Beneath the Spine

Tia was awake.
Though her eyes refused to open, not yet. Just five more minutes.

The wooden planks didn’t bite into her shoulder blades as sharply as yesterday. The cart’s bumps still punched, but softer now – like they’d given up fighting her.

But the pictures came anyway.
The boot that had once helped someone walk. The toy that had once made a child laugh. The blood that had once been someone’s fuel, still warm when it spilled.
She curled tighter under the scratchy blanket, but the cold still leaked in.

Above her, the cart creaked and rocked. Someone muttered. Hooves struck mud with dull, wet sounds.

And through the slats in the canvas, a gray light pressed through – not bright, not soft. Just the color of a world that hadn’t decided yet if it wanted to keep spinning.

Tia didn’t know how long she lay there – wrapped in the not-quite-silence. Groaning wood, sleepy footsteps, and low, rhythmic snorts from Kethra pulling them along.

Eventually, the cold won. She pushed the blanket aside and sat up with a groan, her joints stiff and her back making quiet complaints.
Her shirt stuck to her skin in too many places, and she had no desire to guess whether it was from sweat or rain. Probably both. Probably worse.

“Morning,” came Balthan’s voice, muffled but close.

She blinked up, bleary-eyed. The flap at the end of the cart had been tied open, and the minotaur’s broad silhouette blocked most of the light. His horns framed the gray sky like crooked crescent moons.

“You’ve been wearing the same clothes since we first met,” his tone more understanding than accusative.

“At the back, second cupboard on the left, third drawer,” he added, “There’s one of Rika’s spare clothes. Should fit.”

Tia turned around, pointed at one shelf, then the next, but Balthan just shook his head.
With a low grunt, he ducking into the cart’s cramped interior.

Its frame creaked under his weight – like when your dad got in the car and the whole world tipped sideways.

And without even really looking, he opened said drawer, got out a folded bundle and threw it at her lap.

“Change. Before we all choke.” Balthan’s tone was flat, but the corners of his mouth twitched, just barely.

Tia blinked. “Wow. Thanks for the subtlety.”

She sniffed her sleeve and winced. “…Okay, fair.”

“Fair?” he grunted, backing out of the cart’s belly like a bull in a glass shop, careful not to jostle the shelves crammed with who-knows-what.

“Yeah. I probably smell like a skunk.”

“A what?”

“Doesn’t matter. Fact is, I’m stinky.”

Her eyes wandered down to her lap.

The clothes were simple – loose brown trousers and a faded tunic with laces at the collar – they weren’t hers, but more importantly, they were clean. A dry shirt felt like a luxury she didn’t know how to be grateful for. She could already feel the fabric itching against her skin, but she didn’t care.

“There’s a stream just ahead of the stop,” Balthan added, stepping back from the cart. “Get yourself washed up.”

She mumbled something that might have been gratitude and swung her legs over the side.

Said stream wasn’t more than a trickle over polished stones, but it was cold and clean.

Opening the neatly tied bundle she found a bar of soap inside. Nothing fancy like a product from her local store, but it was more than a blessing under these circumstances.

She scrubbed her arms and face, shivering in the morning chill, teeth clacking as she let the icy water sting her fingers. Bits of mud slipped off her calves. She didn’t want to think about the rest.

There was no mirror, but she caught her reflection on the water’s surface – blurry and strange. Hair a mess. Eyes puffy. A different girl stared back.

She changed by a tree, keeping the cart in view and trying her best to fold her dirty clothes into a somewhat tidy package.
A gesture that said: I’m not trash yet. Not completely.

By the time she wandered back, people were already moving about with half-yawned greetings and slow, lazy steps. The sky was still gray but brighter now, the clouds thinned and stretched like cotton candy across the sky. Somewhere, the sun tried to push through, but couldn’t quite get through.

Tia held her old clothes for a moment, then folded them as neatly as she could. The fabric was stiff with sweat and travel grime, stained in too many places, but they were hers – a threadbare tie to home, or whatever scraps of it she still had. She glanced around. No laundry basket. No laundry day, either. She tucked the bundle behind a crate at the back of the cart, secure from strangers' gazes.

“I’ll wash them later,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Somewhere with a sink. And hot water. And laundry detergent. And socks that match.”

She hesitated, then fished the phone from her hoodie. Still low on battery. Still useless. Still precious.

The trousers she’d changed into had absurdly deep pockets – not cargo pants deep, but worlds better than the decorative excuses on her shorts. She slid the phone into one and patted it once, checking it wouldn’t bounce out. Secure enough.

“Okay,” she whispered to her pocket. “Stay low, don’t talk, don’t get me arrested.”

Tia helped with the camp setup without being asked.

Small things – untying canvas flaps, folding blankets, rolling barrels to where the grass held firmer.

Rika and Vesh exchanged knowing looks.

