“Oh, right. Gendi’s supposed to guide us, so let’s add one more mount and let him ride alone,” Desty suggested, voice calm as a winter pond.

“Uh… looks like it,” Lucimia faltered, her reply thin as breath in the cold.

Annoyance pricked like sleet. Let him lead and I pay for it? It’s killing me. Nirael can reimburse Gendi’s carriage.

Wait—does Nirael even have money?

A sharp hiss of doubt. Probably not… Fine, Pete at the restaurant can cover it. Settled, like a chop stamped on a ledger.

“Mm, I’m thinking. We’ll need stirrups and reins and the like. Those should come with it,” Desty mused, words steady as hoofbeats. “As for a carriage, passenger ones cost more. Cargo wagons are open-air. If it rains, we’ll suffer. You can use magic to keep it off us.”

“I’d rather we don’t go open-air here,” Lucimia protested, a small ember of stubbornness. “And let’s keep the carriage light.”

“Alright,” Desty nodded, decision clean as a blade’s edge. “Let’s check the horses first.”

They walked a few streets, wind like a faint flute, and reached a shop that leased and sold horses and carriages.

The storefront was narrow as a slit of light, but out back sprawled a big stable and half a riding field—wealth tucked behind modest doors.

Lucimia and Desty had used the Disguise Power to look like two middle-aged male traders. The joke hung light as smoke—maybe Lucimia had grown too used to her girl’s body; standing in a man’s height again felt off, like boots too tight.

At the counter stood a burly man, bare arms like bundled trunks, face hawk-sharp. No other customers; only the quiet thud of hooves behind.

Maybe the plague had thinned business, like frost thinning a stream.

Lucimia felt lucky to be masked as an out-of-town merchant. Buying a horse fit the part like ink fits a brush.

The burly man saw their fine coats and smelled coin, his grin spreading like dawn. “What can I do for you two? Renting, or buying?”

“Buying,” Desty stepped forward, voice crisp as a snapped twig.

“Good. What do you need?” His tone rolled like cart wheels.

“High endurance and strength. We’ll use them to pull a carriage,” Desty said, needs laid out like tally marks.

“Hey, ours are all tough and tireless,” he grinned, teeth bright as polished buckles. “If you want even more endurance and power, you can go for magical beasts—but the price, well…”

His chuckle was a low drum.

Desty turned to Lucimia, seeking her nod like a lantern’s consent.

“Let’s look at the horses first,” Lucimia said, keeping her pulse steady.

“Right this way.”

He led them to the stables. The air wasn’t as rank as expected; the musk was mild, like damp hay after rain.

Even when no one was around, they kept it clean—care sat there like a careful sweep of the broom.

White, black, and bay stood one by one, colors like strokes of ink. Lucimia didn’t know a good horse from a bad one, so she let Desty choose.

“This one feels right,” Desty stopped by a white horse, palm gentle as snow, stroking its face.

The white gelding was calm, no snap of teeth, eyes quiet as a pond at night.

“This one?” Lucimia stepped closer, gaze weighing like scales. The horse was tall, strength clear under the coat, but the flesh looked a bit rich. “Are you sure? It looks plump. Can it run?”

“It can,” Desty cut in before the man could speak, reply firm as a hoof on hard ground. “It’s winter. Horses burn more fuel now. Some padding is proper, or they turn thin too fast.”

“Alright, you know this—your call,” Lucimia lifted her hands, surrender light as a sigh.

“They’re not skittish, right?” Desty asked the burly man, eyes steady.

“Rest easy. They fear neither sky nor earth,” he said, confidence like iron. “I know merchants worry about bandits, or magical beasts startling the team. These are picked for the job.”

“Mm. We’ll take this one—and the one beside it,” Desty said, quick as a stamp.

“Great, no problem.” He rubbed his hands, smile oily as lamp-light. “You’ll use them to pull a carriage, right? Buy it all here and you get a discount—ten gold off.”

Ten gold off. The number glinted in Lucimia’s mind like a coin tossed high.

Then the real knife: the price. She hurried, words tumbling like pebbles. “How much?”

“Heh.” He laughed twice, sound rough as a rasp. “Two superior horses and a passenger carriage. Original price, eighty gold. After discount, only seventy. We’ll throw in reins, stirrups, fodder, and horseshoes, too.”

Eighty gold.

Shock slammed her chest like a hammer. For common folk, a year might mean two gold, the richer ones seven or eight—and that’s before food and firewood.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t pay; it was the bite. She’d balked at a wooden comb for five silver, and now a carriage for eighty gold felt like swallowing a brick.

No wonder only merchants and nobles rode in style; most people could only dream, their wishes scattered like leaves.

And nobles paid even more. Her family’s horses had sleek lines and silk-smooth coats—far finer than these, and worth more than eighty gold, easy.

“…Alright. Deal.” The word scraped out like a blade leaving its sheath.

Under both gazes, she counted out eighty gold coins, poured them into a small pouch, and handed it over with a hand that shook like a willow in wind.

He chuckled and checked the coins, then led out the horses and fitted all the tack, motions neat as stitches.

The carriage was brown, the shade of dry earth. It had been red-brown, but Lucimia found that too loud—red-brown carried a hint of noble flair. Plain brown fit a trader, like dust on the road.

The shop kindly laid blankets and pillows inside, soft as clouds. The cabin felt spacious—it was for their slim, young frames. Add a chest in the middle and they could lie down, like travelers on a low raft.

“You can test them in the paddock,” the man pointed toward the grass, green as a rolled carpet.

“Good.” Desty set her boot in the stirrup, took the reins, and swung up in one smooth arc, like water over stone.

She trotted two laps. Satisfaction rose in her eyes like sun breaking through fog.

“Very good.”

“Glad you’re pleased,” the man smiled, a warm flare on cold day.

Lucimia saw their smiles and sat alone, blue as a rain cloud at dusk.

Money gone, no skill to ride, no thrill to taste—I felt like a prize fool, a plucked goose on market day.

Desty brought the horse back and stood with the burly man before her.

“We’ll also need hoof boots, or pads inside the horseshoes,” Desty said, knowledge steady as a lantern’s glow.

“Huh? Why?” Lucimia blinked, confusion flitting like a sparrow.

“Winter ground ices over. Bruising comes easy. Boots or pads keep packed snow in the shoe from hurting the hoof,” Desty explained, crisp as frost.

For the first time, Lucimia felt small, ignorance curling like a cold shadow. Desty was learned—broad as a river, deep as a well.

“Alright… buy them. Buy it all,” Lucimia said, and the pain of paying nipped like a fox at her heel as she pulled out more coin.