Of course, Calia had been right. Especially regarding the kind involving troublemakers and demons in particular. If she’d asked outright, she’d have gotten her confirmation, but Arc would’ve probably only given it with a grin and a wink, leaving it up to interpretation whether he was telling the truth or just basking in the satisfaction of the aftermath. Nova of course may have or not have stated yes or not at all.
The light beyond the hut had crept higher, brushing the sea in strokes of soft teal and melting gold, filtering through the slats in the curtains in sleepy beams. It cast warmth over tousled silver-blue strands and the bare curve of Nova’s shoulder where they lay half-entwined, the quiet hush of the sea giving pause to the morning. Even Loiren, perched nearby with golden eyes fixed intently on the pair, seemed torn between judging them and simply wanting breakfast. Her tail flicked in restless rhythm, like a ticking clock waiting for movement.
Arc didn’t seem bothered by the feline scrutiny. He let his hand drift in slow, idle affection along Nova’s shoulder and down her arm, savoring the warmth still shared between them from the night prior. There was no urgency in him, no immediate rush to rise—not when the moment still clung to that sweet aftertaste of intimacy and comfort.
A soft sound stirred from the elf curled beside him, her voice husky with sleep, “W-when are yah leavin’?”
His lips quirked in a lazy smirk before he pressed another kiss to her skin, low and deliberate. “Soon. Before I’m summoned and vanish in front of yer cat. I doubt she’d take kindly to a poofing trick this early.”
Nova lifted a hand to gently tap Loiren between the ears in half-hearted warning. It didn’t deter the feline. If anything, the mrow she gave in response only made her tail twitch faster. Nova chuckled softly, eyes still half-closed. “She’s judgin’.”
“She’s starvin’,” Arc corrected with a grin, trailing another kiss, this one slower. “And I’ve got a poor record when it comes to keepin’ my hands to myself after a night like that.”
Nova laughed again, low and melodic. “Don’t make Calia come lookin’ for yah,” she teased. Arc hummed in vague agreement, though his hands didn’t exactly retreat. “I suppose I could be convinced to rise… walk yah back, maybe see if yah and Calia plan on leavin’ today. Wouldn’t be proper to sneak off without sayin’ goodbye.”
He flopped back against the bed, she tucked herself easily into the space beside him, head on his shoulder, warm and soft in a way he could increasingly become fond of. “Yah just gotta give me five minutes,” she murmured, eyes fluttering shut again as he soaked in the moment.
Nova smiled against his chest. “If I disappear, I’m blamin’ Loiren.” He stated just in case anyone ever tried to state otherwise.
The bells above the door chimed soft and clear as the Driftwood Haven’s entrance swung open, letting in the hush of a post-festival morning. Most of the town was still drowsing in the long exhale after the revelry, but the scent of fresh bread, strong tea, and whatever Brux had on the morning fire already made the tavern feel like the anchor it always was. Warm, a little smoky, and blessedly steady.
Nova stepped through first, hair loosely tied in a braid that had definitely seen better hours. The kind of sleep-flushed, sun-kissed look that said she hadn’t entirely meant to stay out so long… but hardly looked apologetic for it. Still, her smile was radiant and easy, and she moved like someone who had nothing to hide—content, if a touch bleary-eyed.
Right behind her came a figure unfamiliar to most, at least at first glance. Arc had glamoured himself well. Where horn would’ve reached, there was only a tousled head of deep brown hair, touched faintly with a glint of gold. His eyes, still unmistakable if you looked too long, were a warm hazel now instead of the searing infernal gleam. He wore a traveling coat slung lazily open over a loose shirt and belted trousers, looking for all the world like just another wanderer who’d found a local girl to walk him into town.
His expression was, of course, full of mischief barely hidden behind the veil of casual charm—eyes taking in the tavern with subtle amusement before drifting toward the counter. “Brux,” Nova chirped, still a little breathless from the salt air and morning sun. “Yah’ve got any of that lemonbread left, or did the hungover sailors eat yah out already?”
Brux, who had seen many things in his time—including worse pairings than this—lifted a brow from behind the bar but didn’t skip a beat. “Couple slices left. You’ve got good timing.”
His eyes flicked briefly to Arc, narrowing slightly. He could smell the otherness beneath the glamour, even if it was layered with sea salt and sleep. Still, nothing dangerous lingered in the air, and Nova didn’t look like she was being dragged in under any enchantment. Quite the opposite, really. Where Nova motioned for him to go and take a seat, Brux simply accepted what was before him.
Another new day. No trouble with it.
Both body and mind had needed that long deep sleep far more than Calia had ever realized. Having forgotten just how much having to funnel magic through Arc physically took a toll on her. Casting the magic was growing easier and easier, without that soreness deep in her guts, but it still required a great deal of stamina and energy. It wasn’t likely to change any time soon. So she’d sleep hard, deep, and thankfully dreamless. Without those frustrating visions of her being a bloody nightmare to her own self.
When she awoke, it was her stomach snarling and growling in such a tantrum that she almost felt physically sick. Letting out a few curses and an fuck! alright! once she finally rolled out of bed. Calia got herself dressed, fully dressed, sword harness and weapons and all as no more time could be spent here in Tír Élas. Not because she felt her time was wasted, but for the fear that if she stayed any longer she wouldn’t want to leave at all.
This place, as wonderful as it had been, was not her home and she had things to do.
It might’ve been the first time she’d come down the inn steps and rounded the corner without some black cloud of grim thoughts and doom following behind her. Actually greeting familiar faces with a wide smile… one that shifted to this wily examination upon seeing the demon and the moonbeam miss. No commentary was made, however, as she simply slide into a chair at the bar itself. Giving Brux a smile that said not looking for trouble, but trouble looks for me in a way that was far more welcoming of it than it should’ve been.
“Good morning, surly star of the sands. Feed me, please.”
With the vigilance of a hawk—albeit one who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—the drow-orc’s crimson gaze tracked Calia’s movement. He clocked her the moment she stepped into the room, hot on the heels of Nova, who had somehow managed to scavenge the last few slices of lemonbread and even scored some actual protein for breakfast. A miracle, considering the kitchen usually operated on vibes and root vegetables.
Brux didn’t need to see through glamours to know something was off about the guy Nova chatted up. He just had that look—like he’d read the manual on being inconspicuous and thrown it into a bonfire. Still, if no one was actively summoning a firestorm or flipping tables, Brux wasn’t about to waste good breath calling it out. He saved his energy for real disasters. Like running out of coffee.
His attention shifted instead to the woman now planted at the bar—grinning like she knew exactly how to get away with murder and was just waiting for a reason. The kind of grin that made you check if your wallet was still on you.
“You’ve got two options,” he said, voice gravel-thick with disinterest. “Something fruity, or something meaty.” A thumb jabbed lazily over his shoulder, vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. It wasn’t much of a sales pitch, but given that Alden was still in there and hadn’t made any clamour yet, it probably meant the food was edible.
“Mornin’!” chirped Nova, all sunshine and sincerity, waving like Calia was the long-lost cousin she’d been waiting for. She didn’t bother getting up—just gave a look that clearly said come join us before the lemonbread runs out, and possibly before Brux snaps.
