Friday Night
My head is pounding like a cursed drum, and I am fairly certain death has come to collect the tab I’ve been running since I arrived in Runeheim.

Something has me — some vile sickness that laughs at priests and mocks the so-called physickers. It’s only a matter of time before I start coughing on customers and doom the city. Terrible for business.

I tell Aurelia to get pen and parchment — time to draft my will. She should inherit the bar, keep the money flowing, and maybe name a cocktail after me. She immediately starts fretting about my “outstanding orders” and suggests bleeding me to get the sickness out. I nearly die from the idea alone.

Runeheim truly has no healers, only hopeful sadists.

Just as I prepare to start writing farewell letters, salvation bursts through my door: Tomaso, my shining idiot cousin, yelling, “Nephele! Make me my favorite drink!” I tell him I’m dying. I tell him I might’ve infected Knut. He calls Knut a hypochondriac and storms off to badger every apothecary in town until someone hands him a cure — or dies trying.

He returns with a wiry Hestrali who orders a fruity drink. I make him a Blue Hestrali and later learn he’s into feet. I assure everyone this is not a cultural trait. They call him Cherry Tomaso now. I prefer “Fruity Hestrali” until proven otherwise.

Then Tomaso — the true one, not the fruity one — returns, holding what looks like the contents of a latrine bucket and calls it medicine. I drink it. I gag. I live.

He saves me again. My hero, my curse.

We move straight to business talk — naturally, as soon as I’ve stopped convulsing. He asks about the shipyard plans; I confess I got distracted building stables. The look he gives me could sour cream. We settle on building a Saltworks instead, which delights Graham to no end. I try to look equally thrilled, but inside I am already budgeting the ruin of my accounts.

Note to self: Never get sick in Runeheim again. Next time, just die quietly. It’s cheaper.

Saturday
I awake at dawn, miraculously alive and deeply annoyed about it. My head feels like it’s been kicked by a mule. Aurelia is missing — probably napping in a barrel somewhere. I ready the bar for the town feast, wondering how long before I keel over again.

By late afternoon, Aurelia finally appears, carrying a cake. She declares it’s my birthday. I had entirely forgotten. The cake is pineapple — Hestralian, sweet, golden, achingly nostalgic. For a fleeting moment, I remember our childhood and almost forgive her for existing. Almost.

I share it with Svart, Steiner, Bryn, and Reidun. We laugh. For once, Runeheim doesn’t feel like punishment — more like the world forgot to be cruel for a few hours.

Then Vindicta announces that the king is dead, and the city must choose between her and the Bearhide Kjarl. I glance down at the contract Santiago got me — tax exemption, blessed be his charming recklessness — and my choice is obvious. Vindicta, of course.

Then comes the real madness: she proposes secession from the throne. I almost choke on my drink.

“Trade routes, Vindicta!” I think. “Money! I like my independence, but I like gold more. Empires may be tyrannies, but at least they pay invoices.”

The night turns to revelry — laughter, feasting, unity. Everyone together for once. It’s unsettling. I keep waiting for someone to stab someone else.

Svart lingers. Odd, twitchy man. Loyal, though. I consider adopting him like I did Butch and Bryn. My collection of strays grows daily. Perhaps I should start charging rent.
Later, I buy a recipe said to repel sea serpents from ships. A glorious victory, except it costs me nearly everything I’ve saved. Every coin I count feels like a funeral bell. I tell myself it’s for my family — Aurelia, Tomaso, the two bottomless pits in human form. Surely they’re worth it.

…Probably.

Note to self: Invent cheaper family members.

Sunday
It’s raining, because of course it is. I pack my bar in the downpour, muttering curses at the sky. Aurelia has left already, swearing she won’t cause trouble. Which means she absolutely will. I hug her goodbye anyway. I never learn.

I find Svart and beg to borrow his wagon. He agrees without asking for coin. Saints preserve me, there are still good men in this city — they’re just all slightly unhinged.

Then Knut appears, walking beside me in silence. A strange comfort, really. We talk politics, trade, Vindicta — all the things that keep Runeheim spinning. He seems broken in some quiet, unspoken way. Perhaps it was just a reflection of myself.

By the time we part, I’m soaked, freezing, and strangely… hopeful. I think I’m starting to care about these people.

Horrifying realization.

Note to self: Find cure for sentimentality before it spreads.