“And not confetti,” Lyssara added.
“I told you I could fix it,” Esther said smugly.
Rustle. Rustle.
A half-decayed squirrel burst from the leaves.
Esther screamed.
Vorrik stomped it.
The eyeball landed on Lyssara’s shoulder.
Then Lyssara puked. Then Esther. Then both again.
“She murders, heals, necromances, and sets things on fire,” Nythir wheezed.
“And we need you to light the fire again,” Lyssara wiped her mouth and gestured toward the fire pit.
“Absolutely not,” Esther said through heaves.
Vorrik leaned in close. “When Nythir stands near you, the fire flares.”
“That’s because I’m handsome,” Nythir murmured, leaning in a little too close.
The fire popped. Esther stared at the group in confused contempt. They had used Nythir’s face against her as a fire starter.
Later, she sat on a log beside the flames, wrapped in a borrowed cloak and a blanket of exhaustion. The forest buzzed with night magic, small flame-moths flickered through the air, drawn toward her, mistaking her golden sparks for a broodmother.
A tiny creature with ember-tipped ears approached her boot, sniffed, then bowed.
“Why, why is it doing that?” she whispered.
“It thinks you’re a fire deity,” Nythir said casually.
Esther made a noise somewhere between a sob and a groan.
Lyssara crossed her arms. “Right. Rules. If you’re traveling with us, you follow the Adventurer Code.”
“The what?”
Vorrik unrolled a scroll. “Rule one: don’t die.”
“Rule two,” Lyssara added, “don’t kill us.”
“Rule three: if you have to explode something, give notice,” Vorrik said.
Nythir hummed thoughtfully. “Rule four: maybe don’t straddle strangers.”
Esther turned scarlet. “That was, AN ACCIDENT!”
“And finally,” Lyssara said, “who are you?”
“Essie,” she whispered, thinking of her mother’s voice calling her that on warm afternoons.
“And the symbol on your cloak?”
Esther froze.
