Tessa ran.

  Not for a delivery. Not for coin. She ran because she had to burn something off—something heavy and sour clinging to her skin like oil. Her boots pounded the uneven streets, legs screaming from a day’s work, but she didn’t slow. Not until her breath burned in her chest and the city blurred at the edges.

  She stopped in an old garden square where no one ever came. The benches were warped from rain, the stone walls cracked with climbing vines, and weeds pushed through the gravel paths like they owned the place. She liked that. Nothing polished. Nothing false.

  She sat on a low stone edge, braced her elbows on her knees, and stared at the dirt.

  Start over.

  That’s what Dren had said.

  Like he could pick things up where they left off, like the three years of silence didn’t count. Like it didn’t matter that when he had a choice—her, or his future—he chose the one that came with a pricetag and left her behind.

  She clenched her jaw.

  He only wanted her now because it was safe. Because he had a good post. Because having her around again made him feel better.

  And for one horrible second, she’d considered it. Really considered it. The thought of warm meals. A workshop. Stability. Dren had always been generous. He would treat her well. He wouldn’t let her go hungry. Would probably buy her materials. Maybe even give her space to work on her own projects.

  It was tempting. Gods, it was so tempting.

  Because living like this—just barely getting by, praying for tips and scraps and one more lucky break—was exhausting.

  But even in that imagined future, something curdled in her gut.

  She would always be watching.

  Always doubting.

  Wondering when he’d put himself first again. When the next opportunity would come, and if he’d leave her behind just like he did three years ago.

  Because he hadn’t come to her then—not to explain, not to apologize. He only came now, when it suited him. When she could be useful again.

  And what would that make her?

  A tool?

  A pet?

  A convenience?

  Her stomach churned.

  But she wouldn’t be able to trust him.

  Not really.

  Not with anything that mattered.

  And without trust, any relationship—any future—was just borrowed time.

  She drew a shaky breath, eyes fixed on the weeds twisting between the cracks at her feet. She was tired of borrowed time. Tired of living week to week, stitch to stitch, hoping someone else’s success might trickle down far enough to give her a scrap of experience points.

  She needed more.

  Not someday. Not later.

  Now.

  Tessa swallowed hard, throat dry.

  She thought of the spot in the Maker’s Guild. The one that was hers. That had been hers. Until her father sold it, and Dren’s mother bought it, and no one had asked her what she wanted.

  She hadn’t fought it. Not then. She’d been sixteen, overwhelmed, ashamed. She thought if she just kept working, something else would come along. A better chance. A new path.

  It never had.

  Until now.

  Not the offer. Not Dren.

  The clarity.

  The truth that had finally settled in.

  If she wanted something better—something that belonged to her—she’d have to make it herself. No one was coming to save her. No one was going to give her anything.

  Tessa rubbed her eyes roughly and exhaled.

  She was tired. And she was angry. But underneath all of that, something sharper had taken root.

  Resolve.

  No more hiding behind “just getting by.” No more surviving for the sake of it. She stood, slowly, letting the cold air bite at her sweat-damp shirt.

  She wasn’t strong. Not yet. Not leveled. Not respected.

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  But she was still standing.

  And that had to count for something.

  The sun was just beginning to dip by the time Tessa reached the stables, painting the rooftops in pale gold and softening the edges of the city’s stone heart. The streets were quieter now. People were either heading home or heading toward places that felt like it.

  She wasn’t sure which direction she belonged in yet.

  The scent of hay, lizard musk, and old leather wrapped around her like a blanket as she stepped inside. Familiar. Safe, in the strange, worn way that stables could be.

  Larry lifted his head the moment she entered their shared stall.

  He let out a low chirp—half greeting, half demand—and waddled toward her, his fluffy white bulk making the straw shift like waves beneath him.

  Tessa managed a smile.

  “Hey,” she said, crouching down as he pressed his head gently against her chest. “Miss me?”

  He made a clicking sound in response and flopped down beside her like a boulder tipping sideways.

  She leaned back against him and let the silence settle.

  No pressure. No questions. Just breath, and warmth, and the sound of his steady, rhythmic breathing.

  For a long time, she didn’t speak.

  Then, softly: “Something has to change, Larry.”

  She ran her fingers through the downy feathers near his neck, avoiding the bigger quills along his back.

  “I can’t keep living like this. Job to job, no time, no money, no growth.”

  Larry blinked slowly, content to be beside her, his wide body taking up most of the stall like a small, feathery hill.

  “I don’t even know what that change looks like,” she admitted. “A better job? More hours? Trying to make something that actually sells?” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Something not made from scraps and hope?”

  He shifted, curling his long toes under him.

  Tessa went quiet again, then glanced at him, taking in his size—his chest rising and falling, the way his body pressed into the space like it was always too small.

  “You should be out there,” she murmured. “Running. Flying, maybe. Whatever it is you're supposed to grow into.”

  Larry made a soft, trilling noise, one she’d only ever heard when he was calm. He nudged her knee with his beak.

