She was very, very wrong.
If Lucy didn’t need to remain visible enough to function as a decoy for Esther’s escape, she would have abandoned the groupby day two and lived feral in the woods, possibly with squirrels. Maybe she’d score a cool wolf companion and become ruler of the woods.
They had barely left Rhea and Asher’s cozy little home when chaos began its morning calisthenics.
The road was narrow and rutted, framed by low hedges and skeletal trees stripped bare by early cold. Fog clung low to the ground, the kind that promised unpleasant surprises and damp socks. Lucy was still mid-complaint about breakfast portions when two men burst from the brush, shouting something vague and coin-related.
Lucy opened her mouth to scream—purely for dramatic effect—but Sylva was already moving.
One blink, he was beside her; the next, he was everywhere. Blue fabric flashed, silver buckles caught the light, and his dagger moved like it had opinions about where it belonged. The thieves went down fast, one tripping over his own ambition, the other groaning into the dirt like he’d reconsidered all his life choices at once.
Lucy stared.
Her pulse hadn’t slowed. That annoyed her more than the blood.
“What?” Sylva asked, flicking blood off his blade with practiced ease.
“I—I’m…” She snapped her mouth shut so she didn’t accidentally saydeeply attracted.
“…observing.” It was the safest word she could grab in a moment where her brain offered far worse options.
He gave her a look. A very knowing look.
She threw a pebble at him.
He dodged.
Lucy had the irrational thought that he hadn’t been watching the pebble at all—that he’d been watching her.
Sylva fought three more thieves by midday, one of whom had been hiding behind Basil’s horse for a full minute before deciding that attempting robbery “right now” was a good idea.
It wasn’t.
Lucy found herself impressed. And then irritated at being impressed. And then impressed again.
Sylva walked ahead of her with the quiet confidence of someone who had never known fear in his life. He stayed just far enough ahead to clear danger without blocking her path. Lucy hated that she recognized the intention.
Meanwhile, Lucy tripped over a root.
Twice.
“I meant to do that,” she muttered.
Sylva glanced back. “Lie.”
Lucy scowled. “I hate your ears.”
“You love my ears.”
“Lie,” she shot back.
He smirked.
By the time the sun dipped low, they reached a roadside inn calledThe Roasted Trout, which smelled like burnt onions, damp straw, desperation, and something that might once have been meat. The sign looked like someone had painted a fish while blindfolded and in emotional distress. It was almost as bad as Esther’s dragon embroidery.
Inside, the air was smoky and stale. A bard played a single tune on repeat—three chords, none correct.
Sylva positioned himself without thinking—between her and the loudest pockets of movement. Lucy clocked it the way she clocked exits: subconsciously, gratefully, and without permission.
