Chapter 15 (2035 words)
The inn's wooden shutters slant pale gold sunlight across Hannah's face, rousing her from a sleep so deep it feels like a luxury.
For the first time in months, she doesn't wake up on hard stone or scratchy leaves—she's curled under a threadbare but clean blanket, her head propped on a lumpy pillow that smells like lavender and wood smoke.
Beside her, Ren is curled into a tiny black ball on the windowsill, his red eyes still shut tight, his wings tucked neatly against his back.
Bess is in the stable down the lane, already fed and brushed by the innkeeper's boy, a detail that makes Hannah's chest ache with a quiet, unfamiliar gratitude.
She swings her legs over the bed, her bare feet touching the cool floorboards, and winces at the soreness in her shoulders—leftover from the arena fights.
She splashes cold water on her face from the chipped basin on the nightstand, scrubbing at the scales on her jaw until they glow faintly black in the light; she's gotten used to them now, a quiet reminder of the bond she shares with Ren.
She pulls on her new green cloak, the rabbit fur lining soft against her neck, and runs a comb through her tangled hair before tucking it into a simple braid.
Tucked into her belt is a frayed leather-bound book of fables—stolen from a noble's carriage back when she and Ren were hiding in the woods.
Reading had been a slow, clumsy slog at first; Ren, for all his bluster as the Son of Calamity, couldn't read human letters,
but he'd spent countless nights by the cave fire, his tiny claws pointing at words while he rambled about dragon tales and heroines who escaped cages.
By the time they reached Duke Spartan's territory, Hannah could sound out simple sentences, could trace the lines of text and feel like she was holding a piece of something bigger than her old life.
Ren stirs, stretching his wings with a tiny, rumbling yawn, and materializes on her shoulder, his claws digging gently into her cloak.
"Weak human," he mumbles, his voice groggy. "Where is the cake? I demand cake."
"Later," Hannah says, smiling as she grabs her coin pouch from the bedside table.
"We're going to a restaurant—the boy I saved yesterday told me it's the best in Ironhold. They have meat so tender it melts, and milk that tastes like cream."
Ren's eyes snap open. "Milk? Like the sweet stuff from the bakery? MORE."
Hannah laughs, tucking the pouch into her belt, and leads the way down the inn's creaky stairs.
The common room is quiet, a few travelers nursing mugs of ale, and the innkeeper nods at her as she passes.
Outside, the sun is high, painting the cobblestones of Ironhold's streets in warm light, and the air smells like fresh bread and roasting meat.
The boy—his name is Toby, she'd learned yesterday—had given her directions to the restaurant: a little place called The Roasting Boar, tucked away in a side alley, with a sign shaped like a fat pig hanging over the door.
It's packed when they push through the door, the air thick with the smell of roasted venison and spiced potatoes, and the sound of clinking mugs and laughter.
A waiter—thin, with a patch over one eye and an apron stained with gravy—hurries over, his face lighting up when he sees her.
"You're the arena girl! The one who took down Goliath and jumped two ranks in a night! Toby told us you'd be coming—saved him from that brute, didn't you?"
Hannah nods, her cheeks flushing. "Is there a table for one?"
"For you? Always," the waiter says, leading her to a small table in the corner.
He hands her a menu, his eyes darting to her cloak—probably wondering how someone so small could have won two arena fights in one night.
"Best meat in town, miss. Venison, boar, lamb—slow-roasted over an open fire. And our milk is fresh from the duke's own cows—creamy, sweet, nothing like the watery stuff you get at the market."
Ren, invisible, buzzes in her ear. "MILK. GALON. NOW."
Hannah clears her throat, trying not to laugh. "I'll have the roasted venison platter—extra meat, please. And a gallon of milk."
The waiter blinks. "A gallon, miss? Are you sure? That's… a lot. Most folks order a cup, maybe two."
"I'm sure," Hannah says, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"I've got a big appetite."
The waiter shrugs, scribbling her order down on his pad. "Your call, miss. Coming right up."
He hurries off, and Hannah settles back in her chair, watching the room.
A group of adventurers at the next table glance over, their eyes widening when they see her—word of her arena wins has clearly spread.
Ren materializes on the table, his tiny claws clicking against the wood, and leans forward, his nose twitching at the smell of meat from the kitchen.