  Tessa looked away.

  She didn’t want to admit it, but the thought had been pressing in for a while now—he was growing, slowly, but he’d already outpaced the walls around him. She was keeping him penned in.

  Maybe he was waiting for her to catch up.

  Her eyes drifted toward the corner of the stall, where a dust-covered bundle lay beneath a folded tarp. She reached for it, unrolling the old leather saddle she’d crafted many years ago—back when Larry had still been gangly and awkward and small enough to perch on a windowsill if he wanted.

  The saddle was well-made. Hand-stitched. Reinforced with spare canvas, fastened with brass buckles she’d salvaged from a broken harness.

  It was also far too small now.

  She laid it across her lap and stared down at it. The straps, especially, were short. The girth belt wouldn’t fit around even half of his current chest.

  She’d need new materials. Stronger leather. More fasteners. Maybe a new support brace, if she wanted it to hold his weight in motion.

  It wouldn’t be cheap.

  In fact, it would eat most of what little she had saved.

  Tessa frowned, brow furrowing.

  She could risk it.

  If she took a high-paying job—just one—and made it count, she could earn back the cost. And if the saddle fit, if Larry could carry her out of the capital, she might be able to find something beyond the city’s walls. A courier route to somewhere new. Somewhere that paid more than tips and leftover meat cuts.

  Somewhere she could grow, too.

  She looked at Larry again, who now had his head tucked beneath his wing, one eye still barely open like he was listening.

  Her voice was soft, but firm this time.

  “You’re not meant to stay in here your whole life.”

  And neither was she.

  The next morning, the job board looked even worse than it had the day before.

  Tessa stood in the same spot she always did, boots scuffing at the worn stones beneath her, eyes scanning the tattered parchments for anything promising.

  Most of it was garbage.

  Odd jobs that paid in barter instead of coin. Half-legible postings from people offering two copper for delivery to the edge of a neighboring district. One even asked for someone to clean out a root cellar rumored to have aggressive rats. Aggressive rats. Like that was meant to justify the hazard pay of a single loaf of bread.

  She sighed and shifted her weight.

  Nothing good. Nothing worthwhile. Nothing that would get her closer to replacing the saddle straps or leaving the city walls.

  She considered heading to another board—maybe the one in the Craftsman’s Row or outside the lower gardens—but those boards were worse. Mostly errand work from bored nobles or wealthy shopkeepers looking for free labor under the illusion of "training experience."

  She'd tried those postings before. They'd never paid enough. And she didn’t have the time—or pride—to waste on polishing someone else's boots for the privilege of being insulted.

  Her eyes drifted toward the eastern corner of the city, where the tower of the Adventuring Guild rose past the rooftops like a blunt stone tooth.

  Tessa stared at it for a long time.

  The Adventuring Guild.

  She hadn’t been inside since she was a child—since her mother had brought her along to check in after a job. She still remembered the waiting hall: the buzz of conversation, the wide boards filled with active contracts, the smell of steel and leather and sweat. Adventurers in every corner, laughing, boasting, trading gear or stories or both.

  It had been overwhelming then.

  It still was.

  But they had jobs.

  Real ones.

  Organized in categories, from what she remembered: Gathering—materials, herbs, sometimes rare monster drops. Escorting—merchants, dignitaries, traveling scholars. Delivering—official correspondence, sealed packages, even enchanted items. And Subjugation—that was the word they used for monster clearing. A prettier word than killing, even if it meant the same thing.

  She didn’t care about those last ones. She had no intention of fighting anything. But the other categories... They might have something. Something better.

  The Guild took pretty much anyone.

  No test. No level requrement. No endorsement. No letter of lineage or recommendation. All you needed was a working body, basic paperwork, and the ability to sign your name without bleeding on it.

  She’d avoided it for years.

  Because it felt like crossing a line. Once you stepped into the Guild, you were part of their world. Adventuring. Risk. The expectation to take on more, grow faster, move beyond the safe districts of the capital.

  But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing anymore.

  Tessa looked back at the job board, its scraps and scribbles fluttering weakly in the morning breeze. Nothing here would get her closer to what she really wanted.

  What she needed.

  Level 100.

  If she could reach it, she wouldn’t need a recommendation. Wouldn’t need a family name or a seat bought behind her back. The Maker’s Guild had a hard threshold: anyone who hit triple digits in a crafting class—legitimately—could apply for admission. No bribes. No favors. Just proof of work.

  It was the only door left open to her.

  But at this rate, she’d be forty before she crossed that line.

  The Adventuring Guild, though…

  Tessa folded her arms and looked at the sky. Clouds drifted low and heavy. It might rain by evening.

  And if she didn’t find something soon, her coin would run out faster than her resolve.

  She looked back toward the Guild tower again.

  Tall. Solid. Unwelcoming, but not closed.

  It might be her best shot.

  And she was tired of scraping the bottom.

  Maybe it was time.