Chapter 48 Bread, Laughter, and Pants
By the time we reach the base of the ridge, my legs are screaming, and my boots are soaked through with half-melted snow and dragon residue. The sound of life filters up through the valley ahead: chatter, hammering, laughter—a village.
“Is that it?” I ask, pointing at the cluster of rooftops wedged into the mountain’s side.
Damien nods. “The outer settlement. Most shifters live here when they’re not on castle duty.”
“Translation,” I say, “they like being far enough away that you can’t tell them what to do.”
He doesn’t deny it. “They value space.”
“Don’t we all,” I mutter, tugging my hood up against the wind.
From a distance, it looks almost normal. Chimneys are puffing, children chasing each other, and a few clotheslines strung between cabins. But the closer we get, the faster normal disappears. Conversations stop mid-word. Tools are set down. Eyes drop. By the time we hit the main road, people are stepping back into doorways, bowing their heads, pressing themselves against the walls like he’s death itself come strolling through the market. Damien doesn’t say a word. He just keeps walking, jaw tight, shoulders drawn back like he’s wearing invisible armour. It makes my chest ache.
A sudden shout cuts through the silence. “Taron!”
A little boy, maybe five, runs straight into our path, chasing a leather ball that rolls between Damien’s boots. The gasp from the crowd sounds collective, a whole village holding its breath. Damien steps back, and the kid freezes, with his eyes wide. His mother’s halfway down the street already, and there's panic written all over her face.
I crouch, picking up the ball before anyone can start grovelling. “Hey, champ,” I say, holding it out. “Got a good kick on that one.”
He blinks, too scared to take it.
“You’re fine,” I whisper. “Promise.” I give it a little toss, and when he catches it, I grin. “See? Professional level.”
The mother reaches us, bowing so low her hair brushes the snow. “My king, forgive him,” she rushes. “He didn’t see—”
“It’s fine,” Damien says. His voice is soft, but the authority in it makes her flinch anyway.
I sigh and put a hand on her shoulder. “Really. He’s fine. I used to cause worse disasters before breakfast.”
Her eyes flick to mine, startled, then slowly, she laughs—a small, cautious sound, like she’s testing it for cracks.
“You have a beautiful place,” I tell her, looking around. “And it smells incredible here.”
She blinks, surprised by the normal question. “Ah—thank you. That’s the bakery.” She points down the path. “My sister runs it.”
“That explains it,” I say, inhaling deeply. “I’d fight a small army for whatever that smell is.”
The woman’s lips twitch. “Frost-honey bread. It keeps warm even in snow.”
My stomach growls loud enough to be embarrassing. “Well, now I need to try it.” I turn to Damien. “We’re going to that bakery, right?”
He hesitates, clearly unused to being volunteered for pastry runs. “If you wish.”
“Perfect.”
We start down the street and I notice how people begin to peek out again once they see me talking, laughing and not combusting. They still bow when Damien passes, but there’s less panic in it now, more curiosity. Halfway down the road, a woman hurries out from one of the cabins, carrying a folded bundle. “My king,” she calls, breathless. “If I may—your attire—”
I follow her gaze and almost choke. Damien never found time to replace what shifting ruined. His cloak covers most of him, but still.
“Oh, for the love of frost,” I mutter. “Please tell me those are pants.”
The woman kneels, offering the folded clothes like a sacred gift. “Forgive the presumption, sire. We thought you might require these.”
Damien accepts them with the same solemnity one might use for a crown. “You have my thanks.”
“You have everyone’s thanks,” I add quickly. “Truly. You’re a hero.”
He gives me a sidelong look, the faintest trace of humour in his eyes, then disappears into a nearby doorway. A minute later, he re-emerges, fully clothed, thank the gods, in a simple pair of black trousers and a rough-spun shirt that clings a little too well to his shoulders.
“Better?” he asks.
I squint at him. “Infinitely.”
We reach the bakery a few minutes later. It’s a warm, glowing hole in the wall with fogged windows and the smell of heaven leaking through every crack. Inside, a woman behind the counter freezes when she sees him.
“Your Majesty,” she breathes, bowing so hard I think she might faint.
“Good morning,” he says, his tone careful, gentle.
I step up beside him, smiling. “We were told you make the best bread in the valley.”
The woman blushes. “I—I do my best.”
“It’s working,” I assure her. “We’ll take two of whatever’s making the air smell like sin.”
Her laugh comes out nervous but genuine, and she scurries to wrap the bread in paper. When she places the bundle on the counter, Damien slides a few gold coins forward.
“My king—this is far too—”
“Then share it with the village,” he says, and then we step outside again with our prize. The snow’s falling softly now, lazy flakes that cling to our hair and coats. I tear a piece of bread in half and hand him one. He looks at it as if it might explode.
“It’s food,” I say. “You eat it.”
He takes a bite and stops. “This is… surprisingly good.”
"‘Surprisingly good’?” I scoff. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I might marry this bread.”
One corner of his mouth curves. “Should I be jealous?”
“Only if it starts bringing me breakfast in bed.”
He gives me the smallest huff of laughter and we keep walking, sharing warm bread between us, crumbs catching in our gloves. The streets aren’t silent anymore. People still bow, but not as low. Some even meet my eyes. A group of kids runs past, shrieking with laughter. Damien watches them thoughtfully with the kind of look that says he’s seeing something he hasn’t in a long time.
I bump his arm lightly. “You know,” I say, “you’re actually not half bad at this.”
“At what?”
“Being a person.”
He raises a brow. “Is that another compliment?”
“It’s progress.”
The faintest smirk ghosts over his face.
We pass the last row of houses, and the smell of the bakery lingers behind us. When I glance back, people are still watching, no longer bowed and a few even wave. Maybe that’s what change looks like. Not big, sweeping gestures. Just… people daring to look up.
I take another bite of bread, humming under my breath. “You know,” I say, “we should come back here.”
His eyes flick to mine. “You want to return?”
“Of course. You still owe me one of those snowberry tarts.”
He nods once, almost solemnly. “Then we’ll return.”
I grin. “Good. And next time—maybe we can both keep our clothes on the entire trip.”
He exhales slowly, but I swear I hear the quiet laugh he tries to hide. I think maybe in some stories, saving the world starts with making the dragon king decent again