First laugh didn't register as a laugh. Sounded like someone choking on bread, then trying to play it off like they'd meant to make that noise all along.
I didn't look up right away – was too busy pressing my fingers flat against the council table, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in my proposal sheets. Three nights straight I'd rewritten those numbers until my eyes burned, until every line made sense to me. Now they just looked like squiggles on paper.
Then another snort from across the room.
"Say that again?"
I lifted my head to find three senior merchants staring at me like I'd just suggested we build a palace out of mud. One of them – big belly, beard trimmed so sharp it looked painful – actually had his hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking like he was holding in a fit.
"The northern pass?" he said, and the words came out slow, like he was tasting something sour. "You want us to run caravans through the northern pass… in winter?"
My throat went tight. I'd practiced this part a hundred times in my head – knew exactly what to say, how to smile, how to make them believe me.
"Lower traffic means lower interception risk," I said, and even I could hear how thin my voice was. "Staggered departure times, reinforced guard rotations – we've run every calculation, mapped every possible route—"
"Calculations?" Someone else at the table actually laughed out loud this time. Proper loud, the kind that makes people turn their heads. "Sweetheart, the only thing that gets through the northern pass in winter is frostbite and regret."
More quiet chuckles rippled through the room. I could feel eyes on my hands – I'd started crumpling the edge of a paper without realizing, fingers twisting it into a tiny ball.
Stop it.
I forced my hand open and flattened the sheet back down, but the crease was already there – sharp as a cut.
"It's not impossible," I said, too fast. Too defensive. "We've got insulated cargo holds now, enchanted to keep goods from freezing. Weather wards that can hold off blizzards for twelve hours straight—"
"Wards cost coin." The bearded merchant leaned forward, elbows on the table like he was talking to a particularly slow child. "Good coin. Coin we don't need to throw away on a pipe dream that'll get people killed."
My fingers curled into fists under the table. I made myself relax them.
"Every major trade route started as a pipe dream once," I shot back. "People said the eastern road was impossible too, until someone proved them wrong."
Bad move. The words came out sharp and hot, and his smile went tight – the kind that means you've just given them exactly what they wanted.
"Dream all you want in your spare time," he said, pushing back from the table so hard his chair scraped against the stone floor. "But when your little dreams start costing me money, they're not dreams anymore. They're a problem."
He turned and walked off without another look, muttering about "kids who read too many adventure stories instead of learning real trade." One by one, the rest of the room followed – some clapping me on the shoulder like they were being kind, some just shaking their heads, a few even grinning like they'd just won something.
I stood there long after they were gone, staring at the crease in my paper. The room felt cold all of a sudden, even with the fire crackling in the hearth. My hands were still shaking a little – I wrapped them around myself, trying to stop it.
Then I heard the door click shut behind me.
"Let them talk."
I didn't turn around. Knew who it was before he spoke – his voice always sounds the same, quiet but solid, like he's talking through stone.
"They'll come back," I said, not looking at him. "With more questions. More problems. They'll pick apart every single number until there's nothing left."
"Good."
His voice was closer now. I could feel him moving toward me – the air got heavier, like before a storm hits, when you can taste rain even if the sky's still clear.
"I don't need you to fight my battles for me," I said, finally turning to face him. Found him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, looking more tired than angry. His coat was dusty, like he'd been riding hard all day, and there was a tear in one cuff that someone had tried to stitch up badly. Not perfect. Not untouchable. Just… real.
"They'll use this against you too," I added. "If you stick your neck out for me, they'll drag your reputation through the mud right alongside mine."
"Let them try."
He pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, his boots making soft thuds against the stone floor. He walked past me to the table, ran a finger over my crumpled papers like he was checking for something.
"Your name on the proposal changes everything," I said, watching him. "It's not just my idea anymore. It becomes yours too."
"Good."
He picked up one of my sheets, held it up to the light like he was studying every line. His fingers were calloused – from sword work, from riding, from doing real work instead of just talking about it.
"Next time they laugh," he said, not looking up from the paper, "they won't be laughing at some kid with too many ideas. They'll be looking at us. Both of us."
I folded my arms over my chest, trying to stop the shiver that was working its way up my spine.
"This isn't a win," I said. "Not really. They'll just be angrier now – you know how they get when someone with real authority backs something they don't like."
"Never said it was a win." He set the paper down exactly where I'd left it, crease and all. "But it's better than letting you get buried under their jokes and their 'experience' and all that other nonsense they hide behind."
The words hit harder than I wanted them to. I'd been so focused on proving I could do this alone – so determined to show them I didn't need anyone's help – that I didn't stop to think about what that looked like to everyone else. A kid shouting into an empty room.
"Fine," I said, and my voice cracked on the word. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Fine. But if this blows up in our faces – if people get hurt, if we lose coin, if the whole thing goes to hell – it's on both of us. I'm not letting you take all the blame."
"Good."
He looked at me then – really looked at me – and for a second I could see something soft in his eyes before it disappeared again.
"Next time they start in on you," he said, already heading for the door, "you fight back. You tell them exactly why this matters, exactly what you've planned. I'll handle the rest – the politics, the money talk, all the stuff they actually care about."
I watched him go, his coat disappearing through the door, and for the first time since I'd walked into that room, I didn't feel angry about needing help. I didn't feel small or weak or like I'd failed.
I felt relieved.
I walked back to the table and gathered up my papers, folding them carefully even though some of them were still creased. My hands weren't shaking anymore. I knew what I had to do now – rewrite the proposal one more time, make sure every number was solid, make sure I could answer every question they threw at me.
Because next time, I wouldn't be alone.
And that made all the difference.