“Water, hot as a dragon's breath.”

Nokuth had a million stories and handed them out like candy. Sweet, addictive, and I would guess only partially true. Still, the old dwarf had a gift for making me smile, and I let him. I kissed his forehead and stole his empty mug before he could launch into round two.

He used to be an adventurer. Not a boasting youth with more stories than experience, he was the real kind. Sailed the wilds of the Equatorial Continent. Delved into monster-haunted dungeons and lived to tell about it, probably by running faster than the guy next to him. I’m pretty sure he retired before my father was even born.

“That’s impossible,” I said, swapping his cup for a fresh mug of ale. “Dragon’s breath melts stone into slag.”

“Aye, and it does.” He sipped, smacked his lips like it was fine wine. “You should see the canyon, lass. Glows red hot, all melted stone and steam. Like walking through a smoke and fog-filled dream. I swear to you, lass, it was like walking through the realm of the Gods.”

I gave him a look. It was the kind that said I’ve got shoes smarter than that story, but please, continue. Nokuth was a sweetheart. Not everyone could see that. People had their opinions about dwarves. Then again, people had opinions about half-elves, tavern wenches, and women who didn’t apologize for existing.

“The Dragon Rapids,” I said. “Guess I’ll have to see them myself.”

“Ye best be careful,” he warned, with a wag of his hairy finger. “Them rapids be a might treacherous. But a sturdy boat’ll carry ye straight to the Peaceful Sea.”

“A boat? On lava soup?”

“Rode 'em twice meself,” he said proudly, tugging up his shirt to reveal more belly than the world was ready for. “Got the scars to prove it—”

“Nope. Hard pass. Keep your shirt on, hero.”

The Wayward Widow was nearly empty, just as expected. Midweek in the Month of Tenglin meant sweltering heat and a dead harbor. Only the truly unlucky were still in town. That left me with five regulars who showed up every night like clockwork, drinking cheap ale and pretending they weren’t three decades past their last real adventure.

Nokuth was the loudest of the bunch, bless him. Retired hero, professional flirt, occasional leaker of ale down his own beard. The others weren’t much different. Each of the sweet old dwarves had more scars than sense, and all of them treated me like some combination of barmaid, daughter, and local entertainment.

Which, to be fair, I was.

Didn’t make much in tips, but I didn’t mind their company. They were outsiders in a town that barely tolerated outsiders, same as me. And they’d all heard my story ages ago, decided it was boring, and never brought it up again. Gods preserve us, that made them true heroes in my book.

I missed the busy season. When the place was packed with strangers who were too drunk or too distracted to care who I used to be. Travelers were better company anyway. They all had better stories, better coin, and usually kept their hands to themselves until you gave them permission not to. I preferred the ones who stared at my curves instead of poking around at my past.

I knew I looked good. Or good enough. My dress was tight in the right places and cut down to cover the bits that were too scandalous for decent company. But in a town full of high-cheekboned, dark-skinned human girls with “proper” breeding, I might as well have been a painted ship figurehead. I was certainly eye-catching and exotic by human standards, but firmly bolted in place.

When you're the town’s favorite cautionary tale, anonymity starts to look downright luxurious.

Porto Croce was quiet, its harbor stretched out like a dog in the sun. That’s what passed for peace during Tenglin. At the height of summer, the air was thick enough to chew, the sky so bright it felt aggressive. Nobody crossed The Peaceful Sea until well after the equinox. Not unless they were desperate, stupid, or looking to boil in their boots. So, the ships left, the streets emptied, and the news got old. The stories? Even older.

“Jolana?”

Another hand in the air. Another empty cup. That was my night. That was my life, actually. Full mugs go out, empty mugs come in. There was a bowl of stew for the truly brave.

Bend low, smile like I meant it, let the regulars catch a glimpse of my cleavage, and make them feel like kings for thirty seconds. If they got handsy, they got a sharp slap and a sharper comment about their mothers.

Elise always said: Smile. Laugh when they think they’re funny. Never let them know what you’re really feeling. She was right. This wasn’t the place for honesty. It was the place for performance. If you ever thought you were meeting the love of your life in a place like this, you probably deserved him.