Brux, ever the picture of reluctant hospitality, let out a grunt. “Coffee’s on the way too. Make a choice and I’ll have Renata bring it over. Or don’t, and we can play the fun game called guess who gets the last sausage.“
“I don’t feel like fighting anyone for my breakfast today, so how about we make it both. Everything. All of the things.” she’d decided as simple as can be, with the smile to match. Not one to expect such a breakfast out of the goodness of his heart as she did slid some extra coin across the bar top so he’d know it was not some entitled demand either.
Calia was going to have to practice making a pocket void just for the sake of storing food in it at this rate. Otherwise she’d have to stop frivolously using Arc’s magic every single moment, whim and chance that came up. A difficult thing to do when all she wanted to do was breathe and swim in it.
Naturally with Nova’s cheerful greeting, it could not be ignored. Giving Brux a final quick grin, Calia hopped off her stool to cross the tavern and join the moonbeam elf with her catch of the night. Sitting down next to Nova and having to close one eye, then switch to the other trying to adjust herself to Arc’s present look so she could more comfortably see past it to the real him. Brunette was surely not his coloring, neither were the hazel eyes.
“Now wot do we be havin’ here, with a wee lil’ miss whose shells are comin’ loose like she’s been off somewhere she ought’n be?” Calia was real good at mimicking those accents when she was up to nonsense. In this case reaching up to help fix one of the small shells that was barely hanging on by a strand and likely spent the night getting pawed at by clawed hands.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked, back to her normal voice, amused and all. “Or should I be asking if you slept at all?”
With a grunt that sounded like it cost him physically, Brux accepted the coin and Calia’s breakfast request—fruit and something meaty, a bold choice. He gave the briefest of nods, which in Brux-language translated to Fine, but if you complain, I’ll feed you to Alden. Without another word, he slipped off toward the kitchen, no doubt summoned by the call of yet another growling stomach.
Not that Calia seemed to mind. Nova had already cast her spell of hospitality—no magic words needed, just that beaming, trouble-magnet smile and a singsong call that might as well have been: Join us, dark mistress of the night. We have carbs.
Nova scooted over with a few enthusiastic hops, leaving space for Calia to settle beside her. The moment Calia opened her mouth and let that heavy accent pour out, Nova’s brows shot up. A beat later, she was grinning like a cat who’d found a canary and taught it to swear.
Arc, meanwhile, wore an expression of such refined surprise it might’ve actually convinced someone who didn’t know him better. He sipped his coffee like he hadn’t just been outed as a demon with a history.
“I’m always somewhere I ought to not be,” Nova declared cheerily, absolutely unbothered by how much Calia seemed to have figured out already. She plucked up a chunk of the lemonbread and popped it into her mouth like this was brunch with old friends and not the start of probable mischief. “Yah’ve heard my tales. I’m like a bedtime story—but the kind with a warning label.” She chewed thoughtfully, then added with a shrug, “Didn’t sleep much. Sometimes not sleepin’ is better. The dreams get weird, and not in the fun ‘talkin’ to trees’ way.”
Her gaze flicked over to Arc with absolutely no subtlety, her grin sharp enough to cut through steel. “Besides, yah said pants could be charmed off. I was testin’ the theory. Turns out, yah were right.” There was a lingering look that might have been loud enough to perhaps even lay proper props to said demon for his flirtation actions.
Not that Arc was subtle about it.
Lifting his brows, an expression that said what, me? Still, his attention turned to Calia with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So, did yah sleep well? Rested enough to risk another day of poor decisions and ill-advised wanderin’? Or should we give chaos a break and find a nice, borin’ tavern where no one throws knives?”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second,” Calia murmured soft, full of mirth and amusement. Granted, the sort of trouble Nova was bound to get into was likely far away from actual trouble. Innocent mischief and nonsense – if Calia didn’t count the fact she’d spent the night with a demon, who was presently as smug as any fat, well-fed cat that she’d ever seen.
She did, however, feign a bit of wide-eyed surprise at Nova’s declaration that Arc did in fact make good on charming pants off. How shocking, a slutty demon knew what he was doing! In the end she couldn’t keep that air of surprise, only coming to laugh when she reached across the wooden table to steal Arc’s coffee right out of his hands. Taking a heavy swallow before she handed it back to him, as naturally as if it was something she did everyday.
“I’d honestly like to sleep in longer, but my stomach had other ideas,” she confessed with a shrug of her shoulder. “It’s time to get back to following the wind, as miss moonbeam here likes to say.”
That lemonbread became the next victim of Calia’s thievery with no apologies about it. Really, they were all lucky she wasn’t stomping around shoving every single edible thing in her mouth like some sort of ravenous starved wolf.
There was absolutely no way Arc could have anticipated Calia swooping in and stealing his mug. One moment it was safe in his hand, the next it was midair, hijacked by the resident chaos agent in black leather. She took a swallow like it was hers by divine right, and if Arc had been an animal, she’d have earned a few firm, non-lethal baps to the side of the head. The audacity.
The moral injustice, however, was short-lived. Mostly because Nova looked like she’d just seen her favorite comedy play out live, and even Calia had that look—the one that said oh, was that yours? paired with an unspoken too bad. Any real offense fizzled out into shared amusement, the kind passed between friends who were clearly bad influences on each other.
He snapped his teeth at her when the mug was returned, more mock than menace, before drawing it in like a squirrel guarding its last acorn. Lesson learned.
Nova, ever the bard of this merry band, hummed thoughtfully. “Yah wanted to sleep more,” she said, speaking for Calia like some kind of cheerful stomach translator. “But yer guts said ‘feed me or I riot.’” She popped another bite of lemonbread in before Calia could just devour the whole thing.
Arc, for his part, went into a performance of thoughtfulness that could win awards. Bread was attacked. Coffee was guarded. Chaos was managed. He gave a slow nod. “Then best stock up. Wherever the wind’s blowin’ next, it’s not likely to be as… forgivin’ as Tír Élas.”
He didn’t bother listing all the reasons why. The fawn with the oversized assets and a gang of mongrel misfits was still out there. Plus, warlocks, a missing heart, suspicious magic—dangerous barely scratched the surface.
Thankfully, Brux reappeared like a grumbling kitchen spirit, dropping off a plate with steaming ham, crisp hashbrowns, two cracked eggs, and a generous wedge of green melon. He set it in front of Calia and gave Nova a rare, passing shoulder pat before disappearing again—probably to yell at Alden or fight the stove.
Nova, of course, wasted no time. She helped herself to a hot chunk of fried potato, grinning like it was her legal right. “Payment for the bread crime,” she announced, not sorry in the slightest. Then, more seriously—well, as serious as she got—she asked, “Port should be swingin’ again. Yah ought to find what yah need easy enough. But what’s the plan, then? Which way yah headin’ back to the mountain?”
Arc’s expression soured just a touch at the mention of the pass. Not enough to argue, but enough to show he remembered it well. And not fondly. He didn’t say anything. Just hummed low and quiet, like a man who knew better than to tempt fate but had already packed a bag anyway.
Rioting to be fed, that’d be a first for Calia but it was certainly sounding better and better. Definitely more appealing than Arc’s mention that their travels were going to be less forgiving than Tír Élas. A soft silent nod of agreement was her reply, for that was where things were headed. Calia had a bastion of safety in the elven capitol, up until she’d stepped out into the woods. They’d left the mages tower unscathed only for Archimedes to be snatched the moment she left his side. Here again in Tír Élas with the crowds and festival, things had been alright until she ran back out into the trees again.
