Three days later. Different inn. Same sticky tables. Same smell of boiled cabbage and regret.
Same Dwarf.
My forehead is pressed flat against the wood like I'm trying to merge with it. The grain is digging into my skin. I deserve it. My head is doing that slow, sloshy drumbeat thing where every thought arrives late and drunk.
"Beer," I mutter into the table. "Or poison. Dealer's choice."
The Dwarf slides a mug over. Doesn't say anything. Veteran move.
I lift my head just enough to drink, then let it thunk back down.
"Ogden," I say, muffled. "Fucking Ogden."
The Dwarf nods. Once. Grave. Like a priest at a funeral for dignity.
"He found himself a princess," I continue. "Actual one. Or at least… princess-shaped. Soft hands. Clean hair. No visible crimes."
Another nod.
"Always do," the Dwarf says.
I snort. It hurts. Everything hurts.
"He looked… happy," I add, quieter. "That's the rude part."
Silence. The fire crackles. Someone laughs too loud at dice.
The Dwarf takes a long pull from his mug, then clears his throat.
"Happened to me once," he says.
I lift one eye. "Did it."
"Aye." He stares into the middle distance. "Had a sweetheart. Down in the mines of Moria."
I blink. Sit up a fraction. "You're joking."
"No."
"…the Moria?"
"Aye."
I stare at him. He stares back. Dead serious.
"She was a lamp-lighter," he continues. "Strong wrists. Could sing while hauling ore. Terrible taste in men."
That checks out.
"She eloped," he says. "With a bloke from the silver mine. Tall. Clean beard. Said he was some prince or something."
I grimace. "Silver mine. Of course."
"Of course," the Dwarf agrees.
We drink.
"She ever come back?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Nope. Sent a letter once. Smelled like lavender. That hurt worse than the leaving."
I groan and drop my head again.
"Why do they always go for the shiny ones," I mumble. "The ones with titles. And baths."
The Dwarf shrugs. "People like stories where things turn out respectable."
I tap the table weakly. "I'm respectable."
He looks at me.
I look at him.
"…I could be," I amend.
Another long, companionable silence.
Then he adds, almost kindly, "Princesses get bored too."
I tilt my head just enough to glance at him. "You think?"
"Oh aye," he says. "They just take longer to admit it."
I smile into the table. Small. Crooked. Still bitter.
"Order me another," I say. "To bad princes. Good lamps. And people who pick the wrong mine."
He raises his mug.
"To heartbreak," he says.
We drink.
And for a moment—just a moment—the room spins a little less.
The door creaks.
Boots hesitate on the threshold.
I don't even look up. My forehead is still welded to the table because moving hurts and emotions are cheaper when you stay horizontal.
Then I feel it.
That soft, quiet collapse of air when someone walks in carrying a heartbreak.
I whisper, "Oh no," into the wood.
The Dwarf follows my gaze. He grimaces like a veteran spotting a battlefield wound. Without a word, he stands, drains his mug, mutters something about "pipes to check" and vanishes with strategic efficiency. Coward. Respectable coward.
Loma walks toward me like someone carrying a cracked teacup that used to be her heart.
She stops at the table. Doesn't sit. Doesn't breathe for a second.
Her voice is tiny.
"I caught him," she whispers.
"Mm," I mumble into the table. "Caught who with what. Please say turnips. I can handle turnips."
"Ogden," she says. "With the milkmaid."
I slam my palm weakly against the wood.
"Of course it's the milkmaid," I groan. "It's always the milkmaid. Milkmaids are destiny's side chicks."
Loma swallows like it hurts.
"He said it meant nothing," she continues softly. "He said it was a moment of weakness. He said he still respects me."
I wave vaguely upward without lifting my head.
"That's the trifecta," I say. "Classic Ogden. Weakness, nothing, respect. He practices that speech in the mirror."
Her breath shakes.
"I thought he was good," she says. "I thought he was… different."
I raise my hand again and flap it in the vicinity of the bar.
"Another ale," I call. Then, pointing blindly beside me: "For the princess-looking one."
The mug arrives. I shove it sideways across the table toward where I assume her hand is.
She stares at it.
Then sits.
Then wraps both hands around it like a drowning woman clinging to warmth instead of air.
"I thought," she whispers, "if I was kind enough, patient enough, lovely enough… he'd stay."
I huff a laugh that's not funny.
"Oh darling," I murmur. "Men don't cheat because they lack good women. They cheat because the universe keeps inventing new idiots for them to disappoint."
Tears finally spill. Silent. Angry. Betrayed.
She sips.
We sit there. Two disasters. One (me) pressed to a table like a dead fish. One (her) drinking heartbreak like medicine.
After a moment, I sigh.
"He doesn't get to do this to you," I say softly. "He doesn't get to make a shiny thing out of your feelings and then drop it in the mud because something with milk came by."
She sniffles. Tries to smile. Fails.
"I hate him," she says.
I nod into the table.
"Good start."
Silence again. Thick but shared.
Outside, someone laughs. Upstairs, someone groans. Life goes on. It always does. It's rude like that.
I slide my hand sideways across the table until my fingers find hers.
I squeeze once.
She squeezes back.
We drink. We sit. We hurt.
And—for the moment—that's enough.