It touched its small nose to the hem of her cloak, then gave a tiny, chiming bleat.
Vorrik clapped. “It likes her!”
Vorrik tried to pet the dusk-fawn. It bit him hard, tearing his skin with jagged teeth before scampering back into the brush.
Lyssara hissed, “That thing never comes near humans. What kind of magic is she carrying?”
Nythir didn’t answer.
Because he already knew.
Dangerous magic.
Lonely magic.
Magic that would one day demand a price.
And stars help him, he wanted to be there when the bill came due.
“Can you two at least help me search the bodies—well, body parts—I guess, for proof of job completion while we figure out what to do with the girl?” Lyssara grumbled, tossing a scorched leg to the side.
The Adventurer’s Guild wasn’t a single organization; it was dozens of independent groups operating under the same code. Most took odd jobs: escort missions, monster culling, courier work. Nythir’s trio specialized in dismantling bandit rings and recovering stolen goods, mostly because Lyssara liked punching thieves and Vorrik liked lifting heavy things.
Proof of completion varied: guild rings, insignia fragments, enchanted seals. Burning bandits to ash complicated matters significantly.
“She looks like trouble,” Nythir said, smiling down at the unconscious woman. She looked so helpless. Dainty.
His instincts told him to protect her, and he had learned a long time ago to always follow his instincts.
“Good,” Vorrik said. “You love trouble.”
“You could say I’m passionate about it,” Nythir said, smirking. “It’s how I ended up with you two.”
Lyssara rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. He’s imprinted.”
“Like a duck,” Vorrik added.
Nythir raised an eyebrow. “A very dangerous, very flammable duck.”
“Which of you is the duck?” Lyssara demanded.
“Unclear,” Nythir said. “Check back later.”
The forest clearing crackled with residual magic. Burnt earth glowed faintly, and the trees, scorched and bowing inward, still hummed with the aftershock of her uncontrolled power. Every guild he had ever worked for would kill to get their hands on someone like her.
Or kill her out of fear.
He felt neither impulse.
Something in her magic tugged at him like an unspoken promise, or a warning.
He wasn’t sure he cared which.
“Found something!” Vorrik shouted, holding up a severed finger with a ring. “Proof!”
Lyssara tripped over a torso, Vorrik caught her, they flirted horribly, and Nythir gagged into his sleeve.
He lifted the girl into his arms, adjusting her carefully so her head rested against his shoulder. She weighed almost nothing.