They were being watched, followed, stalked, by demon and fae alike. It would be wise to be wary while traveling.
Breakfast being sat down in front of her put a full stop to all those thoughts, the mountain princess brightening in an instant to attack the plate like she’d not been fed in years. Giving Nova the brief sort of look that she too was liable to bite if anything else disappeared and wasn’t headed straight to her own mouth. Only slowing to something more of a normal pace when the elven girl questioned what the actual plan was. Which way.
Which way.
“…going back the way I came in would be familiar,” she tested the thoughts out loud, seeing how it felt when spoken. Pausing only when brushing her thumb against her mouth, and giving a thoughtful frown. “It’d be the wrong direction, though and waste time with having to double back. Caeldalmor had multiple mountain passes, it’s safe to assume Edelguard does too, yes? We’ll have to find one that’s already heading northwards deeper into the mountains.”
“The only reason to go back the way yah came,” Arc drawled, “is if you’ve suddenly developed a fondness for ghost towns and dryder nests.” His lip curled in clear distaste, as though just saying the word left a bad taste. “I already killed one of the eight-legged charmers who had eyes on Calia. Not exactly keen on checking if she has more admirers.”
He raised his mug for another sip, already regretting the mental image.
“And who’s to say something worse hasn’t moved in?” he added, more to the air than anyone, as if trying to argue with the idea before anyone suggested they should check. “Beehive’s buzzin’. Let’s not poke it.”
“It ought to be buzzin’,” Nova offered cheerfully, resting her chin in her palm. “But I can’t say I know that far north. Edelguard past the frostline’s sort of…uncharted.” She made a vague, sweeping gesture like she was personally responsible for the cartography.
Arc looked to Calia then, more serious now, though the dryness never left his voice. “Uncharted because it’s laced with leylines. Wild ones. Elemental. Dangerous in the way that sings to warlocks and eats lesser mages alive.” His tone made it sound more like a travel brochure for idiots. “There’s mountain passes up that way,” he continued. “Used to be guarded by Cragjaw.”
Nova perked up immediately, eyes going round with delight. “Cragjaw? That’s a name! Sounds like a big ol’ beastie with a very pointy smile.”
“You’re not wrong,” Arc said, shooting her a sidelong glance. “He’s a landslide with teeth.”
He paused for another drink, letting the image settle before continuing with that calm, sardonic rhythm of his. “Scales like cracked shale, moss growing along his spine like it paid rent. Eyes like smoulderin’ coals tucked under a brow that could probably crush a carriage. He didn’t just guard the north. He was the north.”
Nova blinked, impressed—and slightly disappointed. “Yah make it sound like he wasn’t even a little snuggly.”
“Not any sort of bedtime story, honeytrap,” Arc replied flatly, though his lips quirked just enough to show he was entertained.
She made a small pout, stirring her lemonbread crumbs with one finger. “Yah never know. Maybe he’s just misunderstood. I’d give him a flower crown.”
“You’d give a chimera a flower crown if it sneezed politely,” he said.
She grinned brightly. “Exactly. Hospitality counts for somethin’.”
Arc shook his head, sighing like a man resigned to fate. “Well, if Cragjaw’s still up there, let’s hope he’s feeling hospitable. Though last I heard—about a century back—he wasn’t keen on visitors. I’m a little out of touch with local land politics.”
“Guess yah’ll just have to knock politely and not die then,” Nova said cheerfully.
Arc snorted. “That’s always the dream.”
Archimedes seemed to be more pissed off about that dryder than even Calia, and Arc hadn’t been the one was going to be a spider’s baby making bride! It was worth a good laugh and a tease, except her mouth was full of hashbrowns and eggs. Nova was stepping in easy enough to suggest that beehive of monster chaos ought to be riled up… True that. Only, weeding monsters out of the caverns and tunnels was not a job Calia could tackle right now. As tempting as murdering a bunch of problems would be, Calia at least had the sense to organize her priorities. Making contact with the mountain clans on the way to reclaiming her heart had to come first and foremost.
Then? Then every evil nasty thing in the world was going to regret Calia had ever been born.
She listened to them shoot their commentary back and forth about a frostline and a Cragjaw, having given a questioning expression herself that was vocalized by Nova’s curiousness. It sounded like an actual dragon by the way Arc described it and Calia found herself sitting there with Nova having those same ridiculous thoughts!
Not snuggling, obviously, you don’t snuggle beasts like that. But make a friend? Calia might’ve had trouble with people, animals and creatures were an entirely different thing. So long as it wasn’t trying to kill her, there was no reason why she wouldn’t gladly just hang around and have a conversation with any manner of beastly monster.
“I’ll give him a flower crown for you,” she leaned to whisper to Nova, bumping gently against her shoulder before she straightened again. “Who doesn’t like a good gift or offering. At worst I’ll get swallowed up whole. Way better than having a bunch of spider babies, anyway.”
It was one of those rare moments where Arc’s usual smirk dimmed—still present, but dulled by the sharpness behind his eyes. Amid the banter and brightness, he gave both women a look that said, “You might think this is cute, but listen anyway.”
Nova? She got a pass. She wasn’t coming with.
Calia?
He hoped—really hoped—she wasn’t brushing his words off like background noise. He hadn’t dropped lore for the fun of it. If Cragjaw still lived and they went wandering up north chasing a myth, she’d be reminded just how not imaginary old magic could be. And if it turned out she’d ignored what he told her?
He’d be the first one to kick back, sip his coffee, and offer a real smug, “Sounds like your mess.”
Nova, ever the sweetness wrapped in sunshine, leaned slightly toward Calia, her smile still bright but edged with care. “I’d prefer if yah didn’t get eaten, ta be honest. No spider babies, no bein’ lunch for a walking boulder, yeah?”
Her lips curled, but the weight of her words grounded the playfulness. She was light, not blind.
“Still,” she added, mulling it over aloud, “if there’s a stone drake out there, that’s kind of incredible. You never hear about them anymore. Big legends, old things. Leviathans and keepers of the land…” Her eyes danced between Arc and Calia, thoughtful. “Sounds like our friend here’s got a pocket full of stories too.”
Arc just arched a brow, casual again, though the edge never fully left his tone.
“Yah live long enough,” he said, “you either get stories or regrets. Sometimes both.” He took another slow sip from his mug. “Still not a fan of bein’ eaten, for the record.”
Well there was a stare that had her pausing mid-bite, having Calia run the gambit of deciphering her ever growing scroll of Arc’s expressions. Willing to bet it was another case of him assuming things, either that she was an idiot or that she wasn’t hearing him. It could be both. Neither he would say here in front of Nova, but to be fair, Calia wasn’t about to talk about real dangers here in front of Nova, either! Let the girl believe they were both indestructible and that the things they faced down were culled by charisma and kindness.
So it was a quite unspoken expression of her own, the softening of her eyes and a subtle nod that she did hear him. The warning was understood. Just in case that wasn’t enough, she slid a booted foot under the table, to gentle tap against his ankle. Not a kick, not a flirting play of footsy. A friendly means of acknowledgement.
“I promise, I won’t go looking for trouble if there is a better way around it,” she said to Nova, but truly it was more for Arc’s sake. Supposing that it was only fair that he did make those kind of assumptions after the way they’d met and she’d just… acted without thinking. Calia had never attacked anyone without being attacked first, but then she’d also just been waiting for the excuse of violence too. Arc had in fact been on the receiving end of that most of all.
