after all these years. It's been… what, seven? Since King Herald's death."

  Pang of sympaty and diebelief from Chickenman face, "You left her for seven years? Wait, did you count years by... king death?" His voice rose in more disbelief.

  Lucien tilted his head, looking at the ceiling, calculating. "Roughly and yes, it's become habit of mine to country by king death. I intended to return, meant to free her from that witch. I only managed it a month ago… and found her already gone from where we split."

  "I saved her!" Chickenman jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "Well… sort of. I was actually trying to steal a chicken. Turns out it was a devil woman."

  Lucien's brows lifted. "You saved her?" Surprise melted into sudden, bright enthusiasm. "Oh, what a small world! When I arrived last night I thought the homeowner must be the witch, couldn't fathom why she was here otherwise."

  Chickenman chuckled, awkward but genuine. "No, no. Tobias is… kind of our boss now. Gives us a roof, food, lectures. The whole deal."

  Lucien's gaze flicked to the kettle helmet and the sword at Chickenman's hip. "And you… what, his guard?"

  Chickenman scratched the back of his neck. "Nah. I'm too weak to even guard a bird nest. I'm just… a worker. Or something like that."

  The back door banged open. Tobias strode in, a few singed papers clutched in one gloved hand. "Alright, you two. Chickenman and…" He paused, pointing the beak at Lucien.

  "Lucien, sire." Another small bow from him, perfect and practiced.

  "Lucien." Tobias handed the papers to Lucien. "Since you two already know each other's names, I have work. Here–" He passed the list to Lucien. "Buy everything on this. No exceptions. Rovic village or Pradonburg, doesn't matter which. Here's silver." He dropped a heavy pouch into Lucien's other hand. "If anything's left over, keep it."

  He turned to Chickenman. "And you." The beak tilted. "Don't make this difficult."

  Then, to Lucien again, quieter. "Be careful. He's a walking disaster." Tobias patted Chickenman's shoulder once, almost fondly, before adding, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure Inferna doesn't set the entire forest on fire." He swept out the back door again.

  Silence stretched.

  Lucien glanced at Chickenman. "Your name… is Chickenman?"

  Chickenman gave a lopsided grin. "Yeah. Inside joke. Long story."

  Lucien smirked, shaking his head as he tucked the pouch into his satchel. "It suits you, somehow. Alright. I won't pry further." He unfolded the list, scanned it once, then refolded it neatly and started toward the front door.

  Chickenman adjusted his helmet, checked the sword at his hip, and followed.

  Outside, the wagon already stood hitched to the horses, reins draped over the front board. Lucien climbed up with easy grace, settling on the passenger side, then slid across to make room.

  "You take the reins, i want to read some book on our way to Rovic." he said lightly.

  Chickenman froze beside the wheel. "Uh… I don't know how to drive."

  Lucien smiled patient, amused and shook his head while smirking. "Holding a sword but can't fight. Past puberty but can't drive." He gathered the reins himself. "Fine. I'll drive. You watch. Deal?"

  "Deal," Chickenman said instantly. He scrambled up, settling on the seat beside Lucien.

  Lucien flicked the reins. The horses leaned into the harness, the wagon lurched once, then rolled smoothly forward.

  Chickenman twisted in his seat, looking back at the clinic as it slowly receded. The crooked roofline, the curl of smoke from the chimney, the warm amber glow still leaking from the windows it looked smaller from here, but somehow cozier, more solid. Like a place that might actually belong to someone.

  He turned forward again, the road stretching ahead through the trees, and for just a moment, the weight of the kettle helmet felt a little less ridiculous.

  Lucien glanced sideways, smiling faintly. "Ready for trouble?"

  Chickenman snorted. "No."

  Lucien chuckled and nudged Chickenman with his elbow. The wagon rolled on, carrying two idiots and a list of shopping errands into the outside of the forest.