The walk back to the inn didn't take long.
But it felt longer than the fight.
The snow had crusted over again, slick with soot and melted blood. Every step crunched like it was apologizing too late. The cold had shifted, too, not angry now, just numb. Like the wind had burned through all its rage and settled for exhaustion.
Lindarion rolled his shoulder once. It twinged. Not serious. Just annoying. The kind of ache that let you know you were still upright.
Ashwing padded beside him in silence. No huffing. No tail-wagging. Just footsteps, careful and light, claws clicking against stones that used to be part of someone's porch.
The inn still stood.
Technically.
One shutter hung off a hinge like it had given up halfway through trying to flee. A third of the roof was scorched. Smoke curled lazily from a patch where a monster had tried to tear through, left claw marks like someone had been dragging a rake through the thatch.
The sign out front was still there.
Barely.
