Three days later.
I'm sharpening a knife that does not need sharpening. The Dragon is pretending not to watch me do it. He is failing.
Then—
"Nice ass!"
I don't even look up. "I'm busy."
The Crow flaps down anyway, feathers slick, eyes bright with that familiar, hateful cheer.
"Still a strumpet," it says. "Still terrible at planning. Still emotionally flammable."
"I will roast you," the Dragon mutters.
"Promises, promises," the Crow caws, then hops closer. "Anyway. I talked to your princess."
My hand stills.
"…What."
The Crow tilts its head, pleased to have my attention. "She was upset. Tried to sound calm. Didn't quite manage."
My stomach tightens.
"She said," the Crow goes on, no singing now, no theatrics, just repeating it the way gossip does when it wants to hurt, "that her relatives did pay the paladin. Paid him properly. Clean. No haggling."
The Dragon exhales slowly.
"She said Ogden did exactly what he promised," the Crow continues. "Handed her over. Polite. Apologetic. Very heroic about it. Then got on a big galleon and left."
I close my eyes.
"She didn't sound angry at him," the Crow adds. "More… tired."
I say nothing.
"And then," the Crow says, softer now, "she told me they're sending her north. To the Baronies."
That word lands like a stone.
"She said it's a marriage," the Crow continues. "Some baron. Old. Useful. Someone who needs a bride more than a personality."
My jaw tightens.
"She said everyone kept calling it for her safety," the Crow says. "And a good solution. And settling things."
The Dragon's tail curls.
"She said she didn't argue," the Crow finishes. "Because when she argues, they get sharp. So she nodded and smiled and let them pack her."
Silence.
The Crow looks at me, head cocked.
"She asked me to tell you," it says. "Didn't want to write. Said writing makes things feel final."
I stare at the dirt.
"…Fuck," I say.
The Dragon's voice is very low. "They sold her."
"No," I say. "They married her."
The Crow snorts. "Same ledger. Different ink."
Something hot and ugly crawls up my spine.
"They paid," I say slowly. "They paid and then got rid of her."
"Yes," the Crow says cheerfully. "Efficiency."
The Dragon exhales. Long. Tired. The kind of sigh that comes from having watched civilizations do this exact stupid thing for a few thousand years.
"Lerida owes money," he says.
I look at him. "Everyone owes money."
"Yes," he says patiently, "but Lerida owes a lot of money. To chieftains in the Baronies. To petty warlords. To half the rotting nobility in Hanigalbat who still think ledgers are sacred texts."
I frown. The pieces start clicking together in ways I don't like.
"They've been borrowing to stay afloat," he continues. "Grain. Mercenaries. Protection fees disguised as alliances."
I blink. "Oh."
He nods once. Grim.
"Gods know," he goes on, "this may be how they even the scales."
I stare at the road north. See it clearer now.
"So," I say slowly, "this isn't panic. It's bookkeeping."
"Very common," the Dragon says. "Extremely dull. Extremely cruel."
I laugh. It comes out sharp.
"Right," I say. "We are broke and can't pay you back those fifteen thousand livers of silver, but here—" I gesture vaguely northward, "—have a minor princess."
The Dragon's mouth twists. "A transferable asset."
"Portable," I add. "Low maintenance. Comes with symbolic value."
"Dowry by another name," he says.
I kick a stone hard enough to hurt my toe. Worth it.
"They didn't even need her rescued," I mutter. "They needed her delivered."
"Yes."
"And Ogden—" I stop. Swallow. "—Ogden was just the courier."
The Dragon says nothing. Doesn't need to.
I fold my arms, hugging myself, anger finally settling into something colder and more focused.
"Alright," I say.
The Dragon looks at me.
"If she's a debt payment," I continue, "then this isn't a kidnapping gone wrong."
He waits.
"It's a transaction we're about to reverse."
Slowly, the Dragon smiles. Not wide. Not showy. Just enough to promise structural damage.
"I was hoping you'd understand."
I look north again. Baronies. Ledgers with blood margins. Men who think ownership is law.
Somewhere far away, Loma is being tallied like a sack of grain.