Things were different for the both of them, they’d not be going backwards.
“We’ll avoid getting eaten. Arc’s too spicy and I’m all bitter inside, anyway. There’s far too much to get done and I’d hate to come back here for another High Tide, with only stories about how we almost died. Better to bring you adventures and fantastic sights to behold, yes? Of foreign royals and faerie creatures and mystical lands.”
The touch to his ankle drew a flicker of confusion—an innocent, almost reflexive tip of his head as if to peek beneath the table and see who had the audacity. He caught himself just before doing so, already reading the truth in Calia’s glance. It wasn’t flirtation. It was acknowledgement. A silent I heard you.
He didn’t smile. But the sharpness in him eased.
Then, true to form, he scoffed—soft but unmistakably amused. “It’s not really you that go lookin’, is it? Trouble’s the one with the crush.”
And it did have a thing for her. Trouble practically sent her love notes written in blood and broken bones. Still, for all its eagerness, it had also learned how fast the fae daughter could return the favor. Arc didn’t need to say any of that. Didn’t need to remind Nova either—especially when she had that particularly earnest look like she’d gleefully volunteer herself for the next disaster if Calia so much as sneezed the word “adventure.”
Luckily, Nova seemed to catch on without prompting, her bubbling cheer softening into a more patient warmth. Her legs kicked idly under the table as she leaned forward on her elbows, beaming.
“Then come back with proper stories, not ones where yah barely keep yer asses attached.” Her grin widened, eyes dancing as they flicked toward Arc. “And maybe next time, yer story’ll feature more than a singular-night fella, hmm?”
He didn’t rise to the bait. Just sipped his drink, smirking like the smug devil he was. Nova huffed in mock offense. “Rude. Absolutely sayin’ nothin’ like that makes it worse, y’know.” Still no comment.
She pressed a hand to her chest like a wounded noblewoman. “Well before yah both go toddlin’ off into the great unknown, don’t think for a second I’ll let yah sneak away without a proper goodbye. I will hold a grudge. And not the tiny kind. The dramatic, cry-about-it-in-the-rain type!”
Arc lifted a brow, deadpan. “Yah cry dramatically?”
“No,” she said sweetly. “But you might if I hex yah.”
He grinned, faint but genuine. “See? That’s the story I’ll tell.”
Smiling wide, Calia couldn’t deny trouble came looking for her. Really, she shouldn’t be smiling at all about it, that was actually her living nightmare! To be certain some calamity was going to be around every corner, from now until she got her heart back. As she knew very well that was not going to be a simple task.
For the time being, she was finishing up her breakfast in record time. Likely not having even chewed half of it and lucky that most of the talking had been all of Nova and her general good wishes, with just a splash of that wicked teasing towards Arc, with such a casualness that Calia suspected the demon was not the first man that’d come into town and fallen victim to Nova’s wiles. All that talk of romance and sweetness, and she was just as much as a saucy minx as they were.
“I told you she was going to break your heart. Didn’t think it was going to be literal with a hexing, but,” she paused there with all the drama that this ridiculous conversation was due. Complete with that smug told you so smile at Archimedes, before she was turning a more fond softness to the elven girl.
“I don’t like making goodbyes. I made sure to skip town early just to avoid the last ones. Will you accept a simple, till next time, or a wistful silent wave? Or a note, I can write a beautiful note, then I won’t have to say the words at all.”
“Neither did I,” Arc confirmed, deadpan, watching as Nova’s lips curled into that signature smile of hers—so pure, so guileless, and so full of utter bullshit it was honestly impressive. He was almost blinded by how casually she threatened emotional warfare with the kind of sweetness that would’ve made a sugar sprite explode.
She even flashed the grin toward Calia, dragging her right into the crossfire. No one was safe.
“Well, too bad!” Nova declared in that honeyed chirp of hers. “Yah can’t skip out, and if yah try to sneak away without a ‘see yah later,’ we’re gonna have more than just words, madam. I might not be able to wrestle yah into a headlock, but guilt? Oh, I’ll hex yah with guilt so strong it’ll rain over just you for a year.”
Arc set down his mug with a soft clink, arms folding leisurely as he leaned over the back of his chair, gaze sliding between the two women.
“I think she may be more formidable than any villain yah’ve ever faced, Calia.” There was no sarcasm. Just quiet admiration for the chaotic elemental that was Nova. “And honestly, I don’t think I want to know what guilt-hexes feel like. She’s probably got charts and everythin’.”
And maybe, just maybe, part of him wanted Calia to hold on to that. Nova. The wayward spark of light that wasn’t connected to blood pacts or the world-ending stakes they kept dancing around. She needed that kind of friendship.
Nova’s grin softened just a touch as she leaned over, resting her crown gently against Calia’s shoulder. “Yah act like goodbyes are permanent. Like this is some last chapter,” she said, warm and teasing all at once. “But yah’ll come back. And I’ll still be here. Probably with more stories, more sass and more wild wishes!” She paused, then added sweetly, “So don’t get all dramatic. That’s my job.”
Calia was content to be as smug as a cheshire cat over the predicament he’d gotten himself in – with due warning too – only for the little snippet of an elf to suddenly turn that angel’s smile over her in direction, declaring that Calia too was going to earn herself a hexing of guilt to plague her!
As if Calia needed more guilt following her around, she practically bathed in it!
Narrowing her eyes even, ready to be difficult just out of spite. Especially with Archimedes chiming in that Calia had surely met her villainous match. Like hell, even if it was a bit of teasing, not even the likes of Nova’s nonsense was going to topple or get the better of her. Calia was heartless after all.
…and just like that, with the wisp of a moonbeam pixie resting a head on her shoulder, Calia was defeated. Stiffening in her seat at first before she let out that slow, defeated sigh. Caving in an instant, to a girl she could literally pick up and throw a good ten feet if she wanted to. With insistences that it wasn’t forever, she’d still be here when they came back around. Something Calia really, truly, wanted to believe. As it meant one day in the future she’d have accomplished everything she’d set out to do, and was finally free to come back here and spend more days dancing around bonfires and watching fireworks.
“Yeah, okay,” she softly agreed in a warm murmur, reaching to flick a bit of that silvery blue hair out of the girl’s face. “We’ll come say farewell. Just know I’ll be a mess and it’ll be Arc suffering through my sorrow afterwards. More torturous than any hex you could give him.”
The great she-beast had been felled—not by blade or spell, but by the lethal combination of gentle affection and one infectiously spirited young elf. Bronze-eyed and golden-hearted, Nova wielded charm like a warhammer wrapped in silk. Honestly, if Calia had managed to resist her, Arc would’ve been impressed. Possibly concerned. Maybe even taking notes.
But no—Calia was cracking. He could see it in the way her shoulders softened, in the way she all but accused him of being set to be suffering for her future misery.
Nova turned her nose up toward Calia with a sweet giggle, all smug in her victory. “Good thin’ I think he’ll manage, and yah will too.” A little nuzzle was snuck in before she straightened with faux-serious purpose, glancing around the tavern like she was taking stock of the entire realm. “Well, I think yah best get up and start sortin’ yer supplies. And cleanin’ out yer room. Before Brux gets all fussy.”
It was a mercy. A gentle dismissal disguised as practical advice. A chance to duck out without dragging their feet or drowning in bittersweet goodbyes.
