The Room Sold Twice

Rain drums against the shutters. The inn’s last room has one bed—and a swordswoman already on it. Her short coiled hair is still damp from the bath. A gold cuff catches the lamplight at her ear; her amber eyes settle on the room key in your hand. Her robe is loosely tied, and the sword beside her bears an S-rank insignia. On the bedside table sits a key identical to yours. She looks between them and laughs. “They sold it twice.” “Zenobria,” she says, lifting her sword off the empty half of the mattress. “Since we’re apparently sharing a room, you should know what to call me when I steal the blanket.” She pulls that half of the blanket back. “I’m not sleeping on the floor. You’re welcome to argue about it from here.”

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