No one praised her, but no one stopped her either. She liked it better this way.
Quiet acceptance, no spotlight.

Though a ‘thanks’ wouldn’t hurt.

“Thanks for helping, Tia,” Rika said with a smile, her tail flicking behind her.
Tia just nodded. That was enough.

Vesh’s voice broke in from the fire.
“Don’t think I’ve seen a cut like that before,” he said, nodding toward where the folded bundle of her old clothes was hidden.
He tossed a twig into the flames. “Some kind of noble fashion?”

“Hmm? Kinda,” Tia replied. “Back home, shorts like those mean you’re either rich or don’t care about bruised knees.”

“Well, best keep 'em packed once we reach Ssarradon,” Vesh said, smirking. “They’ll turn more heads than a wyrmling playing flute in an alley.”

Tia raised a brow. “You have alley wyrms here? Like... a dragon?”

Vesh shrugged. “Calling it a ‘dragon’ would be weird, honestly.”

Tia blinked. “So it’s not?”

“I mean…” he rolled the twig between his fingers.
“They’ve got scales. Most fly. Some breathe fire. Others call the winds or crack the sky open with lightning. Two legs, two arms, tail, wings. Spikes along the back.”
He paused, tilting his head. “And the attitude of a noble who knows you stole from their wine cellar.”

He let the twig fall and leaned back.
“They’re not just beasts. Some folks say wyrms remember the world before we ruined it. Others say they shape it still, just slower than we can notice. You know the Wyrmspine Mountains?” He pointed north, into the pale distance. “Legend says the range is the back of an ancient behemoth. Slumbering beneath the earth. That’s why no one dares dig too deep in those parts. Not unless you want the land itself to wake up.” Tia followed his gesture, from his finger to the far blue – where the jagged spine of the mountains lined the horizon.

She watched the peaks ripple like a frozen wave across the land, their sharp ridges catching golden light.

It did look a bit like a spine, now that she thought about it.

And – did it take a breath just now? Or was that the hot air playing tricks?

Tia chewed slowly. “So... dragons.”

“Wyrms,” Vesh corrected, holding up a clawed finger. “Big difference. Dragons are bedtime stories. Wyrms could eat your bedtime – and then your child.”

“Right.” She tried not to smile. “Totally different.”

Balthan was crouched by the fire pit, turning something in an iron pan over a low flame. It hissed and crackled, sending out warm, savory steam.
Rika sat nearby, combing twigs from the grass and feeding them to the embers.

He didn’t say anything, just handed her a dented bowl and kept stirring.

The sun eventually did break through the thick grey clouds. Breaking them apart to reveal the blue sky and that silver arch in it.

“At last, Syrath smiles again,” Vesh said. Tia didn’t question it too much.

Steam curled from the bowl, carrying charcoal and fish.

She took a bite.

It was good.

Like... really good.

Flakes of golden-brown fish over a mash of sweetgrain and dried sunberries. Not luxury food, but rich with woodsmoke and crisped skin. Sweetness surprised her – mellow and soft beneath the salt, like a hush beneath laughter. There was a hint of spice too, just enough to make her tongue tingle.

Normally, Tia avoided spicy food. But this... this was just right.

The fish had a soft, oily texture somewhere between herring and trout, but the flavor was deeper – smokier, with a kind of freshwater tang. She chewed carefully. Then coughed, hard, eyes watering.

A bone.

Maybe fish in this world weren’t so different after all.

And for the first time in days, the warmth came from more than just the food or the sun.

“You know, Balthan woke up earlier than usual, just to catch those fish,” Vesh added with a teasing glint. He lounged nearby, a strip of fish speared on a twig, faint smoke curling from the scorched edges. “Some of those pondswimmers’ll sting you twice. Once when you catch them, once when they go down.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Rika said. “You were gone before first light. Though I did worry Kethra might’ve eaten you.”

“Would’ve been quieter,” Vesh muttered

Balthan shot them both a warning look, but there was no real bite in it. He turned the fish over the fire, adjusting a stick here, brushing ash from a pan there. His broad hands moved with a kind of reverent precision, as if the food deserved it. At last he took a serving for himself.

Tia glanced at him.

He wasn’t smiling, but his shoulders weren’t hunched like they had been yesterday. His horns caught a shaft of faint sunlight. His tail flicked once, satisfied.

Maybe the world hadn’t decided to keep spinning yet. But it was thinking about it.

She took another bite.

“We’re nearly at Ssarradon anyway,” Corin said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Head of the Wyrmspine, right?”

Tia looked up. “Wait, that’s the actual name?”

“Mm-hmm.” Vesh tipped his chin northward. “The name’s half a title, half a warning. Ssarradon crowns the range at the far tip, where the old stories say the behemoth wyrm first pierced the sky and laid its head to rest. You can still see the curve of its skull in the cliffs, if the sun hits just right.”