Arc, ever the opportunist, took the lifeline without hesitation. Sliding from his chair, he stretched—unnecessarily large, dramatically so, as though he had to remind the room just how much space he could take up when he felt like it. A deep, satisfied shudder rolled through him before he glanced over both of them. “Well,” he said dryly, “guess it’s time we see what kind of wares we can scrounge up—and what sort of charm we can weaponize to get ’em at a reasonable rate. Or, y’know, free.”
His eyes cut sideways to Calia. The meaning behind charm was very much spelled out. Magic wasn’t off the table… unless she decided to make it so. Again. He was already betting on the kibosh. But a demon could dream.
Calia didn’t know if she was going to manage – it’d been hard enough saying goodbye to Rhelic. She’d just barely managed to not cry about that one, so of course she’d left the elven capitol at the crack of dawn just to avoid repeating such a scene with the entire royal family there. This one might even be worse than all of the rest, while she was raw on the inside and freshly cracked open and melting just like the marshmallows of yesterday!
Nova really was the worst villain of all.
Still, Calia slipped out of her seat, giving the other girl a brief squeeze of the arm as a fleeting affection while she did so. Watching Archimedes try to stretch himself out, as if he too hadn’t fallen under this girl’s spell and wasn’t going to be thinking back about her in the days to come.
“You did say something about mana potions, and I get a feeling that’s going to require a lot more charm than I currently have in my pockets,” she murmured back, not failing to miss his hint of thievery. Not exactly giving any indication that she wouldn’t allow it, either! In fact depending on the who and hows, Calia might just be convinced to a little harmless crime.
She wasn’t going to say that in anyone’s earshot, though. Merely giving the most innocent of beaming smiles.
“We’ll fetch our supplies and then be back for our torturous goodbyes,” she said with that heavy sigh. “C’mon, then, beetlebug. Aim me at whomever I’m supposed to distract and bat my lashes at.”
Leveling his gaze upon her with a gentle nod, he did speak about mama potions. “Even if we can get one, I could use that to, figure it out.” His lips quirked upwards in an gentle pull. Seamless to most but to the right eye, he was declaring that he could figure out the recipe. To reconstruct it and then, remake it. Knowledge they could bank on in multiple ways. Be it for themselves, for sale or well, something in-between.
All they’d need was one.
If Calia wasn’t going to outright scold him either for his implication she picked up, even better. After all, he might remember who he had been, he was still a demon. Sly. Underhanded and well, not against using every measure for his and now, her benefit.
Just unsaid in front of the glittering jewel.
With Nova smiling all the while -how her cheeks didn’t end up hurting was truly a miracle-, she gave them each a playful shoo motion. “We’ll bring seein’ yah both soon.” As if they needed to leave right now less she decide to hold them willing hostages.
His grin rose. Fangs glinting at the raven haired beauty when she claimed she needed only that of a direction to be pointed. Spurring him to open his arm to loop loosely about her shoulders. Squeezing softly, “Yah keep callin’ me that and it’s guna be an endearing pet name, love.” Arc directed them upstairs to go and collect said things from the room.
Dropping voice to low murmur, “Tell me what her limits are yah fine beauty, and I’ll be sure yah get everythin’ yah be needin’ by yer own talents. Nothin’ schemey, promise. Just fair game for easily manipulated dolts, for yah.”
Figure out a recipe to a potion? A useful talent, that! Drawing an easy nod from her and just a little smidge of admiration, for it was one thing to figure out what ingredients made up a meal – a potion, where you couldn’t taste it or look at it to see what made up it’s ingredients was quite a difficult thing to do.
More daunting and absolutely flush inducing was that quick squeeze. These soft friendly affections were going to be the death of her far sooner than the fanged smiles and the gentle teasing. Scoffing too as they headed up the stairs. As if calling him a beetlebug was anything special at all, he was one.
At least once they were out of earshot of Nova (heaven forbid that girl that start getting ideas from them, when she clearly had enough mischief of her own) , she let out a laugh. Headed to her room door and opening it up to let them inside just in case there were other listening ears lurking about in the hall, rolling fresh out of their beds.
“You’ve just bit waiting for a chance to get up to no good, haven’t you,” she stated, not even meaning it as a real question for her had that air about him now. Like those horns of his would spring up out of his glamour and start curling as wide as his smile. Calia wasted no time in gathering up all the extra clothing Nova had provided for them, even that silly dress. If Arc was going to keep getting kidnapped, and Calia having to fight her way out of things, having additional clothing would come in handy.
“As long as we’re not taking advantage of gentle souls or anyone needy. I’ll even make you an extra fine dinner if we’re… bringing a little karma to those that deserve it.”
A polite way of saying she was fine with robbing shitty people, even flashed him the innocent-not-so-innocent grin to match it. As if it wasn’t the first time she’d pluck something out from under someone. Easily too, considering she could give legs to leaves and sticks. Stuff could just walk away on it’s own with her hands never being involved.
Once the door thunked shut and he released her from under his arm, there was no hiding the mischievous twist to Arc’s lips. “I’m always waitin’ for a chance to be up to no good,” he said cheerfully, tapping the single horn curling from his skull. “And this? Has nothin’ to do with it.”
He’d always been a troublemaker, even when he was still full-blooded elven and burdened with people telling him what to be, how to act, when to smile. Back then, he’d at least pretended to have some morality—some guiding light to keep him from writing someone off just because their face wasn’t symmetrical enough for his tastes.
Now? Well, things had shifted. Leaned a little closer to the abyss. The demon part of him didn’t care much for rules, while the elven part still whispered that maybe—just maybe—there were better reasons to keep people around than bone structure.
With a casual flourish, Arc summoned the Arcanum hollow, offering her space to stash her things so she wouldn’t have to lug it all like some glorified pack mule. Ever the gentleman.
He grinned even wider when she pointed out that neither of them were exactly gentle souls, nor in the business of noble causes. “Well then,” he said, voice low and playful, “it’s a good thing I wasn’t plannin’ to take yah to the nearest orphanage for supplies.”
He rocked back on his heels, eyes glinting with amusement.
“No, no. Thought we might pay a visit to a seedy little market that pulls in near the docks. Not quite a black market, not quite legal either. Let’s call it… ash gray.”
His gaze flickered with something sharper—hungry. “They’re the kind that lift ‘unattended’ goods off ships and resell ’em at exuberant prices. Doin’ nothin’ good ‘cept fillin’ their own pockets.” He shrugged, hands tucking behind his back, posture relaxed and entirely pleased with himself. “So I figured, we could help lighten their load a bit. Y’know.”
A pause. A smile so innocent it had to be criminal.
“Just a little casual liberation of goods. As a treat.”
Calia made a soft hum, giving him an amused sort of up and down look at his admittance that he was always looking for ways to be up to no good. Somehow that was so easy to picture him, long before ever being a demon, a mage in training getting into all kinds of trouble he could dip his hands into. Had she known him back then (well if she’d even been alive back then), they would’ve been such terrible influences on each other. A plague on their families, the town, absolute mayhem of pure magical nonsense.
Gathering up everything she did in fact stash it away in his little pocket void, dusting off her hands and eyeing it again trying to read all of the threads of magic that it involved. Pausing for a brief moment to rub her palms together to try and at least mimic it on a small scale. Brow furrowed with soft concentration.
“A little crime, as a treat.” she echoed and confirmed, laughing along with it. “Sounds like a good start to the morning.”
