Hours before the caravan arrived, Grizzle Torvik burst in, ranting about huge antlered beasts pulling an army of demons. 

“Taller than two men stacked toe to top and as broad as four,” he’d slurred. 

Scram hadn’t served him that day and figured Grizzle had taken too many tugs from his own flask. He’d set him in the usual spot and gone about the morning’s work. 

Yet, here they were. 

The antlered beasts, a foursome of black-furred mountain elk, were not quite as tall as two men but near enough, the fog of their breath thick as wet wood smoke, billowing out from nostrils each the size of Scram’s thumbs. 

They pulled, not an army of demons, but something worse, as far as Scram was concerned:  Edgewards. 

Their black-and-gold banners snapped in the wind, the cloying jangle of their bells grating over the crack and clatter of runners on frozen ground. Even the ever-present whistle of wind, funneled sharp between the mountains, couldn’t drown out their arrival.

And if there lingered any doubt, the first carriage dispelled it—a gaudy plaque affixed to its side, half-shrouded in snow fog. Through the murk, Scram could just make out the curling letters: Edgeward Expeditionary.

The tavern was nearly empty, save for Grizzle—now calmed by drink, snoring and snuffling into his beard by the hearth—Ysra, who’d come with the morning’s delivery, and the hovering nuisance Scram had taken to calling Pot Lad. 

“What the fuck are they doing out this way?” Ysra voiced Scram’s thoughts aloud, though with less grim curiosity and more wonder in her voice than the situation deserved. 

“Whatever it is will require more than I got on,” Scram jerked his head toward the boy. 

“Go tell Cookie we got visitors. Explorer twats. Edgewards.” 

Pot Lad, slack jawed and awestruck, didn’t move. He continued staring out the grime-covered glass. Through it, a distorted convoy began to unpack and unfurl. Dark figures jumped down from carriage tops, securing sleds and animals and kicking up slush. They shouted instruction over the din of the bells and the excited yips of the dogs. Scram counted twelve figures, plus the occupants of the carriage.

“Tell them service for twenty. And warn Haystack he’s got actual work to do.” Scram lobbed a balled-up rag at the back of the boy’s head. Pot Lad startled, then scampered off to relay the orders.

A moment later, fresh shapes emerged from the forward carriage and made for the door.

The wind lashed in when they entered, sharp and searing with chill. The hearth fire sputtered and dimmed in deference. Grizzle snorted at the disturbance but didn’t wake, only smacked his lips and burrowed deeper into the rags of his coat. Scram had found the man dozing in a snowbank once, frost in his hair, powder up to his chin.

The three newcomers weren’t so hardy. The bottles Ysra had brought were less wrapped in their crates than these three had been tucked inside their cozy carriage. They were bundled thick —swaddled in a dozen fabrics - like overstuffed calico sausages. Only the gleam of their eyes, faint and shadowed, showed through a gap in the folds. 

The door clattered shut behind them, dulling the noise outside. The tallest began to unwind, shedding heavy wraps. Beneath, sharp, verminous features emerged—pale, anemic skin stretched thin over prominent bones. Faint traceries of color banded his neck, licking up the sides of his face, saying more than the man himself likely would. The brooch at his throat—a compass rose of many blades in polished, glinting gold—said even more.

He tossed his discarded bundle onto the nearest table and, down a shrewish nose, took stock of the room. Grizzle earned only a blink, a nostril flaring in distaste, before his gaze flicked between Ysra and Scram. He settled on Scram.

“We require lodging. Three rooms—preferably clean—and space in whatever passes for stables here. Eight elk, sixty-four dogs, four sleds, two carriages. Can you accommodate?” His nasal drawl made it clear he doubted it.

“I can if you can pay.” Scram turned his back on the group, limping toward the crates he’d been unloading when the first chime of bells drifted in on the wind.

“Not the dogs, though. Kennels up the road.” He tipped his head in the direction.

“Of course we can pay—” the man blustered, halfway through peeling off a glove.

Scram cut him off. “Five aurum,” he said, steady. “A night.”

“Five—FIVE aurum? That’s… that’s extortion! Robbery! Do you have any idea—”

“If you can’t afford gold, I’ll take what you’ve got to trade.” Scram glanced back at them, then past, through the window to the sleds. “Half what those dogs of yours can carry oughta do it.”