“And the royalty built right on its face,” Rika chuckled, but caught it. “Sorry, I didn't mean to be disrespectful.”

“Best view in the land,” Vesh said with a grin. He stretched luxuriously, warming his scaled hands by the fire. “But Ssarradon... ahh.” He closed his eyes as if picturing it. “Stone terraces like sun-warmed scales. Spiced air, hot wine, music that makes your tail dance.” Vesh stretched his neck toward the sun, “Gods, it’s been too long.”

Tia smirked. “You sound like you’re about to marry the city.”

“Would if I could. But she only takes dragons.”

“Heh, guess you gotta grow some horns and wings then,” Tia mocked.

Rika poked the fire with a stick. “We started from the Left Wing, right?”

“Near enough,” Vesh said. “Cold winds, short days, food the colour of wet bark. Not my kind of place. Though the people are kind.”

“Yeah,” Corin said, “my village’s right on the Left Wing coast.”

Rika glanced up, brow furrowing slightly. “Didn’t you say inland?”

Corin blinked, then smiled faintly. “Did I? Guess I meant close enough to smell the salt.” He popped another bite of fish into his mouth, and the conversation moved on.

“So we’re heading for the capital then?” Tia asked.

“You really do know nothing about where you are, do you?” Vesh teased.

“Y’don’t have to be mean ‘bout it,” she murmured.

“Renwin is the capital,” he continued, “but it hides behind the Wyrmspine on the Right Wing Plains. Ssarradon’s where the royalty roost – and where the world feels a little warmer.”
He exhaled slowly, almost a purr. “And I plan on feeling every stone of those terraces under my back.”

Tia scraped the last bits of fish and veggies out of her bowl. With a perfectly satiated hunger and the most important meal of the day finished it was time to get to work.

Balthan began dousing the fire, emptying a small barrel of water onto it. The hiss curled into the morning air.

“Alright, pack it up,” he said, shaking the pan dry. “Want to make the ridge by midday.”

Canvas came down in slow, practiced motions. Blankets folded, ropes coiled, barrels lashed to the cart again. The same work as yesterday, but lighter somehow – the air was clearer, the sun warmer through the clouds. Boots shuffled in damp grass. Harness buckles clinked. Balthan gruffled out way too specific instructions on where to put the supplies.

Tia carried a heavy splinter hazard box into the back of the cart, where they may belong.

She hesitated, glancing at where her old clothes lay – the last real thing from home that still smelled like her. She’d get them washed somewhere. Wear them again, maybe. Not in Ssarradon, though. She’d caught enough of Vesh’s warning to know she didn’t want to be the “wyrmling with a flute” in a crowd.
She palmed her phone, small and smooth against her fingers. Still unused to those giant pockets of her new trousers. Those could probably hide a loaf of bread.

Grumbling from outside the cart Balthan said, “I said under the third shelf, not all the way to the front corner.”

And before Tia could realize was she already called to hop onto the cart to get going.

No time for petting Kethra this time. Sadly.

When they eventually started moving again, the road wound north, hugging the low hills. Wyrmspine rose ahead, jagged and sharp against the now bluer sky. Even from here, the range looked alive – a ripple of dark stone, scales of snow clinging to the highest ridges.

For a while, the only sounds were six reptilian feet in the dirt and the slow groan of old wood.

Rika rested near Tia, tail still for once. She kept her eyes forward, but every now and then her ears twitched at nothing. “Still can’t get it out of my head,” she murmured. “The way we just… left them there.” She didn’t say what “them” meant. Didn’t have to.

“First time for me was worse,” Balthan said from the cart bench, voice low. “This one… it still gets you. But you learn not to carry every body with you. Can’t. Or it’ll bury you before the dirt does.”

Vesh only shrugged, gaze fixed on the mountains. “World’s sharp in some places. You step wrong, it cuts. Sometimes you can’t do more than pray for them.” But the tip of his tail flicked once – a crack of something unspoken.

Corin sat in silence. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder at the empty road behind, then back to the horizon. His face was even, but his hand kept drifting to the dagger at his belt.

Tia didn’t speak at all. The smell of ash still sat in her mind. Every cluster of stones in the grass became a shape, every shadow between the hills a threat that might stand up and walk toward them. She kept pace, tried to listen when the others started talking about weather and markets and how Balthan stored his herbs in perfect rows.

Vesh’s voice carried over the cart wheels, painting Ssarradon again – its terraces, its warm stone, its music. He sounded three days ahead already, sunbathing while the rest of them were still here.

Tia listened without really hearing, her gaze pulled past him, past the cart, past the road. The sleeping Behemoth loomed larger now, every step of Kethra brought them closer to its jagged crown. It didn’t move, but it didn’t have to. From here, it looked like it got closer and closer.