The Crossroads was a place unlike any Vhalla had ever seen. The capital was crowded, but not like this. It seemed like every person of every shape, shade, and size was crowded into the streets, and the streets were packed with tempting markets that didn’t seem to know what closing meant. The three went down a small side road, following the instruction Craig and Daniel had given Fritz.

The bar was noisy, and the sounds of men and women singing, laughing, and talking drowned out any of Vhalla’s thoughts and doubts. She was in a foreign land as a celebrated hero. And, if Fritz and Larel were to be believed, the source of all these people’s joy was she. Even if that was only half true, Vhalla had vowed to live in spite of the Senate, and she now vowed to be happy in spite of whatever game the Imperial family was playing.

“You guys made it!” Craig waved them over.

Daniel was out of his chair the moment he saw them. He crossed to Vhalla in a step. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” she answered sincerely.

“I didn’t expect to see you out.” He somehow wedged himself between her and Fritz.

“Well, Larel and Fritz tell me that this is my party,” she said with sarcastic haughtiness.

“It is indeed!” Craig laughed loudly. He quickly downed the contents of his metal flagon, and slammed it against the table a few times for the bar’s attention. The Southerner jumped up onto his chair, swaying alarmingly for a moment. Raylynn was on her feet, ready to catch him. “Good people, fellow soldiers! It is our honor tonight to drink with the Windwalker herself !”

Vhalla’s cheeks burned scarlet as the room recovered from its stunned silence and burst into cheers.

“But, I regret to say, she does not yet have a drink!” Craig laughed.

Like magic, there were three glasses of varying shapes and sizes before her.

“Try this one.” Daniel placed a fourth glass in front of her; it was only the height of her fist and filled with a syrupy red liquid.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A Crimson Dragon.” He tapped his nose. “The West is known for them.”

Vhalla recognized the name and took a timid sip. It was icy cold and burned the back of her throat. She blinked away tears and held in a cough.

“Not a drinker?” Craig laughed.

“Nope!” Vhalla took another sip for good measure.

The Crimson Dragon was gone and the alcohol in two other glasses went quickly after. She and Daniel had found themselves engaged in an intense argument over the weight of a prize pig at one of Paca’s infamous festivals. Vhalla leaned on the table for support as she turned to face him.

“No, hundred,” she insisted. “I swear, I swear, that pig was a hundred stone.”

“Vhalla, you crazy Leoulian,” Daniel laughed and took another long gulp from his flagon. She watched the bump on his neck move as he swallowed. “No pig weighs anything close to a hundred stones.” He pointed a finger at her.

“Don’t you point at me.” She grabbed his index finger, a fit of the giggles overtaking her. “It is so rude.”

“Unhand me, woman.” Daniel tried to make his face serious, and Vhalla laughed at the way he pursed his lips together. Somehow everything was awfully funny right now.

“Fine. Fine. But you’re wrong, and you know it.” She leaned back into her chair.

“Vhalla, Daniel, we’re going.” Craig shook her shoulder.

Vhalla blinked, wondering when the rest of the table had stood. She’d only just started talking to Daniel.

“Where?” Her fellow Easterner was as confused as she was.

“Dancing!” Fritz twirled.

Vhalla burst out with uncontrollable laughter, almost spilling drink number ... something, everywhere.

“Do you want to go?” Larel laughed. The Western woman was looking out for Vhalla even when she had a flush to her cheeks. The big sister Vhalla never had.

“Of course!” Vhalla chirped cheerfully.

She attempted to jump to her feet and almost fell. A muscular arm quickly wrapped itself around her shoulder. Vhalla caught Daniel’s eyes in surprise. He was a lot sturdier than he looked.

“This is a bad idea,” he laughed.

“You—you will learn this the longer you’re around me: I am the queen of bad ideas.” Vhalla barely suppressed commenting about Prince Aldrik.

Daniel led her out into the night behind Fritz, Larel, Craig, Raylynn, and others Vhalla couldn’t even name.

The dance hall they ended up in was hot and hazy. Even though all the large doors on the ground floor were open to the cool night breezes, steam from sweat hovered in the room. It was a large, open, wooden space with a stage on one wall, a bar on the other, and benches lining the border—a place to rest exhausted feet.

Vhalla collapsed with a fit of laughter onto one said bench. The mass of people continued to move to the music before her. Somewhere in there Fritz was making a fool of himself with his third or fourth boy, and Larel, Craig, and Raylynn were nowhere to be found. Western dancing had loud drums, brass horns, and favored a strong rhythm. As such the steps were faster compared to the Southern style, people twisted and turned, kicked and spun around each other.

Daniel sat heavily next to her, his thigh touched hers, and he wiped sweat from his brow. He passed her a mug. Vhalla took a long drink and peered at him.