I meditated in the morning, even in Rimelion.

  My thoughts buzzed like mosquitoes around my head, and forcing them into calm was like trying to herd drunk Italians. Annoying, but… it felt necessary. If I skipped it, the universe itself would glare at me.

  Universe being my mom.

  After a few hours of faking enlightenment, it was almost lunchtime. Another bath later, I padded downstairs to the Wolf’s Fang.

  The main hall smelled of spiced meat, faint woodsmoke, and the sticky sweetness of ale clinging to every table. Wolf-heads glared from the walls between mounted lanterns, their carved teeth catching firelight as if they were about to bite into the next drunk to pass by.

  Plush furs muffled most footsteps, though the occasional chair scrape and mug-slam echoed loud enough to remind me people were very much alive here.

  The patrons were sparse this time of day… half a dozen locals hunched over tankards, whispering as if their slurred gossip was the foundation of statecraft. Two mercenaries in battered leather played a game of dice at a corner table, one muttering prayers to whatever wolf-god decorated this place, the other cheating shamelessly while his partner stared at the ceiling beams carved with lounging canines.

  Poor souls. Don’t know the player tide is coming.

  A man in a thick wolf-pelt coat stalked between the tables, balancing trays of food and mugs like he was born doing it.

  Every time he turned, the fur shoulders of his coat brushed against chair backs, leaving a faint trail of stray hairs on patrons’ cloaks. The coat made him look half-waiter, half-predator, like the inn had hired a wolf to serve its prey.

  As long as Karzi isn’t here, I’m fine.

  He set bowls of steaming stew down with an exaggerated flourish, then refilled mugs in the same sweep, his eyes always flicking back to the bar for silent orders.

  I slipped into one of the free seats, the fur rug beneath soft enough to swallow my boots. The table surface was smooth but etched with shallow claw marks; intentional or just very spirited drunks, hard to tell.

  The man in the wolf's coat prowled my way, stopping at my table with a smile that was both professional and just a little too toothy. “Miss, what can I offer for lunch?”

  I glanced sideways at the next table. They weren’t eating, just drinking themselves toward early graves, so I bit my lip and shrugged. “What do you have?”

  He followed my glance, then snapped his chin toward the bar.

  The innkeeper from yesterday, the same, gave a small approving nod. The coat-man dipped into a neat little bow. “As a staying customer, your room includes the basic fare: bread, stew, ale.” His tone suggested ‘basic’ was code for ‘you’ll hate yourself halfway through’. “For a little extra, you can upgrade to a luxury plate. Or… one of our specialties.”

  His hesitation was subtle, but it was there. Specialties sounded more like a dare than a menu option.

  “And drinks?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Paid separately,” he said with another bow.

  For one brief moment, I thought about Adam. About how easy it would be to just sit here, sip wine until the sun went down, and pretend none of the world’s problems existed. I shoved the thought aside a little too strongly. “Non-alcoholic, please. And… fine, I’ll try the specialty.”

  The coat-man blinked once, then nodded. “As you wish. Our chef insists on a word with anyone ordering her specialties. To… refine the experience.” He said it as if he were handing me over to a high priestess. Then his smile faltered for a heartbeat. “But… it is pricey.”

  His unease made me wonder if the food here had teeth too.

  He bowed again before gliding off, fur shoulders brushing the next table’s mugs with a soft thump that sent foam sloshing. Behind him, laughter rose, dice clattered, and a wolf’s carved snarl seemed to catch the firelight just a little brighter.

  The man returned with a heavy thunk of ceramic on wood. A large mug, steaming, and beside it a plate with a single honey stick resting.

  “Miss,” he said, “this is Steppe Bite. A dark-brewed root tea, finished with a sliver of fire-ginger dropped in at the end. Locals drink it straight, but…” He tapped the honey stick with a wolfish grin. “…we provide this for the faint of heart. To ease the bite. Think of it as training wheels.”

  He winked, and yeah, that was a challenge if I’d ever seen one.

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  I nodded coolly and leaned into the mug, inhaling. The steam rushed into my nose… sharp, earthy, bitter. Like damp soil after a storm, except the storm had been angry about taxes. Beneath it lurked the fire-ginger, glowing faintly in the dark liquid, promising violence.

  I took a sip.

  The taste hit like a sucker punch, unsweetened, dirt-thick, then suddenly bam! a spike of heat as the ginger flared across my tongue and down my throat. Spicy and bitter. The kind of drink you’d serve to test whether your in-laws were secretly assassins.

  I coughed once, twice, my throat burning like I’d swallowed a lit match.

  The table of locals nearby erupted in laughter, nudging each other knowingly as if I’d just played into a centuries-old inside joke.

  I grinned back at them, raising the mug in mock salute. “Three bronzies I can take down a third without the stick!” My voice came out rough, but hey, they understood the spirit.

  One man tilted his head at me, studying. Then his grin split wide. “Five says you can’t go half!”

  The table hollered, coins clinked, and suddenly it felt less like a tavern and more like the opening round of some ridiculous drinking arena.

  I squinted at the mug. Then at him. “Can you?”

  He was waiting for it. His grin only grew smugger, like a wolf who’d cornered a rabbit. A few patrons banged their mugs on the tables, chanting “Half! Half! Half!” like they were at a bloodsport.

  I sighed dramatically and raised my hand. “Fine. Half it is. Don’t cry when I walk out with your money.”

