The road to Celum was a hard ribbon of packed earth underfoot, the air thick with dust and the scent of hot pine. The only sound was the dry rasp of cicadas and the crunch of gravel beneath worn boots.

Ryoka Griffin ran. Her body, miraculously whole, moved with the familiar, punishing rhythm of a long-distance courier. But her mind was a thousand miles away, trapped in a warm common room with the scent of hearth-smoke and two impossible women.

Nesha. Vivian. The names echoed with every footfall. A human and a fae. A couple. Openly. That alone was enough to make Ryoka’s brain stutter in this world of hidden things and bloody politics.

But it was the other thing. The thing they’d said when the Horns weren’t listening, when Pisces had been upstairs and the half-elf Ceria was focused on her patient.

Ryoka had been pulling on her repaired boots, testing the mended bone in her leg with cautious wonder. Nesha had knelt beside her, that breathtaking face level with Ryoka’s, a smile playing on lips that had no business being that full. “You heal fast, Runner. Real fast. The inn… it likes you.”

“The inn,” Ryoka had repeated, skeptical.

“Mhm.” Nesha’s voice was warm honey, a Midwestern cadence utterly alien to Izril. “It’s got a taste for strong folk. For stories. Me and Viv, we’re just the keepers. We provide the welcome.”

“The welcome,” Ryoka said, the words flat.

Vivian had glided over then, a vision of fae allure, her F-cup chest barely constrained by that ridiculous, magical strap. She’d trailed a finger along Ryoka’s shoulder, a touch that crackled with static and something deeper. “A very personal welcome. For every guest. It’s the house rule.”

They’d shared a look then, Nesha and Vivian. A look of such intimate, shared hunger that Ryoka had felt her face heat. It wasn’t a threat. It was an invitation. An open, hungry, terrifyingly sincere invitation.

And then Nesha had leaned in, her whisper for Ryoka alone. “We weren’t always like this, you know. I was a sixty-year-old man from Missouri. Albert Sweitzer. Made a wish. Ended up in a dragon’s cave next to this one.” She’d jerked a thumb at Vivian, who grinned. “Teriarch. Ancient, horny bastard. Taught us magic. Changed us. Now we’re here.”

The confession hung in the dusty air of the road. A wish. A dragon. A transformation. It was insane. It was the kind of story Ryoka, of all people, couldn’t immediately dismiss.

Because she’d seen the magic in that inn. Felt it knit her flesh. Seen the way Pisces, a known necromancer, chopped wood like a contented farmhand. Felt the web of warmth and power humming in the very floorboards.

And the women themselves. Nesha moved with a joyful, greedy ownership of her new body, every curve a celebration. But her eyes, sometimes, when she thought no one was looking… they held the quiet, pragmatic weight of a man who’d paid taxes and mowed his lawn. A contradiction made flesh.

Ryoka ran faster, as if she could outpace the memory of that knowing smile, the feel of Vivian’s magical touch. A welcome. What did that even mean for a Runner who trusted no one?

***

Several miles back, the wagon carrying the Horns of Hammerad creaked along the same road. Gerial was asleep in the back, snoring softly. Calruz the Minotaur drove, his massive hands gentle on the reins.

Ceria Springwalker sat beside him, her half-elf eyes distant. She picked at the wood grain of the seat. “We should go back,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

Calruz grunted. “The inn? We paid. The human is healed. The necromancer is… contained.” The last word was ground out like gravel.

“It’s not about the gold,” Ceria said. She glanced back at the sleeping form of Gerial, then lowered her voice further. “Think about it, Calruz. Pisces. He’s there. Voluntarily. Chopping wood. Did you see his face when we left? He looked… settled.”

“A trick. An enchantment. The fae is powerful,” Calruz rumbled, his distrust a tangible thing.

“Maybe. But the healing wasn’t a trick. Ryoka was dying. That human woman, Nesha, she laid hands on her and the fever broke. The tissue knitted. I felt the magic. It wasn’t necromancy. It wasn’t any school I know. It was like… the house itself was healing her.”

She fell silent for a moment, watching the pine trees blur past. “And they’re a couple. Openly. A human and a fae running an inn together on the Floodplains. That’s not a front. That’s a statement.”

Calruz shifted, his armor clinking. “What is your point, Ceria?”

“My point is we need a base while the Guild drags its feet on the Liscor ruins clearance. That inn is ten miles from the city walls. It’s defensible. It has… resources.” She chose the word carefully. “We could gather the team there. Bring in Barr, Marian, Hunt, the juniors. A central location. A safe house.”

“Safe? With a necromancer and two unknown magic-users offering ‘personal welcomes’?” Calruz’s tone was scornful.

Ceria turned to face him fully, her pale eyes earnest. “I don’t know exactly what they offer. But I get the feeling that hospitality is more than food and a bed. The innkeepers… they see something. They offered Pisces a place. They healed Ryoka for the cost of a story. They’re powerful, Calruz. And they’re not aligned with the Guild, or the Antinium, or any of the city factions. They’re just… there.”

“A neutral territory,” Calruz mused, the strategic part of his mind engaging.

“Exactly. And if their power comes from welcoming guests, from forging connections…” Ceria trailed off, thinking of the palpable warmth in the common room, the way the very air felt charged and sated after their single night. “Then making it our base could be beneficial for them, too. A steady stream of strong guests. Adventurers.”

“You want to bargain with them.”

“I want to understand them,” Ceria corrected. “Starting with staying there again. With the whole team. Seeing what that ‘welcome’ really entails.”

Calruz was silent for a long time, the only sound the wagon wheels and Gerial’s snores. Finally, he nodded, a slow, heavy dip of his horned head. “We will discuss it with the others. When we reach Celum.”

Ceria leaned back, a plan solidifying in her mind. She pictured the inn, its lantern light a beacon in the empty plains. She pictured Nesha’s generous smile and Vivian’s knowing gaze. A welcome. More than food and a bed. A shiver that wasn’t fear traced its way down Ceria’s spine. It was anticipation.

***

Back at the inn, Nesha stood at a window, watching the empty road. The howling wind from the previous night had died to a whisper. The web beneath her feet hummed, content but watchful. Patient.

Vivian came up behind her, pressing her lush body against Nesha’s back, her arms wrapping around that incredible waist. She nuzzled into Nesha’s chestnut hair. “They’re thinking about us.”

“Aren’t they just,” Nesha said, her voice a warm murmur. She covered Vivian’s hands with her own. “The Runner’s got our story now. The half-elf is making plans.”

“Good.” Vivian’s breath was hot against Nesha’s neck. “The web is hungry for new threads. Strong threads. Adventurers have such lovely, complicated energy.”

Nesha turned in her embrace, looking down into Vivian’s fae-sharp, beautiful face. She saw the woman from Michigan, reborn, just like her. A partner in this impossible second life. “We’ll welcome them all, Viv. Every last one.”

She leaned down and kissed her, slow and deep. The magic between them, the bond forged in a dragon’s cave and tempered in this inn, flared bright and warm. It fed the quiet, waiting house around them, a promise woven into the very walls.

The welcome was always ready.