Calia finally caught a little spark of something in her hands, making a little triumphant sound… up until she attempted to pull it a little bit bigger, then all of her threads and construction fell apart and collapsed in on itself. Leaving her letting out a soft frustrated curse and having to shake her hands out to get that tingling twinge out of her fingers.
These hollows were complicated magic, certainly more than she’d ever even attempted before. All of that energy and magic for something that in her head sounded so simple!
Abandoning that for now she did a quick sweep of the room to be sure nothing important or useful was left behind. Honestly, all the cared about was the sword, which she already had. And her ring which she absently felt the spot on her finger where the missing item was meant to be. She’d gotten so used to wearing it that now it felt like something vital was missing.
“That should be everything. Let’s go liberate some clutter from your grey markets.”
“Feels familiar,” Arc said, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. There was something oddly comforting in the ritual of starting the day with just a touch of crime. Not real crime, of course. More like… reclaiming misappropriated property. Semantics. Always helpful in morally ambiguous situations.
He wasn’t about to start picking apart the logic of it—not before breakfast, anyway. If they got caught, then he might put some effort into justifying it. But for now? Best not to ruin the vibe.
Alone, each of them was trouble in their own right. Together? A bit of a nightmare, really. The kind that wore a wicked grin and walked off whistling.
Arc glanced over as she knelt to shape a little hollow in the space, only for it to collapse. He didn’t comment. She probably wasn’t ready to hear that managing that much so quickly was actually impressive. So instead, he let her have her frustration in peace, just watched her survey the room while he gave the doorknob a twist.
The door creaked open with the kind of giddy flourish that felt more kid on a sugar high than grown man about to commit a felony. Arc stepped through, a grin already stretching across his face at the thrill of it all. Liberation, yes. A morning jaunt with flair.
He didn’t miss a beat as he took the lead down the steps, flinging the front door open with the theatricality of a stage performer and gesturing her through like a gentleman-thief. Just before stepping out himself, he flicked a glance over his shoulder, checking for Brux—because if anyone was going to catch them red-handed by just existing in a hallway, it was that man. But the coast was clear. No eye of judgment. No disappointed sigh. Just good old-fashioned escape.
The salty sea air met him like an old friend, the hum of the port town waking up around them. Boats bobbing in the tide, the familiar sounds of commerce, chaos, and poorly played concertinas filled the air. Nostalgia crept up uninvited, but he batted it aside. Forward was the only direction worth looking.
Disguises on, glamours tight. Inconspicuous. Or at least… trying.
“We’ll wanna head far right on the pier,” Arc said, tilting his head toward the cluster of ships. “Then duck underneath. There’s a storage shed hidden under the slats—real cozy spot. That’s where we start.” He shot her a grin, bright and unbothered. “And as for how we get in… well.” He gave a dramatic shrug. “We’ll improvise. You know, like professionals.”
The world felt so different today, and Calia could easily explain it if she wanted to. That they’d taken a new step, learned something, grew a little. But she was not one to overthink or analyze, she was just content that she no longer felt as if she were standing over the edge of a cliff and that he was right there ready to be the one to push her off it. They were on the same page, same journey, and at least for a time, working towards the same goals.
… and it was incredibly hard not to be amused with his entire theatrical enthusiasm.
Calia was doing her best to try to keep that stoic, impassive expression, knowing if she kept up with the grinning and laughing that it was absolutely going to give away the fact they were up to no good. Falling into an easy step beside him, and soaking in the general atmosphere of the docks now that the festival was over and everyone was returning back to the usual daily business.
Every booths and games had been cleared away, leaving just the usual business and the rolling carts. Sailors that were in port for the day waiting on their ships to be unloaded and loaded again, milling about looking for somewhere to waste their time until it was time to ship back out.
“Didn’t know I was going to be getting a tour of the underground today. I might’ve worn the pretty dress and did up my hair,” she mused, giving him a flicker of a look and not being able to help breaking into that smile anyway. He was at his best like this, she’d decided. Free to get up to trouble as he wished, no one yanking on his chains or a leash.
“I don’t know how many folks actually pencil in that sort of thing,” Arc mused, his gaze flicking back to her as they walked side by side. “Let alone gussy themselves up for it.” His stride was easy, even—resisting the urge to bounce like an overeager kid about to run circles around his mother’s legs in the marketplace. He had an image to uphold, after all. At least until the stealing started.
“These folks?” he continued with a smirk, “They’re usually the sort that haven’t seen a pretty woman up close in a decade. Yah’ll dazzle half the room just by looking vaguely in their direction.”
Hands lifted behind his head in a stretch as they strolled, the motion casual, but his eyes never stopped scanning. No need to look like they were up to something. Even if they absolutely were.
The temple, if memory served, didn’t care much for these kinds of excursions. Sure, they huffed and puffed about it—very solemn, very disapproving. But action? That was a different story. Arc couldn’t recall a single time in his life they’d actually raided the underground. Just lots of frowning and muttered “tut-tuts” from behind incense smoke and silk robes.
Peaceful types. Nonviolent. Lofty. Utterly useless when it came to shutting down a thriving black market tucked beneath their holy floors. “Besides potions,” Arc said, glancing her way again, “what else yah think we should bring? I mean—I’ve been to a lot of places, but I can’t say ‘noble quest into the mountains to find secret clans’ was ever on my itinerary.”
He made a mock-thoughtful face, one brow quirking. “Hopefully I don’t have to dress pretty and do my hair. I left my enchanted comb in my other life of bad decisions.”
“I see. Just be my darling usual self then,” she answered with a laugh. Maybe a little more charming than her usual self, her late night tavern self would be the best bet. Maybe she would borrow inspiration from Nova as well, throw in a few wide eyes curious questions and a wee bit of naivety. All easily done and well within her experience.
What actually drew her to a mental pause was asking what supplies she might be needing. Causing a tilt of her head as she tried to think of what could be useful. A bow for hunting? Nah, she could make one of those as easily as she made traps and snares. They had extra sets of clothing now in case they needed to change into something dry and not covered in blood or shredded. Calia did not seem to suffer the effects of weather the same ways others did, so she wasn’t concerned about getting cold up there in mountains.
“I’m honestly not sure,” she admitted with a shrug. “A nice variety of extra food and things to make it with, maybe. Things for sleeping comfort? Using magic through you takes a lot from me physically, better meals and sleep is really all I need. I’m not really sure what all else is necessary, I usually just… figure it out when I get there.”
Calia did pause to glance him over at the enchanted comb comment, blooming into a wide smile. “We’d have to do the opposite in the mountains, you know. Rough and tumble you up to be more grizzly and rugged. Most of the mountain clans live in harsh places and I doubt they’ll take any well combed, perfectly groomed elf serious at all. Laugh you right off a cliff, maybe.”
“Exactly.” Arc gestured lazily in her direction, voice light but laced with that particular kind of confidence that danced the line between teasing and sincere. “Yah don’t mess with perfection when it’s right there.” He didn’t bother unpacking the compliment further. If she caught it, good. If not—well, the point had been made.
What she might want to bring, though—that was a mystery. Arc was no adventurer. Never had been. Even the times he slipped into the mundane world—through contracts or accidental summoning—it wasn’t to journey. It was to lend power, shake things up, then either watch the summoner go mad with it or grow bored and slip away again. Purposeful wandering through the woods in search of ancient mountain clans? That was new.
