The forest trail to the traveler’s inn was mercifully quiet. After all the shrieking vegetables and melodramatic root-bearded overlords, the gentle rustle of leaves and the occasional birdsong felt like nature personally apologizing for the earlier nonsense. The dirt path curved softly through the trees, speckled with patches of golden sunlight that filtered through the canopy above. It smelled of moss, woodsmoke, and the faintest hint of wildflowers, proof that not all magical things wanted to ruin your day.

  Lyra walked beside me, one hand resting lightly on her bow as always, but her posture had rexed. For once, she wasn’t scanning every bush for danger or bracing herself for an ambush. She just walked. Peacefully. Her braid swayed gently with each step, and a rare, genuine smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

  I, on the other hand, was moving like a very proud, very sore little champion. My shoulders ached, my knees felt like they had been repced with creaky furniture, and I was pretty sure my cape had absorbed more grave dirt than a coffin. But I still wore a triumphant grin. There was something deeply satisfying about completing a quest and not dying. Like I’d just gotten an A+ on an exam I didn’t study for.

  “So,” I said, gncing over at her, “be honest. On a scale of one to ‘I never want to see a vegetable again,’ how done are you with gardening-based threats?”

  Lyra made a face like she was tasting something bitter. “If I see another rake with glowing eyes, I might set the whole tool shed on fire.”

  I snorted. “Fair. We could start a support group. Survivors of Hostile Produce.”

  “I’ll bring the fruit sad,” she deadpanned.

  The road began to open up, and just ahead, the trees parted to reveal a cozy building nestled against a shallow hill. Smoke puffed zily from its stone chimney, and the painted sign above the door in flowery, almost too-whimsical lettering. There were flower boxes under the windows, spilling with marigolds and trailing vines, and a few wooden benches out front occupied by what looked like sleepy travelers or full-bellied locals.

  My heart actually fluttered. Not in a romantic way, just in the “oh thank heavens we’re about to eat real food” kind of way.

  “There it is,” I breathed, nearly breaking into a run as the mossy inn came into view, its timber walls basking in golden sunlight like it had been summoned from a storybook. Smoke curled from the chimney, and my nose caught the faintest whiff of spices, herbs, and something gloriously buttery. My stomach made a noise that might’ve been a battle cry.

  “Lyra, if their stew is even half as good as I’m imagining,” I said reverently, “I will write an epic bald about it. I’ll make it my life’s work. I’ll compose it in four parts, with rhythm and percussion. It’ll have yers. Harmonics. Key changes.”

  She raised an eyebrow, clearly torn between amusement and arm. “Please don’t. You’re not a bard.”

  “I’m better than a bard,” I said, puffing my chest a little. “I’m a rhythm gamer.”

  Lyra blinked, caught completely off guard. “A what?”

  “You know… rhythm games. Where music and reflexes combine. Fast fingers, perfect timing, high combo chains… I used to hit 16th notes like it was nothing. Full-comboed Seven Trillion Centuries and a Daily Tale on Extreme mode.”

  She stared. “You’re just saying words.”

  “I had a ranking in the top 500 pyers worldwide,” I added proudly.

  “In what?” she asked, looking around as if rhythm gaming might be a guild or sacred order she'd somehow never heard of. “Do you duel people? Is it a magical technique? A musical ritual?”

  “It’s a test of focus, timing, and soul,” I said dramatically, hand over heart. “You hit notes in time with the music. Sometimes you slide, sometimes you tap, sometimes you spin the little wheel thing. It’s basically combat... but for your thumbs.”

  Lyra gave me a look that was trying very hard not to be judgmental. “You make it sound important.”

  “It is important,” I said solemnly. “How else do you prove your love for an anime girl with glowing butterfly wings if not by perfectly executing a 200-note chain while she sings about dreams and stardust?”

  She opened her mouth, paused, and closed it again.

  “I… don’t know how to respond to that,” she finally admitted.

  “Just know this,” I said, pushing the door of the inn open with one hand and gesturing dramatically with the other, “that stew? I am ready to full-combo it. Let’s go.”

  She sighed, muttering something about fox girls and mysterious pasts as she followed me inside, the warm scent of roasted vegetables and fresh bread welcoming us like a reward screen.

  As we approached the inn, the scent of food hit us like a blessing, savory broth, roasted meat, and something doughy and possibly herbed. I nearly cried. Again.

