The village wasn't exactly welcoming.
Not hostile either. Just that awkward brand of small-town curious where everyone stared like they were trying to figure out whether to sell you soup or report you to a local god.
Lindarion didn't blame them.
A baby dragon had just pranced into their square like it owned the place.
Ashwing trotted a few steps ahead, tail curled up like a banner, wings half open for drama, making proud little snort sounds with every bounce. Which wouldn't have been a problem, except the last snort lit a cart wheel on fire.
Meren made a high-pitched noise. Ren slapped the flame out with her scarf was a perfectly reasonable start to the morning.
"Don't worry," she said to the cart owner, whose mouth was stuck somewhere between the words help and why me. "He's teething. We think."
Ashwing puffed out his chest and sneezed again. Smoke, not fire. Progress.
Lindarion dragged a hand down his face.
"I should've just left him in the cave."
"You tried," Lira said from beside him. "He followed you."
"I'm not his mother."
The stares never stopped.
One butcher had frozen mid-chop. A group of kids stood behind a crate, whispering like Ashwing was some kind of cryptid. Someone near the well dropped a pail and didn't even bother to pick it up.
Ardan said nothing. Which was normal. But now he somehow radiated even more don't-look-at-me-than-usual energy. Not that it worked.
When your group included a prince, a dragon, and two professional sarcasm machines, subtlety died in the snow somewhere back on the mountain.
Lindarion caught sight of a sign swinging above what looked like an inn. It had seen better days. And worse owners.
Ren read the sign aloud. "The Roosting Pike. That's not cursed at all."
"Name's accurate," Meren said. "I feel roasted."
"You're just dramatic."
"I'm dying of frostbite."
Ashwing chirped and rubbed against Lindarion's leg like a cat. A really hot cat with claws and emotional issues.
He glanced around again. Eyes on them. Everywhere. Suspicion with a side of folk horror. Probably wondering if they were here to trade, steal, or summon something.
He sighed. "Do I need to say something? Do the whole noble introduction thing?"
"You're the prince," Ren offered helpfully. "You do royal stuff."
"I don't have a tiara."
Meren elbowed him. "Just say something cool. Like, 'We come in peace.'"
Lira gave them all a long, deadpan look. "We're going inside before this turns into a public crisis."
She opened the door of the inn without knocking.
Ashwing barreled in like he paid rent.
Lindarion followed, pulling his scarf down just enough to breathe in something that might've been old woodsmoke or someone's last meal. Unclear.
The room inside was small, warm, and filled with the distinct smell of potatoes.
Ardan did a sweep of the room with his usual I could kill everyone here in six seconds, expression. Which meant everything was fine.
Lira nodded once at the innkeeper. "Rooms."
The woman behind the counter opened her mouth, saw Ashwing peeking out from behind Lindarion's legs, and visibly recalculated her entire life.
"Right," she said. "Upstairs. Two rooms. No questions."
Ren flopped onto the nearest bench like she had just fought a war.
Meren followed with all the grace of someone who had never sat in a chair before.
Ashwing curled under the table and immediately fell asleep was his favorite tavern in the world.
Lindarion leaned against the wall. His shoulders ached. His legs ached. His sense of dignity had curled up next to Ashwing hours ago.
The silence stretched for a bit. Peaceful. Warm.
Then Ren said, "We're definitely getting kicked out in the morning."
Lindarion closed his eyes.
"I'm counting on it."
It was fifteen full seconds of peace.
Then the door creaked open behind them. Not the dramatic kind of creak that implies mystery.
Footsteps followed. Slow. Purposeful.
Ashwing didn't move. Which either meant he wasn't worried, or he had found the warmest patch of floor and declared war on anything that tried to claim it.
Lindarion cracked one eye open.
The man standing in the doorway looked official. Which, in village terms, meant he had sleeves. And a sash. And a beard trimmed like it had thoughts about taxes.
"Prince Lindarion Sunblade?"
Lindarion stood up a little straighter. Mostly because the bench was stabbing him in the spine.
The man bowed. Not deep, but deep enough to acknowledge rank without looking like he was about to ask for a favor.
"I am Elder Raleth, caretaker of Kareth Hollow. We had word from the watch that someone… notable had arrived."
Lindarion glanced at Ashwing, then back. "Was it the dragon or the sarcasm that tipped them off?"
Raleth didn't blink. "Both."
Ren snorted behind him. Meren tried to look serious and failed halfway through a yawn.
Lira had already moved to stand near the wall. Cloak shifted back just enough to reveal the edge of her blade. Not threatening. Just polite awareness.
Ardan remained seated. Because Ardan did what he wanted and dared people to question it.
Raleth looked around the room, carefully avoiding eye contact with Ashwing, who had started snoring softly.
"You're welcome to stay as long as you like. Though the presence of a young wyrm might… complicate matters."
"We'll keep him under control," Lindarion said.
Raleth nodded once. "See that you do. There are old stories in these mountains. Some people don't know the difference between legend and threat."
Lindarion didn't smile. "Neither do dragons."
That earned the tiniest twitch of Raleth's mouth. Almost respect. Or maybe just resignation.
He inclined his head again. "If you need provisions or maps, my home is at the center of the village. Third door past the well. You can't miss it. It's the one with the green lantern."
"Because that's not ominous at all," Ren muttered.
Raleth ignored her like a professional. "Rest well."
He turned and walked out.
The door creaked again.