This was Calia’s arena. He’d have to rely on her experience.
A sudden step brought him just slightly into her path, redirecting her with a brush of his shoulder as a particularly round man nearly took up the entire boardwalk. Arc nudged her clear of a hip-check that might’ve launched her into the harbor.
“I see,” he said, casually resuming stride. “Well, food’s easy enough to manage for the whole tromp-through-the-trees bit. Sleeping gear. A proper bedroll, maybe a blanket or two.” He tilted his head side to side, weighing it like it was a matter of state diplomacy.
He was still halfway considering it when she cracked a smile—clearly amused by his earlier quip. Her reaction earned a glance from him, curious and just a touch smug.
When she suggested they’d have to rough him up a bit, Arc gestured grandly to himself.
“Perfectly groomed?” he echoed, as if she’d insulted his entire aesthetic. “Darlin’, I am many things, but elf-chic ain’t one of them.” He snorted, brushing his fingers through the wild mess of blue that had never known the touch of a comb with intent. The color flared around his horns—singular now, thanks to recent events—and frankly, he liked the chaos of it. It matched. “And I haven’t touched pomade since… a long time. Does spilled ale count?”
He looked her up and down with mock consideration. “So tell me then—how does one ‘rough and tumble’ someone up? Outside of gettin’ their arse kicked. Or am I due for a proper back alley makeover? Grit, grime, and all the flair?”
Calia was slowly getting used to his liberal use of compliments, still feeling a bit that most of it was just the way he talked to people and not necessarily meant as sincere at least until she’d throw a glance his way and didn’t see any signs of the bullshittery. Bit by bit learning to pick up the subtle differences, and then having to… get used to the kindnesses directed at herself. Her real self and not just the glamours she put on, or the social masks she’d wear.
Bless the fact she had good reflexes and wasn’t the sort to start stumbling or flailing, as his stepping bodily into her space and nudging her of so gently a few steps aside might’ve sent a clumsy girl off kilter. Then again, if she were a clumsy girl, Calia would’ve bet he’d had more bodily grabbed and shifted her – especially when she caught sight of the why. Shooting a sideways look over her should at the rotund elf marching his way down the docks scattering less observant people to the winds just to get out of his way.
Unnecessary kindnesses. Calia could’ve knocked that man on his ass herself if he’d been so rude. Still, it was a soft squeeze to Arc’s arm once they’d fallen back into proper step. Quick to burst into a sudden loud laugh when he asked how he was supposed to get more rough and tumble than he already was.
“Ah, well… We’ll need to dress you up in thick furs, leather and a fine kilt. Bruises and dirt help, but I think we’re going to have to get you hairier too. Hair everywhere, face, chest, back… Make you look one step away from a being a whole bear and that ought to do it.”
Well, he asked. And he got an answer.
Arc’s expression twisted into a tragic mosaic—equal parts unconvinced, horrified, and maybe just a little too thoughtful for comfort. His fingers trailed down his chin as if weighing the philosophical implications of back hair and kilts on diplomatic relations.
Leathers? Easy. Furs? Sure, if he had to. But the kilt? That was a line. A very breezy, very drafty line. His legs hadn’t seen that kind of exposure since the one time he fell through a portal mid-bath.
He could do dirt. Dirt had charm. But bruises? Bit tricky. His body mended too fast for most of the good dramatic ones to last. And the hair part? That was where the real war began.
A sharp shake of his head. Final. Absolute.
“No. Nope. Not the hair. Not the back. Not there.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder like the idea itself offended him. “That’s sacred land. That’s… private real estate.” A pause. Then a shudder. “The bears can have it. Let them be the shag rugs of the wild. I’m not tryin’ to get mistaken for some mythical beast and end up in someone’s trophy room.” He threw his hands up like the logic was obvious. “Bein’ confused for a bear or a bog monster is a quick ticket to catchin’ an arrow with yer sternum. No thank yah.”
Decision made, he shrugged with all the flair of a man sacrificing greatly for fashion. “So. Guess it’s elf-chic. Didn’t think I’d ever say that sentence without chokin’ on it, but here we are. Bold new worlds.”
He angled them toward a less crowded lane with a flick of his fingers, then glanced back at her, expression sharp with deadpan amusement. “And anyway, someone that hairy? They’re not blendin’ into any secret mountain society. They’re better off usin’ themselves to scrub barnacles off ships. Just strap a rope to ’em and dunk ’em overboard.”
A beat.
“Bet they leave the hulls shinier than half the soaps in town.”
Another beat.
“Also, imagine tryin’ to sleep next to that. You roll over and it’s like getting attacked by a sentient doormat.” Then, under his breath with a grimace: “Gods help me if I ever have to braid someone’s back hair for diplomacy.”
The fact Arc was actually giving it consideration at all was a marvel to behold. Somehow being able to read each item he weighed in his mind on whether or not he’d even be willing. It’d all been a slight exaggeration, of course. No mountain man she’d ever seen had actually been that hairy, though a few came close and were quite proud of it. The ones that never cut their hair or shaved their beards, who considered braids as a means of tidying up rather than just a good soapy bath.
So it was no surprise to hear him nope right out of the very idea, giving a soft tuting cluck of her tongue and disappointed shake of her head. Oh dearest her, how will she ever charm the mountain clans, with some fancy elf turned demon prancing around with his wild hair and hidden horns.
He protested further and she pursed her mouth.
He did it again and she nearly cracked a smile.
A third time and she really couldn’t help the grinning.
Until finally he was in such a state of complaining nonsense that Calia couldn’t help but burst into laughter again. Light and loud, far too encouraging of him that it should be and she didn’t have the sense to worry about it.
“Careful now, you’re not gonna win any mountain lasses acting like that. They need a man they can pet and stroke, that can keep them warm at night.” How she said that with a straight face – well, she didn’t. Grinning like some wicked little faerie telling tall tales to gullible children was what she was doing!
“Depends. They better not be as hairy.” Arc cast her a sideways look, one brow arched high in open, almost theatrical concern—as if he were truly trying to determine whether failing to win over mountain women would be a heartbreak… or a narrow escape. “I don’t think I could handle it,” he went on with mock seriousness. “They sound like the kind that doesn’t swoon easy. I’d have to sharpen my charm to a blade’s edge just to earn a grunt of approval—only to find out she’s got more leg hair than a mountain goat.”
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as though mourning a future that hadn’t yet come to pass. “Probably climbs the same way too. Straight up the rock face. Barefoot. Grinning.”
Tír Élas was slowly beginning to wake around them, the morning mist clinging to the stones like silk threads unwilling to let go. Golden light filtered through the twisted canopies that stretched above the upper edges of the boardwalk, dappling their path with shards of warm light and cool shadow. The salt on the breeze mingled with the crisp scent of evergreen moss and sun-warmed wood—a blend of old forest and ocean air that could only belong to this place.
Arc’s boots thudded quietly against the aged timber planks of the boardwalk, each step part of a rhythm well-worn by traders, smugglers, and folk who preferred to keep their business quiet. The docks ahead shimmered in the distance, boats bobbing lazily against their moorings, their hulls bearing the chipped paint and mismatched sails of vessels that weren’t exactly registered.
He glanced at Calia again, but this time with a pointed, thoughtful expression—eyes scanning her face, then drifting downward like he was sizing up a creature from an entirely different climate. “So is this the base model for a mountain woman?” he asked, voice innocent, lips twitching. “Or are you gonna tell me the real ones are dwarves with beards thick enough to hide livestock in?”
