The blast rattled Fenna's teeth and shook the pavers beneath her paws. Snuf, startled from his semi-doze, erupted in a cloud of agitated, silvery-grey fluff that instantly permeated the air. The colossal creature, all bronze scales and smoldering wrath, snorted. Smoke billowed from its nostrils, thick and acrid, but then a strange sound broke through the lingering echo of its fury: a high-pitched, almost human *achoo!* followed by another, deeper *AH-CHOO!* The monster recoiled, shaking its massive head. One of its amber slits squinted, weeping clear fluid down a crest of horns. It lifted a claw, as big as Fenna’s entire body, and rubbed vigorously at its snout. The menacing aura deflated into something far more… inconvenienced. Fenna, ever the opportunist, raised an eyebrow. “Snuf, you’ve done it again, you fluffy menace.” Snuf, oblivious, attempted to catch a stray wisp of his own dust in his mouth. He looked proud. The dragon coughed, a gravelly rattle deep in its gullet. Its bronze scales folded inward, buckling and compacting like tectonic plates. The vast, leathery wings dissolved first, then the thick, scaled tail receded into a broader, more human-like spine. Where a terrifying behemoth had stood, a man now emerged, tall and lean, with a dark mane of hair that seemed to absorb the light. His irises retained their molten tint, narrowed in clear irritation across a sharply cut brow. He wore simple, dark leather trousers and a tunic, both appearing to have materialised with him, perfectly tailored. He was undeniably striking, if not for the persistent, irritated wrinkle between his brows and the way he was still pinching his nostrils. He glared at Fenna, then at Snuf, whose molted coat still drifted like a silver fog. “What in the Hallowed Heights is *that*?” His voice was a low growl, rough as granite, but laced with a distinct nasal congestion. “That,” Fenna said, gesturing toward her companion, “is Snuf. He’s a cloud-badger. And you, I presume, are the master of this crumbling roost?” His gaze pinned her to the flagstones. “How dare you simply trespass? This perimeter is forbidden! By decree of the Zilvermaan Synod, no one sets paw upon these heights!” He took a step forward, then let out another violent sneeze. “Agh! This… *fluff*! Get out. Both of you. Now.” Fenna merely blinked. She stretched, a slow, deliberate arch of her spine, enjoying the heat of the slate through her blanket. “Oh, I don’t think so. I have very specific plans for an uninterrupted rest.” She rested a paw on her pack. “Besides, have you seen the state of this ruin? It needs a lot of work. Can’t very well do that from outside, can I?” Kasimir stared at her, utterly flummoxed. His majestic, dragon-shifter wrath was rapidly dissolving into simple bewilderment. “Work? What work? This is *my* domain. My refuge! I guard it! Against… against people like you! People who would discover my existence! And you think to… renovate it? I forbid it! Leave!” He pointed a long, accusatory finger towards the crumbling archway. “Too far to walk for a nap, honestly,” Fenna murmured, already looking around. Her gaze fell upon the skeletal remains of an open-air pavilion, its wooden pillars rotted, its roof caved in. It was directly in the path of the morning sun, promising a perfect, dappled warmth. “Now, where’s a good stick?” She spotted a gnarled branch near a patch of dry alpine thistles. With a languid movement that belied her inner focus, she pushed herself up, fetched the stick, and returned to the slate slab. The horned stranger stared, lips parted in sheer bewilderment. He was still sniffling, his nose twitching. Fenna ignored him. She knelt, her tail swishing lightly, and began to draw in the dust and loose grit of the courtyard. Her movements were precise, almost lazy, yet each stroke of the stick etched a complex pattern onto the ground – a spiral of interlocking lines, a glyph that seemed to hum with unseen energy. It wasn’t a common rune, but an ancient sigil of restoration, a forgotten language of earth and wood. As the final stroke met its origin, an amber luster bloomed along the grooves. Fenna tapped the center of the rune with the stick. A low thrum vibrated through the ground. The sagging cedar pavilion, twenty paces off, groaned. A soft, verdant light rippled across its decaying wood. Splinters knit themselves back together, rot receded, and the twisted beams straightened with a series of soft *creaks*. New, living wood sprouted, intertwining and twisting to form a sturdy, elegant structure. Clear panes of blown glass coalesced within the open latticework, and fresh slate tiles settled overhead with a brisk clatter. In seconds, the rot vanished beneath smooth, oiled cedar. The man froze, mouth slightly open. He slowly lowered his finger. “You... you mended that timber. With a stick. And dry dirt.” “Well, yes,” Fenna replied, dusting her paws off. “Why walk all the way over there when I can just bring the comfort closer?” She started to gather her blanket and provisions. “Much better for napping.” Before she could shoulder the sack, the runic lines flared with fierce, brassy brightness. It didn’t dissipate. Instead, it shot out a filament of light, thin as a spider silk, towards the main body of the ruined manor. The filament pierced the cracked masonry of the central hall, striking straight into a dormant stone fireplace. A low shudder groaned through the granite cliffs. The firebox, cold for centuries, roared awake. Not with wood smoke, but with a torrent of pearlescent radiance coiling across the iron grate. The light pulsed, spreading warmth and a peculiar sense of deep-rooted belonging throughout the entire estate. A deep anchor tugged beneath Fenna's ribs, latching firmly to the granite roots below. The man choked on a dry breath, glaring from the blazing masonry to her paws. “What did you trigger? That’s the Heartstone! The old ward-flame binds only to a true keeper of the peak—it ties your life to these rocks! You're tethered here!” Fenna swayed slightly, not from fear, but from the sheer, overwhelming rush of ancient magic. The warmth seeped into her, settling deep. She felt… rooted. Grounded. And, oddly, invigorated. She glanced at the newly set glass pane of the restored cedar shelter, catching her silhouette. The dull, dusty grey fur she’d known her entire life seemed… off. A patch on her chest, right above her heart, was glowing faintly. As she stared, mesmerized, the dull grey began to peel away, curling like old bark, revealing a patch of fur beneath it. A patch of blinding, sacred white.

The Grumpy Landlord