The man sputtered, mottled pink blooming to an all-consuming red. His lips shined with outraged flecks of spit. Then, the traceries across his skin flared—a brilliant, glowing blue, near white.

Ysra gasped and jerked back, braids swinging, hand flying to the knife on her belt.

“Scram—” Ysra started, but one of the man’s companions stepped forward, laying a hand on his arm. The glow dimmed, fading with his snarl.

Scram took a bottle from the crate and set it on the shelf. Then another.

“The way I see it,” he went on, moving steadily through the box. The joint of his brace clicked as he dipped down and rose again, arranging each brown bottle of Maegra’s Finest in a neat row. By the fire, Grizzle shifted, a sleep-mumble turning into a honk.

“You pay the five and get three nice rooms indoors, the heating of them, warm meals in your bellies. Haystack’ll see your team fed up proper in the shed. And there’s ample northern drink from our fine Miss Ysra here—” he gestured to her.

Ysra’s fingers tensed on her knife handle, her eyes wild, hare-tense. Scram went on.

“Or you take your chances out there. Make camp in the Drift, free of charge, but not near as comfortable. Or…” He dusted his hands off and reached for another crate. “You can head up the road to the next inn. Lantern on The Span’s the name, if I recall.”

He popped the crate lid and eyed the bottles inside. He’d have to check what Maegra had in store after this lot.

“We have come from The Span,” The rat-faced man’s lips barely parted, his voice tight through clenched teeth. Scram imagined he could hear them grinding over the racket outside and Grizzle’s rising rumbles. Finally, the man had removed the troublesome glove, crumpling it in his fist. Pale skin, inked with black, gold, and silver lines, overlapped in haphazard swirls, matching the ones on his neck. 

“So you won’t be needing directions then,” Scram said.

The man jerked forward and the marks flared. Ysra pulled the knife. Scram smiled and turned to face the visitors. 

The one who’d calmed the man before spoke.

“Three nights,” they said, their voice muffled but firm. “For our exclusive use.” 

“I can promise the rooms. Nobody uses the rooms.” Scram said with a shrug. “Tavern’s a different story. Whole of the village uses the tavern.” 

“For five aurum we could buy this wretched little hovel three times over,” the man spat from behind the new speaker.

“This place? A few planks and a hot fire. You could buy it five times over, at least.” Scram eyed the floorboards above speculatively. 

“The location is shit, nothing around for hundreds of miles. Cold as all fuck.” Scramvyrn kicked the last of the crates aside with his boot.  “Afraid all I’m offering are the rooms. And the stables. Best ostler in one hundred leagues that’s our Haystack.”

“Guestwright Covenant!” the man all but shouted. “You are required to extend your hospitality in exchange for-“ Scram’s voice cut through the air, deep and steady, louder than the Bondsmage’s sputtering though he had not raised it. 

“Guestwright Covenant is a city charter, Bondsmage. And you’re a long way from The Span.”

The Bondsmage looked as if he would burst, the unnatural blue flaring brighter.

The bundled figure who had spoken suddenly turned, nearly collapsing into him, clutching at his arm. The glow snuffed out, their back arching. They cried out, bending low as if trying to hold themselves together. The third stranger, the silent one, rushed forward and bent to help.

The Bondsmage winced, his gaze snapping to Scram with accusation, as if the whole scene was somehow his fault.

“Fine! You thieving pig. No one comes upstairs. Not you, not your little bar maid. No one.” 

Ysra set her jaw, the knife’s direction tilting with intent. Scram lifted a finger off the bar to still her.  

“Send your lauded ostler for my team,” the Bondsmage sneered, yanking his arm free from his companion. He took a step forward, slamming a small leather pouch onto the bar. 

Behind him, the hunching figure took in two ragged breaths, each one trembling with pain, then straightened. With a quick jerk, they shrugged off the third figure’s hand and—after a moment’s pause—both turned back toward Scram as if nothing had happened.