  Inside, the inn was warm and inviting. The wooden floors creaked in a comforting way, and the walls were decorated with dried herbs, faded maps, and a surprisingly tasteful painting of a bear pying a lute. A few patrons sat at round tables, chatting softly or sipping from mugs. Behind the counter stood a plump, stern-eyed woman with silver-streaked hair tied in a bun and arms that suggested she could wrestle a dragon and win.

  She spotted us the moment we stepped in and squinted. “You two look like you’ve been wrestling compost.”

  “Close,” I said, brushing dirt off my shoulder. “We come with a message from Granny May.”

  That changed her expression instantly. The woman’s eyes softened, and she gave us a nod of genuine approval. “Well then,” she said, setting down her dle. “Any friend of Granny May is a friend of mine. You’ll be wanting the good stew.”

  “I might marry it,” I muttered.

  Lyra rolled her eyes. “Just bring us two bowls, please.”

  We took a seat by the window, the sunlight spilling across the table, and before long, two steaming bowls of stew were set down before us, thick, rich, and full of tender vegetables and meat that fell apart at the touch of a spoon. There were slices of buttered bread on the side, still warm.

  I took one bite, and stars exploded behind my eyes.

  “I’ve seen god,” I whispered.

  Lyra was already halfway through her bowl. “Less talking. More eating.”

  We didn’t say much for a while after that. Just the occasional groan of bliss or clink of a spoon. It was the kind of meal that made you forget all your problems, even the ones with leafy beards and weaponized watering cans.

  Finally, as the bowls y empty and our bellies full, I leaned back in my chair and sighed the sigh of someone who had lived through a graveyard war and came out victorious and well-fed.

  “So,” I murmured, “what’s next?”

  Lyra looked at me, eyes half-lidded with the calm of someone who had just eaten something magical. “Hopefully something that doesn’t scream while trying to pnt us.”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘maybe.’”

  The warm hum of the inn was broken by the creak of the front door swinging wide, followed by the soft, deliberate sound of boots on wooden floorboards. A hush fell over like a curtain. Even the stew pot stopped bubbling for a moment, as if it, too, wanted to see what was happening.

  A group of cloaked figures entered, five in total, draped in forest green and twilight gray, with silver-threaded cloaks that shimmered subtly with every step. Their ears, sharp and proud, peeked out from beneath hoods, and their movements were too smooth, too quiet to be anything but deliberate.

  Elves. Real, proper, "walk-out-of-a-poem" elves.

  I blinked from my spot at the table, halfway through my third bite of what had been a really good vegetable stew. “Uh… Lyra?”

  But Lyra was already standing, her eyes wide, and for the first time since I’d met her, she looked… hopeful. Her lips parted in surprise, then curved into something I hadn’t seen in days.

  A genuine smile.

  One of the elves, a tall woman with silver eyes and a crest shaped like a falling leaf, stepped forward. “Lyra Mirayra,” she said, her voice like cool water over smooth stones. “By the stars… we finally found you.”

  Lyra didn’t wait for any ceremony. She crossed the floor in three quick steps and wrapped the elf in a tight hug. “I thought I’d never see anyone from home again,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  The elf returned the embrace warmly. “You were missing for weeks. We feared the worst when Rasta Vilge turned hostile to all non-humans. The Highgrove sent us the moment the border opened.”

  Another elf stepped forward, this one younger, with a longbow slung across his back and wide, curious eyes. His gaze settled on me. “And… this one? She was with you?”

  I gave a little wave, still half-sitting at the inn table with a half-eaten bowl of stew in front of me. “Um, hi. Rhythm gamer here.”

  That earned me a chorus of confused looks from the group of elves, their weapons still drawn but their expressions now mixed with visible bafflement.

  Lyra turned to me slowly, her lips twitching into something dangerously close to a smirk. “Mashiro.”

  “Yes?” I said innocently, twirling a spoon like it was a drumstick.

  “Maybe lead with something else.”

  “What?” I shrugged. “It’s part of my identity.”

  The young elf blinked again. “A… rhythm what?”

  “I py music games,” I said, standing up and brushing crumbs off my skirt. “You hit notes in time with music, usually with your fingers, sometimes with your whole body depending on the version. Back home I was practically a legend in my circle. Thumbs of fury. Eyes like hawks. Trained in the sacred dojo of fast beats and glowing arrows.”

  He looked completely lost. “Is that… like spellcasting?”

  “No, but it looks just as fshy when I’m in the zone,” I added with a grin. “You haven’t lived until you’ve full-comboed a vocalo?d track while your friends scream in the background.”

  “…Voca-what?”

  “Forget it,” Lyra said, gently stepping between us, though she was clearly trying not to ugh. “She’s not dangerous. She’s just… unique.”