We collected our bounty, signed the receipt, and trudged back to the inn for the first real rest I’d had in days. Tomorrow we could afford to sleep in. For once, nothing was chasing us. For once, we had won, and the world wasn’t demanding another price immediately.

  By the time we reached the room we were barely upright. We shut the door, shed boots and cloaks in a heap, and collapsed onto the bed without even speaking. Sleep took both of us like a spell.

  The next morning I woke to a dull ache in my abdomen and a small, warm dampness beneath me.

  For a moment my mind went blank.

  Then the first thought arrived, sharp and humiliating. Did I wet the bed?

  I reached down and touched the patch. It was too small. Too thick. My fingers came away wet and dark.

  Blood.

  My stomach dropped.

  Ilza’s death slammed into my mind without warning—her body slack, the bed sheets soaking through, the helplessness of watching life pour out of someone who had trusted the world not to betray her.

  I was out of bed before I fully understood what I was doing, breath too fast, heart hammering like it had something to outrun.

  Then a second voice rose inside me, flat with irritation.

  It’s only a period.

  That did nothing to stop the fear. If anything, it made me angrier, because it reminded me how easily Drisnil could dismiss something that felt like a threat to me.

  Illara stirred at the sudden movement. She blinked at me, still half-asleep, then pushed herself up on one elbow.

  “Geoff?” she murmured. “Are you alright?”

  “I think so,” I said, forcing my voice steadier than I felt. I nodded toward the bed, towards the stain like it might explain itself if I stared long enough. “I saw the blood and—” I swallowed. “I panicked. Sorry for messing the sheets.”

  Illara’s expression shifted. Recognition, and something gentler beneath it. Not pity exactly. More like understanding.

  “Is this the first time for you… as Geoff?”

  I nodded, heat rising in my face even though the room was cold.

  “Yes. I’ve never experienced a period before.”

  Illara sat up fully and swung her legs over the side of the bed, already practical. “Alright.” Her voice softened slightly. “First we get you out of those clothes. Then I’ll get you something warm for the cramps.”

  “Thank you,” I said, then added before I could stop myself, “Sorry I’m being such a wuss about it.”

  Illara shook her head immediately. “No.” She said it with quiet firmness, like she would not allow me to insult myself. “I remember my first time. It was terrifying. And you… you have reason to be scared of blood in a bed.”

  The words landed harder than she meant them to, but she didn’t retract them. She didn’t need to.

  I changed quickly, hands awkward with embarrassment. I stuffed fresh cloth into my underwear the way Drisnil’s memory suggested, and tried not to think about how unnatural it felt to be dealing with this in a body that still didn’t feel like mine.

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  Illara returned a moment later with a waterskin. Steam curled faintly from the mouth.

  “Hold this against your stomach,” she said, offering it to me. “It’ll help.”

  I pressed the warmth against my abdomen. Relief came slowly, but it came. The ache dulled from sharp to bearable.

  Illara nodded, satisfied, then turned toward the bed. “I’ll strip the sheets. Bring them downstairs. I’ll be back with fresh ones.”

  “Wait—Illara, I can do it—”

  She paused and looked back at me, eyebrows raised.

  I stopped. Shut my mouth.

  She gave the faintest smile, not unkind. “You can do it next time. Today you sit down.”

  She gathered the sheets and left the room.

  I sank into the chair beside the bed and stared at the floorboards, waterskin still pressed against my stomach, my thoughts spinning.

  This would happen again.

  Every month.

  Another reminder that the body I wore came with its own rhythms, its own vulnerabilities, its own quiet humiliations that no amount of willpower could fight.

  And somewhere deep inside, Drisnil simmered with annoyance—at the interruption, at the weakness, at the inconvenience.

  But I didn’t let her take over.

  Not for this.

  I held onto myself and waited for Illara to return.

  The rest of the day passed in a haze of heat and discomfort, spent mostly in bed while Illara hovered in that quiet way of hers. She brought water, refilled the warm skin, checked on me as if I might crack if she looked away for too long.

  I hated how much I needed it.

  I hated how weak it made me feel, even though I knew it was not weakness at all. It was just biology. Something Drisnil’s body did as naturally as breathing, and something my mind had never had to account for until now.

  By the end of the day the cramps eased into something duller, more bearable, but the bleeding continued. Light, thankfully. Small mercies.

  When evening came, Illara insisted we go downstairs for dinner. I did not want to be seen. I did not want to be looked at. I did not want anyone noticing that I was off balance. But hunger won in the end.

  The inn was warm and loud, packed with voices and the smell of fried food. Tonight’s special was fried mushrooms and a bowl of meat stew. No one bothered to say what kind of meat, and I did not ask. Some truths were better left unnamed.

  The first mouthful tasted like salvation.

  Halfway through the meal, an older woman shuffled over to our table with a broad, expectant smile.

  “Give us a song, would you?” she asked, as if she was requesting another mug of ale.

  It should have been harmless.

  But pain made my patience thin. Humiliation made it thinner.

  And something sharp inside me, Drisnil’s irritation, Geoff’s exhaustion, a whole day of feeling trapped in my own skin, flared without warning.

  “No,” I snapped. “Go sing it yourself.”

  The woman blinked, startled, as though she had not realised I could be anything other than entertaining. Her smile faltered. She retreated quickly back to her table.

  I barely had time to regret it before Illara was on her feet, following.

  I caught fragments of her apology over the noise of the room.

  “I’m sorry. She’s just not herself today. Another day, perhaps.”

  That made something twist in my chest.

  Not guilt. Not entirely.

  Just the awful, helpless feeling of being handled. Of being smoothed over. Like I was a dangerous animal she was trying to keep from biting someone again.

  When Illara returned, she sat back down without meeting my eyes.

  I stared into my stew, my appetite suddenly smaller.

  “I didn’t need you to apologise,” I muttered.

  Illara did not bristle. She did not argue. She just said, quietly, “I know.”

  And somehow that made it worse, because it meant she understood exactly why it humiliated me.

  We finished dinner in near silence.

  Later, back in our room, Illara completed her prayers and climbed into bed. She lay facing the wall, giving me the space she knew I needed.

  I lay awake longer than she did, staring at the ceiling, listening to the inn settle around us.

  Tomorrow would be better.

  And if it wasn’t, then I would make myself useful anyway.