Morning in the Rusty Tankard was less a gentle dawn and more an accidental symphony: the clatter of plates, bark of orders, and the universal chorus of hungover groans. The sunlight fought a losing battle against the thick, oily haze of last night's stew and a dozen breakfast fires. For a moment, I wasn't sure I'd slept at all.
But the small weight pressed into my side said otherwise.
Milo five years old, hair like a haystack, knees and elbows all angles slept with one fist tangled in my cloak. I'd been half-convinced he'd run off in the night, but no. He stuck like a particularly loyal burr, and I had to admit: there was a faint comfort in not waking alone.
His eyes blinked open, bright with hunger and the kind of hope only found in stray dogs and orphans. He grinned, wide and gap-toothed. "We alive?"
"For now." I ruffled his hair, which only made it worse. "Let's see if that luck holds through breakfast."
Downstairs, the inn was chaos incarnate. Greta the innkeeper swept through the tables, tray in one hand, ladle in the other, barking orders and gossip in equal measure. Locals jostled for seats, a merchant argued about the price of tea, and a bard nursed a black eye in the corner possibly from last night's brawl, possibly just Millcross hospitality.
I found a table for two near the fire, shooed away a particularly ambitious chicken, and glanced at the menu nailed to the wall.
BREAKFAST SPECIALS:
Griddle cakes with honey (3 coppers)
Spiced porridge (2 coppers)
Farm eggs, any style (4 coppers)
Sausage and potato hash (5 coppers, no substitutions, don't ask)
"Chef's Surprise" (Price: Regret)
I ordered two of everything mostly to see which wouldn't poison us and paid in advance, plus a little extra for "speed." Milo's eyes grew with every plate that landed on the table: golden cakes stacked high, eggs still steaming, sausage spitting fat, potatoes crisp and brown.
"Eat," I said, nudging the plates closer. "No one's stealing it. Not even me."
He hesitated, fork poised like a weapon. "Really?"
"Unless you snore. Then maybe."
That was all it took. He attacked the food with the unselfconscious enthusiasm of someone who'd never trusted a meal to last. Eggs vanished, porridge disappeared, even the dubious "Chef's Surprise" (which might've contained more roots than strictly legal) was demolished. Crumbs dusted his cheeks. Syrup stuck to his chin.
A nearby farmer snorted. "Kid eats like he's starved."
"He is," I said, my tone enough to make him look away.
Halfway through a third sausage, Milo glanced up eyes round, voice soft. "Thank you."
I was unprepared for the sudden knot in my chest. I shrugged, feigning annoyance. "Don't get used to it. Breakfast is a luxury. Tomorrow we're back to raw turnips and tears."
He grinned, syrup-toothed, and I almost laughed.
The system chimed in, smug as ever:
[Achievement Unlocked: 'Reluctant Provider.' Stat bonus: +1 Empathy. Caution: Side effects may include feelings.]
I ignored it.
Once Milo was full, I surveyed his state: dirt beneath every fingernail, mud caked to his ankles, hair stiff with what I prayed was only jam. I frowned, considering the inn's water supply, the child's odds against it, and my own lack of childcare experience.
"We need a bath."
Milo's face fell. "Is it cold?"
"Not if I have anything to say about it." (And if I failed, well, he'd be clean, cold, and I could always roast a sausage to warm us up.)
The Rusty Tankard's bathhouse was a low stone building out back, always steaming, always packed. We joined a short line of yawning merchants, grimy farmhands, and one elf woman who looked as if she'd rather set herself on fire than breathe the same air as a dwarf two places ahead.
The attendant was a burly woman with arms like barrels and a suspicious eye for trouble.
"Copper a head. Soap's extra. No splashing, no horseplay, and if anything explodes, you clean it up yourself." She squinted at us. "Mother and son, eh?"
I tried not to choke. "Not…exactly. Just give us the soap, please."
She grunted, handed over a brick the size of a tombstone, and waved us through.
Inside, the bathhouse was a world of its own: fog curling above the water, voices echoing off stone, children giggling, old women gossiping at one end while a pair of burly men tried to outdo each other in "accidental" splashing at the other. The air was thick with lye, lavender, and faint traces of last week's mystery stew.
I found an empty tub in the back, ran the tap, and frowned as cold water gushed forth.
"Hold still," I told Milo, who eyed the tub like it was a new monster. I waited for the other bathers to look away, then focused, calling a trickle of warmth up through my fingers. A faint orange glow, hidden beneath the tub's rim soon steam curled over the surface.
Milo's eyes went huge. "You can make hot water? Real magic?"
"Don't spread it around. Next thing you know, they'll charge me for heating."
He hopped in, giggling, and promptly splashed half the tub across the floor. I rolled up my sleeves, seized the brick of soap, and scrubbed as if preparing a carrot for stew. Dirt slid off in layers. New dirt appeared. Milo tried to escape three times, twice nearly took out a passing halfling, and once managed to soak my boots entirely.
"Stop moving or I'll use magic to glue you in place!"
He stilled, then stuck his tongue out at me. I couldn't help but grin.
Soap suds ran down the drain. Milo's hair emerged, soft and dark, his skin almost shining under the grime. He looked up at me, solemn.
"You ever have a bath when you were a kid?"
The question hit harder than I expected. My memory was a cold bucket: a dozen times cleaning myself in freezing streams, scrubbing at bruises and mud, no gentle hands, no one worrying if I was warm enough.
"Not like this," I said softly. "But you deserve better."
He shrugged, and I realized how quickly children learn to lower their expectations.
The system popped up:
[Achievement Unlocked: 'Reluctant Big Sister.' Advice: Don't cry in public. Dignity loss: -5.]
I splashed water at the window, which did nothing but amuse Milo.
We emerged from the bathhouse Milo glowing, clean, and wrapped in a towel, me wet, slightly defeated, but oddly content. The town was waking in earnest now: market stalls opening, the smell of fresh bread joining the noise of haggling and gossip.
Milo skipped at my side, hands buried in oversized sleeves, humming the same tune from last night.
"Where we go now?" he asked, eyes bright.
I glanced at the quest board, at the crowds, at the endless possibility. "First, clothes. Then…maybe a quest. Something small. No dragons."
He cheered, and for the first time, I let myself imagine the future as something more than survival a messy, noisy, inconvenient hope.
I ruffled his hair, and he didn't duck away.
"C'mon," I said. "Let's see if civilization's got anything else worth stealing legally, this time."
As we headed into the marketplace, Milo close beside me, I felt a warmth that had nothing to do with magic.