Dumire Latchlifter had left his snug burrow to chase a bigger life. He wanted to see the world, make friends among strange folk, and one day open a tavern called Half Pints. But the open trail had turned mean. Three wolves paced him through the brush, ribs showing, noses working his scent. A fourth slunk behind. Dumire was three feet five inches of locksmith turned adventurer, and he grinned anyway. "You lot look hungrier than me," he said. "And I skipped breakfast." He backed toward a towering redwood. Its massive trunk and broad roots would guard his back. He could not outrun wolves. He could make them think twice. He pulled two daggers and set his boots against a weathered root. The lead wolf lunged. Dumire sidestepped and slashed its shoulder. It yelped and spun away. A second wolf hit his cloak. He drove his elbow down and stabbed. Blood wet his sleeve. But four was too many. The pack circled, learning him, and his back pressed hard against the deep-furrowed bark. He had maybe one good trick left. Dumire grabbed a dried pouch from his pack. Herbs for cooking, but strong and bitter. He flung the powder into the nearest snout. The wolf sneezed and staggered. "Seasoning!" Dumire laughed. The others hung back, confused, and he thought he might just win this. Then the lead wolf recovered and charged low. It caught his ankle and dragged him off the root. His daggers spilled. Teeth snapped near his throat. He punched its jaw, but another set of jaws closed on his pack strap. He was pinned, laughing through gritted teeth, running out of ideas. An arrow took the lead wolf through the ribs. It dropped. A second arrow buried itself in the ground, and the pack scattered yelping into the brush. Dumire rolled up, breathing hard. A wood elf stepped from the trees, longbow already drawn again. Green leather armor. Auburn hair under a hood. She did not look at him. She tracked the fleeing pack with bright eyes until the last wolf vanished. Only then did she lower the bow. "You throw spices at wolves," she said. "Bold plan." "Worked for a moment," Dumire said. He bowed from the ground. "Dumire Latchlifter. You have excellent timing." "Quillith Heartwood." She knelt and checked his bleeding ankle without asking. "That bite needs washing. You'll walk slow for days." She glanced up the slope, where small bones littered the roots. "And this is no ordinary pack. Those wolves don't starve unless something drove the deer out of these woods. Something worse." Above them, a shimmer caught the light. A small dragon with gossamer wings darted among the redwood's high branches, watching them both. Quillith's jaw tightened. "That's why I'm here," she said. "And now you are too." She pulled Dumire to his feet. "Can you still fight on that leg?" Dumire tested the ankle and winced. "I can cook, track, and pick any lock in Soltera. Walking's just stubbornness." He retrieved his daggers. "Lead the way."