"Hurry," he hisses.
"I can smell it. It's better than the moose. Better than the minotaur. I need it."
Hannah shushes him, glancing around to make sure no one is looking.
"Quiet. You'll get caught."
Ren huffs, but he fades back into invisibility, his voice still loud in her head.
"Coward. But if you get me caught, I'll burn the table."
The food arrives minutes later, a huge platter piled high with roasted venison, crispy potatoes, and glazed carrots, followed by a gallon of milk—heavy, glass jug, foaming at the top.
The waiter sets it down with a grunt, his eyes widening when Hannah picks up the jug and takes a tiny sip (for show).
Ren, invisible, dives into the platter, his tiny teeth tearing into the venison, and Hannah hears him purr, a low, rumbling sound that makes her smile.
She takes a few bites of potato, pushing the meat around the platter to make it look like she's eating, while Ren devours the rest—bones and all.
When he's done with the meat, he turns to the milk jug, lapping at it greedily, the sound of his slurping loud enough that the table next to them glances over.
Hannah's cheeks burn, but she keeps a straight face, lifting the jug to her lips now and then to maintain the illusion.
The gallon is gone in ten minutes flat, Ren's invisible tail flicking with satisfaction as he curls up on the table, his belly full.
The waiter stops by to check on her, and his jaw drops when he sees the empty platter and the empty milk jug.
"You… you ate all that?" he says, his voice cracking. "All by yourself?"
Hannah nods, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
"I've been hungry for a long time."
The words hang in the air, and the laughter at the next table dies down.
A passerby—an old woman with a basket of eggs—pauses, her eyes softening. The waiter leans against the table, his voice quieter now.
"Hungry how, miss?"
Hannah's throat tightens.
She doesn't want to say the count's name, doesn't want to admit she's from Benington—doesn't want to be the girl who ran away from a noble's manor, the girl who was nothing but a slave.
But the words spill out anyway, quiet and raw, like a wound she can't stop picking at.
"Growing up," she says, her voice so low only the waiter and the old woman can hear,
"my parents… they didn't care about me.
I was the one who scrubbed the floors, who cooked the meals, who worked from dawn till dusk. I never got enough to eat—scraps, mostly, if I was lucky.
Sometimes I'd go to bed with nothing in my stomach but water and hope. I'd lie there, cold, hungry, and dream of a day when I could eat until I was full.
When I could have a warm bed, and a roof over my head, and not have to be afraid."
She pauses, swiping at a tear that's rolled down her cheek before she can stop it.
Ren, sensing her mood, materializes on her shoulder, his tiny body warm against her neck. He nuzzles her jaw, his scales soft, and she smiles, a wobbly, sad thing.
"I never thought that day would come," she says.
The waiter's eyes are shiny.
The old woman wipes a tear from her eye with her apron.
The adventurers at the next table are silent, their mugs forgotten in their hands.
Even the cook—a burly woman with a scar across her cheek—peeks out from the kitchen, her eyes wide.
Then Ren, who has no sense of decorum, pipes up, his voice loud enough for the whole room to hear.
"MORE MILK! THIS ONE IS EMPTY! I NEED ANOTHER GALON!"
Hannah's eyes widen, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.
The waiter blinks, then bursts out laughing, the sound warm and genuine.
The old woman chuckles, wiping her eyes again.
The adventurers at the next table whoop, slamming their mugs on the table.
"Another gallon, miss?" the waiter says, grinning.
"On the house. The cook says you're her new favorite customer."
The cook pops her head out again, waving a wooden spoon.
"Eat as much as you want, girl! We've got plenty of milk! Plenty of meat! No one goes hungry in my restaurant!"
Hannah laughs, tears still in her eyes, as the waiter hurries off to get another gallon of milk.
Ren preens, his wings fluttering, and the whole room cheers—for the tiny girl with the huge appetite, the girl who turned hunger into a victory.
They stay for another hour, Ren drinking the second gallon of milk (and stealing a few rolls from the table next to them) while Hannah chats with the waiter, who tells her his name is Finn, and that he grew up hungry too, until the cook took him in.
The old woman gives her a basket of eggs, and the adventurers at the next table buy her a mug of ale (which she sips, making a face—Ren tries to steal it, and she has to swat his paw away).
