The gates of Zadash had opened wide for the Mighty Nein — and the Gods alone could guess how long the city would survive their company.

Two taverns deep and half a dozen drinks past good judgment, the group had found a temporary peace at a sticky wooden table, surrounded by laughter, spilled ale, and the scent of mischief. Fjord and Beau were loud — too loud — clinking glasses and trading insults as if they were blows in a friendly duel. Nott was perched beside Caleb, nursing a mug almost as big as her head, her laughter sharp and bright.

Caleb, meanwhile, had retreated into another world entirely. He sat hunched over a weathered tome, its pages the brittle yellow of forgotten centuries, its words coiled in an ancient script he barely recognized. Every so often, he licked a thumb and turned another page, muttering under his breath as the din of the tavern swelled around him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t hear them. It was that he refused to. The others had been making sly remarks about his state of cleanliness ever since their trek through the city’s sewers, and after hours of wading through things best left unnamed, Caleb had little patience for mockery. He wanted silence. A candle. And perhaps five uninterrupted minutes.

Instead, he got Beau.

“We should send Caleb,” she said, her words pleasantly blurred by liquor. “I think he’s the one who needs it most — if you catch my drift.”

Caleb sighed without looking up. “Yes, Beauregard.”

Beau blinked, then grinned. “Wait. You’re actually agreeing to something?”

“Mm-hm,” Caleb murmured absently, eyes still tracing the strange runes. “Sure.”

And that was all the permission Beau needed.

Before he knew it, a pair of strong monk’s hands had clamped around his arm, dragging him from the table to the sound of Fjord’s delighted laughter and Nott’s shrill encouragement. He barely had time to gather his satchel before the cool night air hit him, and then—doors, stairs, warm lamplight. A blur of polite voices. The scent of lavender and rose oil.

By the time Caleb found his footing again, he was standing in a room that felt far too opulent to be any kind of bathhouse. Plush carpets. Silk drapes. Candlelight pooling like honey on polished wood. An older woman smiled at him kindly and gestured toward an adjoining archway where the sound of running water drifted out.

“I don’t understand,” Caleb muttered under his breath. “This is too... fancy for a simple bath—”

Then she appeared.

A woman stepped gracefully from the mist, her robe a soft whisper of silk, her smile both knowing and kind. For a heartbeat, Caleb forgot how to breathe.

“Oh,” he said faintly, realization dawning. “Oh. Hallo.”

It was not a bathhouse.

Beau and Fjord’s laughter echoed faintly in his mind as he stood there, wide-eyed and blushing furiously. The jest, it seemed, had taken a far more intimate turn than he’d imagined.

And somewhere, back in the tavern, the rest of the Mighty Nein were probably toasting his education.