Fizzwick Scalebottom wanted to win the drinking tournament, and he was too drunk to say so. The tall green dragon slumped over the mossy keg table, one claw wrapped around his mead bottle. Every legendary drinker in the land would come to the Mossblossom Inn for the contest. Fizzwick planned to drink them all under the table. First he had to stay awake long enough to enter. He listened while he pretended to sleep. That was his real trick. His height let him catch whispers from every corner. He already knew the miller cheated the tax collector. He knew the innkeeper watered the ale. He kept all of it. He never told a soul. Tonight a chibi orange drake three tables over leaned close to a friend. "Aldric hides the good stuff," the drake whispered. "Mushroom mead. Behind the storehouse wall. Stronger than anything he sells." Fizzwick's ear twitched. Mushroom mead. The brewmaster's private stash. He had waited months for a slip like this. Whoever drank that mead would never lose a tournament. He set down his bottle and tried to stand. The room tilted. His tail knocked a stool. Every head turned. Aldric Moss came out from the back. The dwarf ran the inn, and he was the third brewmaster to try. The two before him had failed. Aldric meant to be the one who lasted. Flowers grew in his red beard. He looked at the fallen stool, then at Fizzwick. "You heard something," Aldric said. It was not a question. Fizzwick opened his mouth. Only a hiccup came out. He pointed a shaky claw toward the storehouse wall. Aldric folded his arms. "That stash isn't for sale. Isn't for sharing. Ask the whole grove. They'll tell you the same." Fizzwick tried again. He wanted to say he only wished to buy one bottle. He wanted to say he would win the tournament and make the inn famous. The words came out as a low groan. He swayed and caught the table. The orange drake laughed. Others joined. Fizzwick felt his face burn under his scales. Aldric studied him a long moment. Something in his eyes softened, then hardened again. "You know things," the dwarf said. "Everyone in this grove knows you listen. So listen close." He leaned over the keg table. "The mushroom mead comes from one patch. Nobody finds it. Nobody follows me. The last two brewmasters chased shortcuts and this grove broke them. I won't break." He straightened and walked to the storehouse door. Then he stopped. "But," Aldric said, "I need a champion for my tournament. Win it, and we talk about the mushroom mead. Enter drunk like this, and you won't last one round." The door shut behind him. Fizzwick sat in the quiet. He had wanted a secret. He got a bargain instead. Now the mushroom mead had a price, and the price was winning the contest sober enough to stand. He looked at the bottle in his claw and, for the first time in years, set it down full.

Three days without a drink, and Fizzwick's claws would not stay still. He sat at the keg table in the tavern hall. His empty hands drummed the wood. His mouth felt dry and wrong. Aldric had said win the tournament sober, and they would talk about the mushroom mead. But sober meant hours with nothing to hold. The bar stood across the room, lined with bottles and tankards. Fizzwick's eyes kept sliding toward it. His tail already pointed that way. He stood. He told himself he would only look. His long legs carried him past the mossy stools to the weathered bar. Bottles caught the lamplight. A cool tap waited under his claw. One sip would settle his hands. One sip, and no one would know. A squeak stopped him. On the bar sat a small gray mouse in a tiny cloak. A glowing charm hung at its chest. It had climbed out of a crack in the wood. It stared up at the huge dragon with bright, round eyes, unafraid. The mouse grabbed a stray hazelnut. It could not crack the shell. It shoved the nut toward Fizzwick and squeaked again, plain as a request. Fizzwick blinked. He looked at the tap, then at the mouse. His claws itched for something to do. He picked up the nut. He pressed it between two claws until the shell split clean. The mouse cheered and nibbled the meat. Something loosened in Fizzwick's chest. His hands had a task. He found another nut and cracked it. Then another. The mouse gathered the pieces and carried them back toward its crack. It returned for more. Each trip pulled Fizzwick further from the bottles behind him. He worked all evening. When the nuts ran out, he shredded old cloth for the mouse's nest. When that was done, he whittled a splinter of keg wood into a tiny spoon. The mouse tested it and squeaked its thanks. Fizzwick's mouth was busy now too, humming low as he worked. He had not thought of the tap in an hour. By the time the lamps burned down, the mouse slept in its crack, full and warm. Fizzwick sat back. His hands were tired, not shaking. The bar still glowed across the room. He looked at it and felt nothing pull. Aldric came through from the storehouse and stopped. He saw the pile of split shells, the whittled spoon, the sleeping mouse. He saw Fizzwick's untouched place at the bar. The dwarf said nothing, but his mouth tugged sideways. He gave one short nod and went back through the door. Fizzwick had beaten the taproom for one night. He knew now what his idle hands needed. But the tournament drew closer, and legendary drinkers would soon fill this hall. Cracking nuts would not carry him through a contest built on drinking.