When they finally leave, the cook presses a loaf of bread and a jar of honey into her hands, her eyes shiny.
"For the road," she says. "Don't you ever go hungry again, hear me?"
Hannah nods, her throat tight, and thanks her before stepping back into the sunlight.
Ren is curled on her shoulder, his belly so full he can barely fly, and Hannah smiles, tucking the bread and honey into her bag.
"Next stop," she says, "the adventurer's guild. We've got an ID to renew."
The guild hall is even busier than yesterday, the air thick with the sound of shouting adventurers and clinking coins.
Hannah pushes through the crowd, Ren still invisible on her shoulder, and heads for the reception desk, where a young woman with a braid and a badge that says Ella is typing furiously on a ledger.
She pauses for a moment to scan the mission board on the wall—her eyes moving slowly, but steadily, over the flyers, each word a small victory.
That's when she sees it: a crisp, expensive-looking poster pinned front and center, inked in bold black letters. MISSING: HANNAH BENNINGTON. Daughter of Count Bennington. Last seen fleeing the manor. Reward for information leading to her capture: 100 gold pieces.
Hannah's blood runs cold.
She steps closer, her fingers curling into fists.
The description is a farce—tall, golden-haired, delicate-featured—and the drawing is worse: a girl in a frilly silk gown, her hair cascading in ringlets, her face soft and docile.
It doesn't look like her at all—short, chestnut-haired, with a faint scar on her left wrist from scrubbing stone floors, and scales she hides under her cloak.
They never even bothered to get her right. They didn't care about finding her—they cared about retrieving their slave.
She feels a surge of bitter, hot anger, then relief, sharp and bright: no one in this room would look at her and see the missing Bennington girl.
Ella notices her staring, her voice softening.
"Tough break. Count Bennington's been plastering those everywhere. Says she's a runaway, but… well, nobles never treat their servants right, do they?"
Hannah shakes her head, forcing a neutral expression.
"No, they don't." She turns away from the board, her hands still tight, and walks to the desk.
Ella's face lights up when she recognizes her.
"You're Hannah! The arena girl! The one who jumped from F to E rank in one night! That's unheard of—usually it takes months, even years, to climb a single rank!"
Hannah blushes. "I got lucky."
"Lucky my foot," Ella says, grinning.
"You're talented. Fast, strong, smart—exactly the kind of adventurer we need. Let's get that ID renewed for you—E rank, right? That means you can take on higher-paying missions—guarding caravans, hunting bigger monsters, even escorting nobles.
Better pay, better rewards, better everything."
She types furiously on the ledger, then pulls out a new ID card—shinier than the old one, with E Rank Adventurer printed in gold letters—and hands it to Hannah.
"There you go. Welcome to the big leagues."
Hannah takes the card, her fingers brushing the smooth paper. It feels like a promise—of a future, of a life, of something better than she ever dreamed.
"Thanks," she says, smiling.
Ella leans forward, her voice lowering.
"Word of advice? Stick to the southern missions. The roads are safer there, for the most part, and the merchants pay well. And if you're looking for good food—try the honey cakes at the bakery on Main Street. Best in town. And the apothecary on the corner has cheap healing herbs—great for when you're out on missions."
Hannah nods, tucking the ID card into her belt. "I'm heading south, actually. After this."
"Smart," Ella says.
"Southern territories are growing—lots of work for adventurers like you. Be careful, though. There are bandits, sometimes, and monsters. Stick with a group if you can."
Hannah is about to thank her when a voice shouts her name, loud and panicked. "Hannah! Hannah, wait!"
She turns to see Toby running toward her, a battered iron sword strapped to his hip—its blade dented, its hilt wrapped in frayed leather, but polished until it glints—and his tunic flapping.
A group of adventurers at the door laugh, pointing at him, and Toby's cheeks burn, but he keeps running, skidding to a halt in front of her.
"Hannah," he pants, leaning over to catch his breath, his sword clinking against his leg.
"I need your help. Please."
Hannah raises an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"
Toby wrings his hands, his eyes desperate.
"I'm trying to take a mission—guarding a merchant's caravan to the next city, Southbrook. It's good pay—fifty gold each—but you need a group of four to take it. I can't find anyone to join me.
