The landscape began to change. The forgotten paths and solitude of the woods faded behind them. Small houses dotted the soft hills ahead, carts rolled by in the distance, and the sound of human voices gradually returned. The world was spinning again, back to its usual rhythm.

  Hans was panting. The sack over his shoulder now felt less like luggage and more like a personal vendetta.

  "Does this... weigh the same as yours?" he asked, more fatigue than courage in his voice.

  Lysandra didn’t answer. Her stride was steady, unshaken.

  "I’m not trying to complain," he added. "Well... yes, I am. This sack feels like it’s plotting against me."

  She paused, turned her head slightly, and said flatly,

  "You’re such a whiner, Hans. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have brought you."

  Hans scowled, ready to fire back, but then she stopped completely. Her expression shifted. She had heard something.

  And without another word, she vanished—like a shadow swallowed by dusk.

  "Lysandra?"

  Too late. Voices rose behind him.

  "Our champion rider! Look at that stance... Back hurting from hauling stolen gold, is it?"

  Hans turned. Dorian was striding toward him with his usual sharp-edged smile. Viktor limped beside him theatrically, and five other men followed, each with the expression of someone ready to resolve a dispute using fists.

  "Oh… great," Hans muttered. "Such a... civilized reunion."

  "It will stay civilized—if you cooperate," said Viktor, folding his arms. "You disappeared the same night the prize did. And now here you are, strolling along with a couple of suspicious sacks."

  Hans forced a smile.

  "Just a night full of misfortune."

  One of the men stepped uncomfortably close. He didn’t touch Hans, but his presence was deliberate.

  "What’s in the bag, champ? The trophy wrapped in lies?"

  Hans raised his hands.

  "Just gear. Nothing valuable. Nothing interesting."

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  "Then you won’t mind opening it," Viktor said.

  Hans swallowed hard. He took a step back, and the sack slipped from his shoulder, landing with a dull thump.

  Silence.

  And then—

  "Woi."

  A tiny voice. From the bag emerged small legs, worn shoes, dark green trousers, and a round, messy head of hair.

  "What’s the fuss? All this for a nap?"

  Hans stared, stunned.

  "Who… are you?"

  "Wimo, at your service. Snuck into your sack. There were coins. I have... dietary needs."

  "You ate coins?"

  "A few. I’m not greedy. Just hungry."

  Viktor raised an eyebrow. Dorian let out a breath that was somewhere between disbelief and defeat.

  "This is your treasure, Hans? A coin-munching gremlin?"

  Hans went pale. He had nowhere to hide. The expressions on the seven men's faces ranged from disbelief to deep existential pain. One covered his face, another muttered something about "unbelievable" and "idiot." Viktor looked skyward for patience.

  "Alright," said Dorian, humorless. "Let’s see what’s in the other sack. Because really, it couldn’t possibly get worse… could it?"

  One of the men crouched, opened the second sack.

  The metallic clink was unmistakable.

  Coins — the race prize — spilled like a golden downpour. The missing treasure. The heart of the scandal. The gold.

  Hans froze.

  Those were his coins. The ones he never received. The ones that had vanished. The ones Lysandra had... hidden. Or stolen. Or both.

  "I… didn’t know," he stammered.

  "Of course not," Viktor said. "That’s why you’re hauling them around so casually."

  Hans felt the walls closing in. He was being accused of stealing his own winnings, had no witnesses, and his only ally was a duende with a literal appetite for the evidence.

  "This is too much for me," muttered Wimo, backing away. "Though if we’re splitting things… I only want the copper ones."

  Hans buried his face in his hands.

  Dorian turned with a tired smile.

  "We’re keeping it," he said, patting the bag of coins. "Let’s call it partial payment for that debt of yours. The one you’re too clueless to understand."

  Hans didn’t argue. Arguing would only make it worse. He clenched his jaw as one of the thugs hauled away the sack like a war prize.

  "And you two," Viktor added, pointing at Hans and Wimo, "you’re coming with us. We’re not exactly trusting you, but... you might still be useful."

  Hans swallowed. Tagging along wasn’t part of the plan, but a spark of insanity flickered in his brain — one of those signature Hans plans. Maybe, with a bit of twisted luck, he could pull off something so foolish it might actually work.

  "Brilliant…" he muttered.

  "Where are we going?" asked Wimo, waddling beside him in tiny, determined steps.

  "To settle my debt with these gentlemen," said Hans, in that voice he reserved for catastrophes.

  "Does that include selling me?" asked Wimo, narrowing his eyes.

  "If you don’t stop eating the coins, yes."

  Wimo crossed his arms, offended.

  "And the girl in the cloak... she’s not coming?" he added, sniffing the air as if expecting to catch her scent.

  Hans tensed. He didn’t answer.

  Dorian, walking ahead, turned with a raised eyebrow.

  "What girl?"

  "Eh, duende stuff," Hans jumped in quickly. "He mistakes shadows for people. Happens all the time."

  Dorian looked at him for a long moment but said nothing more.

  And so, with one sack less, a new debt, and a companion who could literally chew through his last chance, Hans walked into yet another mess.

  But he had a plan.

  Not a smart one. Not a safe one. Definitely not a legal one.

  But it was his.

  And if fate was feeling generous — or just bored — it might even work.