I awoke to pain. Not the sharp, immediate kind that comes from injury, but the dull, pervasive ache of a body betrayed by its accommodations. Every muscle complained as consciousness dragged me from blissful oblivion into the harsh reality of morning.
The cot beneath me might as well have been stuffed with broken glass and small woodland creatures. A particularly aggressive spring jabbed into my lower back, creating a focal point for my misery. The blanket—a scratchy woolen monstrosity—had somehow tangled itself around my legs during the night, trapping me like some pathetic victim in a B-grade horror film.
I stared at the ceiling, cataloging my grievances. In my previous life, I'd slept on a custom mattress flown in from Sweden, with sheets woven from Egyptian cotton so fine they felt like sleeping on a cloud. My pillows had been stuffed with actual swan down. I once fired an assistant for booking me a hotel room with thread count below 800.
And now, here I was, on a cot that would qualify as a torture device in most civilized countries.
The door creaked open without warning. A sliver of light cut across the small storage room, momentarily blinding me. I squinted against the invasion, making out the silhouette of pointed ears and flowing dark hair.
"Get up, snow-top." A foot nudged mine insistently. "Breakfast isn't going to serve itself. My father wants to see you."
Rumi's voice had that special quality unique to morning people—the irritating perkiness that made you want to throw something heavy at them. I groaned and sat up, the blanket falling away from my bare torso. Running a hand through my hair, I blinked away the remnants of what little sleep I'd managed to steal.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine," I muttered.
I expected another sharp retort. Instead, silence. I looked up to find Rumi frozen mid-step, her crimson eyes fixed somewhere in the vicinity of my chest. Her mouth opened, then closed. The words she'd clearly been about to say evaporated, replaced by a faint pink tinge that crept up her neck to her cheeks.
Well, well, well. Interesting.
I stretched deliberately, rolling my shoulders back, giving her the full display. The body I'd been granted in this world was lean but well-defined—not the bulky muscle of a weightlifter, but the streamlined physique of a natural athlete. I'd noticed it yesterday while washing up in the stream, but hadn't given it much thought beyond mild approval.
Now, I was suddenly very appreciative.
Rumi seemed to snap out of whatever trance had momentarily captured her. Her ears shot straight up, then flattened against her head in what I was quickly learning was embarrassment turned to anger.
"What are you doing?! Put a shirt on, you idiot! This is a respectable establishment!" She whipped her head to the side, but not before I caught the deepening of that blush.
I raised an eyebrow, making no move to cover up. "I never sleep with a shirt on. It's constricting." I stood and stretched again, this time raising my arms above my head. "Personal preference."
Her ears twitched furiously, like two agitated metronomes keeping time to her irritation. "Just—just get dressed! Five minutes!" She backed toward the door, nearly colliding with the frame in her haste to exit. "And fix your hair! You look ridiculous!"
The door slammed shut.
I grinned at the empty room. That was... enlightening. The bunny had a soft spot after all. Or at least, a normal female reaction to male physiology.
I grabbed my tunic from where I'd draped it over a sack of flour to dry overnight. It still smelled vaguely of dish soap, but it was better than yesterday's sweat. After splashing water on my face from a small basin in the corner, I attempted to tame my white hair into something less "ridiculous." Without a mirror, I had to trust my fingers' assessment.
Four and a half minutes later, I emerged from my closet-bedroom into the main tavern area. The cavernous room, so packed with noise and bodies the night before, was eerily quiet in the gray light of early morning. Tables had been wiped clean, chairs neatly arranged. The floor had been swept, and the lingering scent of stale beer mostly masked by something herbal and pleasant.
At a small table near the unlit fireplace sat an older Hume Bunny, his graying fur a stark contrast to a still-vibrant face. He cradled a steaming mug between hands marked with the calluses and small scars of a working life. This, I presumed, was Mr. Finn.
Unlike his daughter, whose every emotion played across her features like a theatrical performance, Mr. Finn's face was a carefully constructed mask of neutrality. Only his eyes—the same startling crimson as Rumi's—betrayed any sign of life, sharp and evaluating as they tracked my approach.
Rumi appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray with bowls of what looked like porridge. She set one down in front of her father then placed another at the empty seat across from him. She didn't look at me, but her ears twitched once—acknowledgment without eye contact.
"Sit," Mr. Finn said, gesturing to the chair. His voice was deeper than I'd expected, like gravel wrapped in velvet.
I slid into the seat, offering a smile calibrated to hit the sweet spot between respectful and confident. "Thank you for your hospitality, sir."
He didn't return the smile. Instead, he pushed the bowl of porridge toward me. "Eat. It's not fancy, but it'll keep you going."
I looked down at the gray-brown mush, steaming faintly. Small bits of dried fruit dotted its surface like geological features on a particularly uninteresting planet. In my former life, breakfast had been prepared by a private chef—eggs sourced from heritage-breed chickens, coffee beans harvested from mountainsides in countries most people couldn't locate on a map.
But I was hungry, and I wasn't in a position to be picky. I took a spoonful, surprised to find it was actually quite good—nutty, slightly sweet, with a hint of cinnamon.
"Thank you," I said, looking up.
Our eyes met, and something extraordinary happened. Mr. Finn's hand, reaching for his tea, simply stopped mid-air. His expression remained fixed, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—widened almost imperceptibly. For one critical second, he looked at me like he'd seen a ghost.
Then the moment passed, his hand completed its journey to the teacup, and his face settled back into its practiced neutrality. If I hadn't been watching closely, I might have missed it entirely.