Everyone says I'm too weak, too inexperienced. I… I need the money, Hannah. My sister is sick. She needs medicine, and I can't afford it alone. Please. Will you join me? Be my partner?"
Hannah glances at Ella, who nods, her eyes soft.
She thinks of Toby—scrawny, scared, but brave enough to stand up to Goliath, his sword well-cared for despite its flaws—and she thinks of her own sister, the one she'd left behind at the count's manor, and her heart aches.
"Of course," she says. "I'll help you."
Toby's face lights up.
"Really? Thank you! Thank you so much! There are two others—Fat Suzy and Sneider. They're good fighters, I promise. Suzy's got a hammer that can crush a goblin's skull in one hit, and Sneider's a master with a bow. They agreed to join if I could find a fourth. You're perfect."
Hannah smiles. "Lead the way."
Toby leads her to a corner table, where a woman with a round face and a hammer slung over her shoulder is arguing with a thin man with a bow and arrow strapped to his back.
"Suzy! Sneider!" Toby shouts, patting his sword hilt proudly. "I found our fourth! Hannah—she's the arena girl!"
Suzy turns, her face breaking into a grin. "The one who took down Goliath? Hell yeah! Welcome to the group!"
Sneider nods, a small smile on his face. "Impressive work last night. We could use someone with your speed."
They shake hands, and Suzy launches into a rant about the caravan mission—how the merchant is carrying spices and silk, how the pay is good, how the road to Southbrook is mostly safe, save for a few bandits and the occasional wolf.
Hannah listens, nodding, while Ren buzzes in her ear, complaining about the lack of cake and milk.
After they finish planning, Hannah suggests they explore the city, and the others agree—Suzy wants to check out the blacksmith's shop, Sneider wants to buy new arrows, and Toby wants to browse the weapon stalls for a better sword sheath.
They split up, agreeing to meet back at the guild hall at sunset, and Hannah and Ren set off, wandering the streets of Ironhold.
They stop at the bakery, buying a dozen honey cakes (Ren eats eight of them).
They stop at the apothecary, where Hannah buys more healing herbs (Ren tries to eat a root, and she has to pry it out of his mouth).
They stop at the market, where Hannah buys a new pair of boots (Ren steals an apple from a vendor's stall, and they have to run before the vendor can catch them).
It's a perfect afternoon—sunny, warm, and full of laughter—and Hannah feels lighter than she has in years.
They meet back at the guild hall at sunset, Suzy carrying a new hammer head, Sneider carrying a quiver of enchanted arrows, and Toby clutching a well-oiled leather sword sheath.
They chat for a while, then head their separate ways—Suzy and Sneider to their inn, Toby to his sister's house, Hannah back to her room at The Roasting Boar's attached inn.
Ren is asleep before they even reach the door, curled into a tiny ball on her shoulder, his belly full of honey cake and milk.
Hannah tucks him into the windowsill, covering him with a scrap of cloth, and climbs into bed, her new ID card clutched in her hand.
She thinks of the mission tomorrow, of the caravan, of the road to Southbrook, and she smiles.
For the first time in her life, she's not running.
She's not hiding. She's going—forward, south, to a future full of possibility.
She falls asleep to the sound of Ren's quiet purring, and the distant clink of mugs from the tavern below.
The next morning, she wakes up early, packing her bag with the bread and honey from the cook, her healing herbs, her new dagger, and her ID card.
She slings her cloak over her shoulders, grabs her coin pouch, and heads downstairs, where Suzy, Sneider, and Toby are waiting for her, their bags packed, their weapons ready—Toby's sword glinting proudly at his hip.
Ren is awake now, perched on her shoulder, his red eyes bright with excitement. "Adventure!" he crows. "Monsters! Cake! Milk! Let's go!"
Hannah laughs, and the four of them head out into the morning light, walking toward the city gate, where a merchant with a bushy beard and a cart full of spices and silk is waiting for them, his face lit up with a smile.
The road to Southbrook stretches out ahead of them, long and winding, and Hannah feels the scales on her jaw tingle, warm and familiar.
She has her friends beside her, her dragon on her shoulder, and a future full of promise.
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To begin continue...