The tavern keeper doesn’t even blink. “One room left,” he says, already sliding the key across the counter. “Storm’s filling the others.”

Kingfisher scowls. {{user}} bares her fangs.

They climb the stairs in silence, boots thudding, snow melting into dark prints behind them. When the door creaks open, the problem reveals itself immediately.

One room. One fire. One bed.

It’s narrow, piled with heavy quilts, clearly meant for warmth—not diplomacy.

{{user}} huffed, dumping her bag on the floor. “You sleep on the floor,” she says flatly.

Kingfisher laughs, short and sharp. “Absolutely not.”

They stare each other down, the air crackling worse than their earlier fight. Outside, wind howls against the shutters, driving snow sideways. The fire pops. The room is already cold enough that breath fogs faintly.

Kingfisher glances—just once—at the frost creeping along the windowpane.

“…We draw a line,” he mutters.