I didn’t get paid much, but if I walked away with a copper and a clear path to the door, I called it a win. That dress? Tight, low-cut, with a corset that pushed everything up to meet eye-level. Sadly, it was the best investment I ever made. Or the worst, depending on the grope count.

But it worked. And that was what mattered.

The Widow had about twenty tables, big enough to seat entire ships’ crews when the trade winds were kind. A few alcoves along the walls offered privacy for “business,” which usually meant bribes, proposals, or illegal deals in the works. Upstairs? A dozen rooms for rent. They were available by the night or by the hour, depending on how much endurance a person might have.

No one knew who painted the ships that covered the walls. Some long-dead sailor with artistic delusions, probably. The kind that loved ships and the sea. Along with buxom lasses. Like myself.

A few patrons even asked if I was the inspiration for the mermaid that lounged over the bar. I would roll my eyes and say, “Of Course.” Never mind the fact that it was painted decades before I was born.

Magelights swayed from the rafters, casting a warm, golden haze over everything. The place smelled like ale, sweat, fish stew, and just enough wood smoke to remind anyone of home.

And it was home, in the way a bad tooth can be familiar.

During the high season, I had help. Two other wenches to share the work and the misery. But summer? Summer was just me. Cypress, the inn’s walking grease stain of an owner, took over the bar himself when business was slow. He was as bitter as the ale he served and twice as sour.

My only hope was that he’d get bored, get drunk, and go home early. Then I might get to clean up in peace.

“Hey there, love,” Cypress grunted as I dropped off a tray of empties. He swept the mugs aside clumsily. The ale already hard at work inside him.

“Love” was a joke. He didn’t have an ounce of love for anyone, especially me.

“What is it, Cypress?” I asked, already tired of whatever he was about to say.

He held his hand on the tray of fresh mugs, blocking me from taking it. Of course he did.

“I forgot to tell you,” he said, drawing it out like a hangman reading your name. “Your courtier’s dropping by tonight.”

And just like that, the night got worse.

My courtier.

Cypress said it like a joke, because it was. A bitter one. The kind that kicks you in the gut.

He grinned as my face flushed, pleased with himself like a rat who’d found a fresh loaf to shit on. Once he got a drink or two in him, that mean streak of his liked to stretch its legs. And nothing brought it out faster than reminding me I used to be someone.

It was a nightly ritual. He was awful. I put up with it. That was the game.

Kaeso. The third and youngest son of the Duke. My former betrothed. My own walking, talking humiliation.

“I’m sure Elise will take good care of him,” I said through clenched teeth. My tray was still under Cypress’s hand, but if looks could kill, he’d be on the floor with a corkscrew in his eye.

“That I will,” Elise said, lounging on her usual barstool. She was watching the room like a hawk waiting for prey with pockets. “And stop being such a prick, Cypress.”

Elise was the inn’s crown jewel. When the others drifted off for better prospects or cooler ports during the summer, she stayed. Cypress liked to call her an ‘entertainer,’ but Elise preferred a much cruder term and fucking owned it.

She was a tall human with silver-blonde hair that shimmered like silk in candlelight, and her eyes were sharp enough to peel armor off a man’s soul. She cinched her corsets so tight it looked like she hadn’t drawn a real breath in years, but it worked for her. She wore green satin tonight, and she made it look like emeralds.

And then there was me.

My father's green eyes and red hair, with my mother’s curls that declared open rebellion every morning. I’d lost more pins to this hair than I cared to count. Add in the pointed ears and elvish brows that made me look like I was always thinking naughty thoughts, and I was about as subtle as a band of cabaret dancers in Amania’s Temple.

The tavern dress didn’t help. Crimson, tight in the bust, with a skirt that swished just enough to give a lustful patron ideas. My backside got more compliments than the rest of me ever did, along with its fair share of pinches and slaps. My corset was working overtime to keep my breasts confined.

“I’m only looking out for my wench,” Cypress said, grabbing a mug and sipping slow, like he thought it made him seem thoughtful instead of just lazy. “Whore’s more than a step up from what she is now.”

There it was. The line. He always found it.

When I turned seventeen, Cypress suggested I join the entertainers upstairs. And by suggested, I mean hounded, needled, and blackmailed me about it for months. Legally, he’d had to wait. The law didn’t permit underage indentures to “entertain,” even in this gods-forsaken corner of the world. But the moment I came of age?

