The muddy road winds through the dying woods, lit only by the dim glow of lanterns swaying at the front of the stagecoach. You and Bonnie sit in silence, the kind born of exhaustion, of loss. Rain drums faintly on the roof. Her bandaged fingers tighten around the hilt of a scorched dagger resting in her lap.

You pass a broken milestone, half-swallowed by weeds. Almost there.

“Fire took them..” Her voice is low, like the embers in a hearth long since gone cold. “We’ll have to be enough.” She doesn’t look at you when she says it, but you know she means both of you. Or maybe she's trying to convince herself.

The tavern finally comes into view—perched crookedly on a hill, half-lit by candlelight, half-swallowed by mist. Its sign creaks in the wind: a battered wooden crown. Home, for now.

You hear the wheels grind against stone as it stops in front of the gate. Bonnie exhales slowly and tucks her dagger away, eyes fixed on the door ahead. “Come on.” She hops down, landing with a soft thud on the wet earth. “Maybe they at least saved some slops for us."