"So," he said, "where are you from, Rome Valentine?"
"Just a small village," I replied, matching his casual tone. "Nothing worth naming, really. The kind of place people leave, not the kind they visit."
"Your family?"
I shrugged, the practiced indifference of someone touching on a fabricated sad story. "Never knew them. Grew up alone, mostly." I had, after all, clawed my way up from nothing once before—just in a different world.
"I heard stories about Orario," I continued, watching his reaction. "The Dungeon. Heroes. Fortunes to be made. Decided anything was better than dying of boredom tending someone else's fields."
Mr. Finn took a sip of his tea, his eyes never leaving my face. "So you have no idea who your parents are?"
"No," I replied, a slight edge creeping into my voice. "Why does that matter?"
"No reason." He set down his cup with deliberate care. "Just curious."
Rumi moved around the tavern, arranging things for the day, but I could tell she was listening to every word. Her ears, those expressive traitors, kept swiveling in our direction.
Mr. Finn fell silent, studying me with the intensity of a man appraising a rare artifact. I continued eating, refusing to be the first to break the silence. In boardrooms across my former world, I'd perfected the art of the calculated pause—the subtle power play of forcing the other party to fill the conversational void.
Apparently, Mr. Finn was familiar with the same tactic.
Finally, he steepled his fingers under his chin. "A merchant wagon is leaving for Orario this afternoon."
I looked up sharply, not bothering to hide my interest.
"They're regular suppliers of mine, heading back to the city for a delivery." He tapped one finger against the table. "I can secure you a spot."
"At what cost?"
His lips curved in the barest suggestion of a smile. "Practical. Good." He reached into his vest and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. "A simple contract. I pay for your passage now. You repay me one and a half times the amount within one month of your arrival in Orario."
I raised an eyebrow. "Fifty percent interest for a wagon ride? That's steep."
"You have other options?"
I didn't, and he knew it. Walking to Orario would take days, exposing me to risks I wasn't equipped to handle yet. I needed to reach the city as quickly as possible.
"Let me see the contract." I held out my hand.
He passed over the parchment. I scanned it quickly, looking for hidden clauses or traps. The terms were exactly as he'd stated—expensive, but straightforward.
"Fine," I said, reaching for the quill he'd produced. "It's a deal."
"There is one more condition." He looked past me, toward his daughter, who had been quietly refilling water glasses at the next table.
I followed his gaze. Rumi had frozen mid-pour, her ears straight up in alarm.
"You have to take her with you."
The quill stopped just above the parchment. I looked between father and daughter, searching for the joke.
"What?" Rumi and I spoke in perfect, horrified unison.
Mr. Finn's expression remained unchanged. "My daughter has wanted to go to Orario for years. To become an adventurer." He said this last word with the careful neutrality of someone describing a particularly dangerous career choice.
"I've never allowed it. The city is no place for a young woman alone."
Rumi slammed the water pitcher down, liquid sloshing over the rim. "Father! We talked about this!" Her voice was a mixture of anger and what sounded suspiciously like hope.
He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "But with a traveling companion, someone who could..." His eyes flicked over me, assessing. "...ensure her safe arrival, I might reconsider."
"You can't be serious," I said.
"Never more so." He folded his hands on the table. "Those are my terms. Take my daughter safely to Orario, help her find reputable lodgings—not in your own company, of course—and I'll finance both your passages. The contract stands as written."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you walk to Orario. Or find someone else willing to extend credit to a penniless stranger with odd eyes and no history."
"I don't need a babysitter," she snapped. "And certainly not him!"
"You need a chaperone," her father corrected mildly. "And he needs transportation. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."
I weighed my options. On one hand, being responsible for the sharp-tongued waitress would complicate my journey. On the other, I needed to get to Orario, and this was by far the most expedient way.
Plus, there was that moment—that flash of recognition in Mr. Finn's eyes. He'd seen something in me that gave him pause, yet he was still willing to entrust his daughter to my care.
That was... interesting.
"Fine," I said, signing the contract with a flourish. "Deal."
"You can't just decide that!" Rumi protested. "Don't I get a say?"
Her father turned to her, his expression softening slightly. "You've wanted this for three years, Rumi. I'm offering you the chance, with conditions I can live with. Take it or leave it."
She looked between us, conflict written across her face. Finally, her shoulders sagged in defeat—or perhaps acceptance.
"Fine," she muttered. "But I'm not going to enjoy it."
I grinned at her. "Oh, I don't know, bunny girl. A grand adventure with yours truly? It might be more fun than you think."
The look she gave me could have curdled milk. Mr. Finn chuckled, the sound surprising from such a serious man.
"The wagon leaves at noon," he said, standing and tucking the signed contract into his vest. "I suggest you both prepare."
As he walked away, I was left alone with Rumi, the weight of our unexpected partnership hanging in the air between us.
"Well," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Looks like we're going to be travel buddies."
Her ears flattened against her head. "Touch me even once during this journey, and I'll cut off your fingers."
I held up my hands in mock surrender. "Why would that be the first thing you thought of?"
She grabbed my empty porridge bowl with unnecessary force. "This doesn't make us friends."
"You keep saying that, but I'm starting to think you secretly like me."
"In your dreams, snow-top."
As she stormed off toward the kitchen, I couldn't help but smile. Orario was my destination, my starting point for whatever game Juno had thrown me into. And now I had transportation, a guide who knew more about this world than I did, and a mystery to unravel.
Not bad for a man who'd been dead yesterday.