Unease prickled the back of Scram’s neck. For an instant—brief as a candle flicker—he saw fear in the Bondsmage’s eyes. Scram took the pouch anyway, making a show of dumping the contents onto the bar with the soothing clink of rough-pressed gold coins. His favorite sound, second only to one other. He slid them slowly across the wood, piece by piece, into a waiting palm.

Each coin sent a ripple through the Bondsmage. His hands twitched, his body almost vibrating with pent-up rage. Scram noted the way the his gaze darted to his companions with every clink and drag of the coins—desperate, frantic.

They remained eerily motionless, silent as statues. Only when all fifteen pieces had been counted, and no strange reactions followed, did Scram speak. 

“Up the stairs.” Scram gestured to the stairwell entrance at the back. “Whole floor’s yours. But cause any shit in my place, Edgewards, and you’ll be bedding down on the ice.” 

The Bondsmage snatched his bundle of cloth from the table. His teeth ground together, and for a moment, it looked like he might spit on the floor—or worse, in Scram’s face—but instead, he turned and stalked toward the staircase, the others following closely behind. 

Scram and Ysra listened to their boots clomping up the stairs, the creak of a door opening, then the sharp slam that followed a moment later. 

“What the fuck?” Ysra breathed, her voice low and stunned. “A fucking Curiosity?”

“Probably more than one.” Scram’s frown deepened.

“More than one?” Ysra’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What the fuck?”

“Do you run your mouth foul like this in front of Maegra?” Scram asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Who do you think fouled it?” Ysra shot back, her voice tight with urgency. “This is serious, Scram. They could’ve killed us. Fuck, they could still kill us.”

“Bah.” Scram rolled his eyes. “Bondsmages need a bond. No contract, no magic.” Scram leaned on the bar. “Bunch of jumped-up clerks and scriveners. No idea why one’s out here though.” 

“Who cares?” Ysra hissed, her gaze darting around the room as if expecting more to materialize from the walls. “There are fifteen Edgewards outside right now and ‘probably more than one’ fucking Curiosity upstairs! And you just went and turned the wrong dog loose, riling them up two minutes after they got here. Five aurum a night, you fucking lunatic.”

Ysra moved to jab him with her knife, but Scram easily veered out of the way.

“Here,” Scram tossed one of the coins. Ysra caught it with her free hand, staring down at it, wide-eyed. It was likely the first time she'd ever held one—most folks here dealt in kind goods, and if they needed metal, it was no more than argent. “Calm down. Pot Lad’s letting Cookie know.” 

“Letting them know to make soup,” after one last look Ysra shoved the piece into her belt and the knife back into its sheath. She pressed a hand over it like a wound. Scram shrugged. 

“Cookie knows what I said.” Ysra didn’t look comforted, her eyebrows pinched with worry, her mouth set in a thin line. Scram lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. 

“City covenants might not have jurisdiction here but Edgeward oaths are bound to the guild. Can’t ride with ‘em without the oath, and that means they can’t hurt us.”  

“But you agreed to a room. He gave you gold!” Ysra looked at him in alarm, her hand shifting to the aurum tucked away in her belt as if it burned. 

“Bah,” Scram laughed. “That’s just something they say to puff themselves up, make people scared. A real bond takes more than tossing a few coins.” He tapped the space between her furrowed brows with a finger.  “Don’t fret Ys, or you’ll crag up like Maegra.” 

Ysra swatted him away, but there was no real heat behind it. “I’m going to tell her you said that.” 

“She’ll just point out I’m looking rather craggy myself these days,” Scram said, patting his cheek. That earned a small smile from her and a roll of the eyes.

“Do tell her about our guests, though.” Scram scratched a fingernail against the bar, glancing toward the door. “And if Owen’s out when you pass, tell him to come up.”

Ysra’s worry melted, replaced by a smirk Scram didn’t quite like. Before he could question it, she’d already pushed through the back door. He could see the familiar figure of Haystack leading a team of the monstrous elk towards the barn before the door closed behind her.

A muffled thump from above snapped him back to attention. He listened for a few more minutes, but all he could make out were the occasional creaks of boots crossing the floor above. Grizzle still sprawled by the fire, his snores rumbling loud enough to drown out the breathy whistle in his nose. Outside, Edgeward bells chimed a warning on the wind.