  That was when the crowd parted, and a mountain disguised as a woman, apron smudged with stains older than me, arms thick as tree trunks, shoulders so broad she made the wolf-beam carvings above look fragile.

  “I need to see this!” she boomed, planting her fists on her hips. The room instantly hushed. Even the dice players froze mid-roll.

  Oh. Great. An audience.

  Coins clinked onto the table as the bet sealed. My pride, dignity, and possibly my throat were now on the line.

  I grabbed the mug with both hands, it was too heavy for one, and tilted it back. The liquid scorched down my throat like liquid peppercorn lava. My eyes watered. My nose burned. My stomach clenched in betrayal. Halfway through, my body launched a rebellion.

  Nope. Abort. System override.

  I slammed the mug down, coughing so hard I nearly folded in half, tears streaking my cheeks. The crowd roared with laughter, the man scooping up coins with a smooth “thanks for your patronage” while I tried to breathe like a normal human being again.

  I fixed it one healing rune.and the giant woman threw back her head and laughed. “Hah! Good attempt!” Her voice carried more warmth than mockery.

  I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, cheeks burning from drink and embarrassment. My nose still tingled like I’d snorted wasabi.

  She leaned forward, her grin wide beneath a mess of wild curls. “Name’s Clara. Heard you wanted my special food?”

  I croaked something that might’ve been “yes” and had to cast another heal to stop my lungs from filing a resignation as Lola tried.

  “Been servin’ wolf as long as I remember—” Clara started, her voice rolling like gravel in a barrel.

  “Wolves?!” My eyes widened, and a grin split across my face before I could rein it in. “Yes! Finally!”

  The thought hit me like the first sip of whiskey after a dry week… I was barred from genocide, true, but hunting? Hunting was fair game. “I’ll eat it all, hahaha!” My laughter burst out of me, manic and unstoppable. I slapped the table like a gambler on a winning streak.

  “Hell, I’ll fund your hunting expeditions!”

  The inn’s noise dimmed for a heartbeat. A few nearby drinkers shot me nervous glances, mugs frozen halfway to their lips. But Clara’s eyes lit like fire catching oil.

  “Ohhh, another wolf meat enjoyer?” she said, and her bulk lowered heavily into the chair across from me. The wooden legs creaked as if they were filing for worker’s comp. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her face practically glowing. “Which ones?”

  I bared my teeth in what I hoped was a predatory smile. “Especially those who roll in mud. They… taste the best.”

  Hope that Frozna isn’t vegan, because when she learns this… Hopefully I won’t be eating parrots anytime soon.

  Her eyes actually sparkled.

  She nodded slowly, solemnly, like I’d just recited a sacred culinary scripture. “A true gourman!” she declared. Then, lowering her voice, “And a little inside info: when they roll in it and then bake themselves in the sun, mmh, the heat tenderizes the fibers. The meat turns so soft it near melts.”

  She closed her eyes, lips parting as if reliving the memory of the best meal of her life. For a terrifying second, I thought she might actually start moaning.

  Finally, she straightened and slapped her thigh. “I’ll get you the Golden Wolfsaddle. Tender chunks of prime saddle, slow-braised in dark ale gravy, with sweet carrots, onions, and steppe mushrooms. Finest wolf dish I know!” Her voice boomed proudly… then deflated like a whiskey barrel with a hole. “But…”

  Of course there was a but.

  “…people don’t order it every day. Needs prep. Takes time. Not now… More of a dinner thing for you.” She eyed me like she was testing whether I’d balk. “And… five gold coin worth.”

  I blinked. Five. Gold. For dinner. My stolen wallet whimpered in the corner of my mind. “I’ve got three weeks of stay in here for eleven golds…” I muttered before I could stop myself.

  Her face fell instantly. Her wide grin curdled into something tragic, her thick shoulders slumping as if I’d just announced the death of her firstborn stew. She nodded with mournful dignity, as if this was the cruel fate of all true gourmands.

  “…but,” I added quickly, and her eyes snapped back to mine, “…for special wolf meat?” I shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. “I’ll pay the full price.”

  The transformation was instantaneous.

  Her entire face lit up, her cheeks dimpled, her grin spread like sunrise, and she actually clapped her meaty hands together with a thwack that rattled my mug. “Yes! Finally, a soul who understands!” She stood, nearly knocking the table sideways. “I’ll prepare it!”

  She bobbed her head so enthusiastically it was more like a bowing jig, apron strings bouncing against her bulk. “Tonight, you’ll dine like a true steppe lord, milady!”

  And then she barreled away, apron flapping like a battle banner, shouting at the kitchen staff with terrifying gusto. Pots clanged, voices scrambled to answer, and I was pretty sure at least two apprentices ran for their lives.

  I leaned back in my chair, cheeks still flushed from the tea and my grin stretching stupidly wide. I finished off the rest of the Steppe Bite with a cough, tore a hunk of bread in half with my teeth, and sat there buzzing with excitement.

  Tonight, wolf meat. Golden Wolfsaddle. Dinner like a barbarian king.

  But first…

  I wiped the crumbs from my fingers, pushed away from the table, and exhaled. I had a plan to take a city, and in that plan was a one big hole. I promised one of them to fight on our side. Problem was… I didn’t tell that my supposed allies yet. So…

  I had a grandmaster to meet.

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