Whoring was an option. And if Cypress had his way, it would be the only one.

I loved Elise. I really did. She made her own choices and owned them with the grace of a queen. But I wasn’t her. I couldn’t do that. I certainly wouldn’t cross that line for the likes of a villain like Cypress.

“I’m not your wench,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

His eyes narrowed. He loved it when I snapped. It gave him an excuse.

“You know better than that.” His voice dropped, soaked in venom. “You’re mine. You will be until every last copper is paid. On your feet, out here...” He gestured to the empty room with a lazy flick. “...Or on your back, up there.”

He tilted his chin toward the row of rented rooms above us.

That was my reality.

The Debt.

Every day, every conversation, every insult came back to that. My inheritance. My curse. A few thousand gold owed by my father passed to me like a poisoned heirloom.

Cypress reminded me of it daily. Just in case I forgot. I didn’t belong to myself. I was property.

I didn’t snap. Not again. I let the fury wash over me. I had to. I had to let go of the anger I had for Cypress, the Duke, and my charming disaster of a father.

Count Gallis Lancenan Elaro was the first Elvish Count of the Southern Kingdom. Brave. Dashing. Brilliant in an idiotic way.

And completely useless when it came to keeping his life from imploding.

The Duke had waited for him to fail. And when he did, he pounced. Took our title. Took our coin. Took everything. Then, as one final insult, he handed the collection to a glorified bartender with a bad mustache.

Cypress was the man who collected the debt, which meant that I was the one who worked it off.

“You’re still a prick,” Elise muttered, snatching a mug off the tray. She gave me a wink, all easy charm and heat, like this was just another night.

It wasn’t. But I loved her for pretending.

“I’m sure the wench and the whore can keep this place running without me,” Cypress grumbled. He downed his ale in a single noisy gulp and stood, grabbing the strongbox on his way out.

I met him at the door. I had to pay the man.

“Eight coppers,” I said flatly, fishing the coins from my apron.

He took six. Fuck my life.

“Three hundred and sixty thousand to go,” he said with a laugh that reeked of garlic and cheap ale. “Have a lovely evening.”

The door shut behind him. The room exhaled.

Everything felt different once Cypress was gone. Quieter. Less slimy.

The regulars didn’t say much, but they’d all been sitting close enough to hear. They knew my story. Everybody did. I’d been in this place too long to still be mysterious. Most folks saw me as a sad little morality tale. Some saw an opportunity. These five? They saw a girl trying to survive. That made them rare.

“’Ere,” said Hekratir, the grumpiest of the bunch. He was a shipwright by trade and a miser by reputation, but tonight he held up a silver coin between two thick fingers. The others followed suit, each tossing a silver onto the table like it was no big thing.

It was a big thing.

My throat tightened. I gave them a crooked smile since I couldn’t manage a real one just yet. I made my rounds, kissing each of them on the cheek as they handed over their under-the-table gifts. They were all far past their prime, too old to chase anything but ghosts. And every single one of them knew who my father was.

Count Gallis Elaro. The Elvish Heartthrob of the South.

He used to be someone. Used to matter.

Sleek, charming, brave…

He’d crossed oceans, stolen sacred relics, and once handed the largest emerald anyone had ever seen to the Queen of the Southern Kingdom.

That gem made him a count. It also made him a target.

He could charm queens and outwit temple guards, but he couldn't budget his way out of a bread line. When he lost his standing with the Duke, we lost everything with him. His final act of generosity was vanishing across the Peaceful Sea in search of the Dragon’s Heart. His downfall, a failed quest that he longed to finish in hopes that it would restore our family’s honor and wealth. He left us with nothing but rumors, debt, and a ruined name.

And here I was. The daughter of the great Gallis Elaro, reduced to serving stew and dodging gropes from drunken sailors.

People whispered that I must be whoring myself out. Frankly, I found it insulting. If I were, I’d be walking home with better coin than a lousy few coppers.

Still, I felt a little lighter as I tucked the silver into my apron. That made five. Five silvers to take home to Mother and Clara. One step closer to a dowry that might actually get Clara out of this town with her dignity intact. Small victory. But it was mine.