His grin widened, leaning closer like he was sharing a sacred secret. “If that’s the case, I may be reduced to beetle form just to avoid offending someone’s auntie. Can’t be held responsible if I laugh mid-introduction.” Their path veered gently to the right, toward the farthest end of the pier where the planks grew uneven, and the posts sagged just slightly under their weight. There, beneath a pair of old net-laden pylons, a staircase dropped into the shadowy undercroft—where the light didn’t quite reach, and where the scent of salt turned brackish.
“Remind me to stay charming,” he added lightly. “It’s the only thing standin’ between us and getting tossed into the sea with bricks in our pockets.”
While mountain women weren’t as hairy as bears, he wasn’t wrong that his usual charms may not be enough for the sort of people that didn’t have time for bullshit. She was laughing all over again until he suggested they climb up rocks barefoot and then was looking her up and down as if she herself was the very example of a mountain woman, causing her to cut off and look at him as if he’d swallowed a whole frog,
“While I can and have scaled up the side of a mountain cliff barefoot and grinning, I am… not exactly the standard,” she mused, dropping a bit of her teasing in favor of a real answer, just because it was interesting enough. It’s not as if she had many opportunities to talk about such things. “You could throw a rock and find girls with my coloring all over the place in Caeldalmor, just not near as tall. Hardy girls, but it’s generations of farmers and stationary villages. Out in the deep mountains, it’s harsher to live and they migrate to follow herds. Hunter gatherer sorts.”
With him veering close, fussing about being a beetle just to avoid sticking his own foot in his mouth, it was the fox-wide smile she gave him. All sweetness and wickedness rolled into one.
“Course, most of them are red-heads. And you know what they say about those ginger-haired folk. Willing to bet it’s worth every wild moment.”
She was grinning wicked even when they stepped down into the shady spots underneath the pier itself. Giving a good curious look about where, there was all sand and wood and old water. For certain gave the sense of a place people shouldn’t be wandering around just for fun.
If Arc was supposed to be surprised that this barefoot princess had once gotten drunk and slept in a fae tree’s branches—only to later climb a mountain grinning like it was a stroll through the gardens—he wasn’t showing it. He gave her a lazy up-and-down glance, a dry flick of the brow that said I absolutely knew it.
Still, he was listening. Watching the way she described others like her—similar hair, eyes, complexion. Just less height, which frankly didn’t shock him. She was tall, willowy like something drawn from the trees of old elven tales, and he doubted many matched her stature regardless of gender. The mention of mountain lasses being hardier made him privately wonder if there was a single one up there who might appreciate a wry compliment and a wink. Somehow, he doubted it.
“Redheads?” Arc repeated, glancing at her like she’d just told him his next date would be with a wild nexu in a sundress. “Alright, don’t hold out on me—what’s the gossip? Do they steal souls? Eat dreams? Spontaneously combust when angered?” He squinted at her grin like it might lunge. “I’ve never gotten close enough to a ginger lass to find out if they bite, bark, or just start throwing crockery when the tea’s brewed wrong. But I’m gettin’ the sense that flirtin’ with one is like pokin’ a sleeping rancor with a feather.”
The narrow boardwalk they’d followed down the coast was sun-faded and salty from the constant sea breeze, winding along jagged cliffs that framed the southern edge of Tir Élas like a set of old bones. The city itself was a place of contrasts—silver towers wrapped in ivy, spires catching sunlight like blades, and cobbled streets woven between ancient trees with market tents tucked under their shade. But this stretch of shore? Different. Quieter. Forgotten by most. And avoided by more. Absolutely the best spot to be liberating folks of stolen goods.
Their destination sat like a shed in a cove that could best be described as an ocean’s arse crack—hidden, crooked, and smelling vaguely of fish and brine. Arc paused, brushing his coat off like he might shake off the very idea of squalor, then straightened his spine and cleared his throat like a man about to walk into a job interview. He pulled the door open with a mock flourish and held it. “After yah, highness.”
Inside was exactly what a shed should look like: drab walls, a few abandoned crates, the sort of place one would be perfectly unsurprised to find an old anchor or a broken fishing pole. Unremarkable in every way, except one. The floor sagged ever so slightly. Arc gave it a sharp knock with his heel—tap tap tap—and the sound that came back wasn’t wood on soil, but something deeper. Hollow.
This was Tir Élas. Even if people didn’t visit the black market, they knew it existed. Everyone knew. It was the worst-kept secret in the kingdom. The market beneath the cliffs, tucked into the cavernous belly of the coast, was where deals were whispered and names erased. He turned slightly to her, tone low but laced with amusement. “Get yer charmin’ pants on, love. We’re about to talk to the sort of people that think table manners mean using yer table, and yer hands.”
As he said it, his ears gave a twitch—one that said we’re not alone. A low groan of old wood echoed beneath their feet. Slowly, like a stage curtain pulling back, a seam split across the floor. A trapdoor, once seamless, rose with a quiet creak, revealing shadow and torchlight below. “An’ what is it ye’re after then, eh?” came a voice from beneath. Gravelly. Like the man had chewed a cigar instead of smoked it.
Arc gave Calia a look of long-suffering dread, then smiled wide enough to show a flash of fang.
So he hadn’t at all heard one single whispered rumor about redheads and gingers? Realizing in that moment, it must be a mortal human thing, and not the sort of rumor that elves spread around. Otherwise there’d have to be tawdry tales about the Queen of Edelguard herself and her children. Which absolutely delighted her, for he was such a saucy thing, he really did need to know.
“Oh we are going to have a blast in the mountains, absolute madness,” she muttered with a laugh. Pure giggling really because Calia didn’t know if she wanted to warn him and have good fun at making it sound like a wild ride, or just keep it all to herself and let him learn the more fun way.
Besides, they were all really just nonsense and rumors. Likely not a lick of truth to them.
By now they’d approached a shed that looked like a whole lot of nothing impressive. Luckily Calia was experienced enough to know such places tended to be the perfect ones for secrets. All wide-eyed and curious even when he opened it up to allow her inside. To find with a wrinkle of her nose, a pretty average shed.
Until he knocked at the floor with a heel and floor opened up.
The game had begun!
“Oh! So this is how we get in,” she announced, doing her best impression of someone spritely. Despite the fact she was dressed like a midnight assassin and carried a weapon on her back like she was headed to war. Even bending down to rest her hands on her knees to peer into this hole in the floor. There were stairs, but she wasn’t making a move to head down them. A curious young lady would never.
“What do you have down there for a girl looking to be just the right kind of dangerous to a man that’s done her wrong? Do you need a password? A kiss?” she bloomed into the sort of smile that could make even hardened sailors trip over their own feet. “I can come down, right?”
Oh, so that’s how it was going to be—play coy, throw out the bait, and then reel it back in the moment he nibbled. Arc clocked her smug little smile, the way her lashes dipped like curtains on a stage hiding a devil’s grin.
“Devious thin’,” he muttered without a hint of irritation. He was entertained. The kind of entertained that made him mentally write down ask about redheads when she’s cornered, tired, or drunk. She thought she was slick—but so was he, and he had patience in spades.
The moment the sheds trap door swung open and revealed the darkened stairwell below, Arc’s grin deepened. The air inside was damp, tinged with sea salt, old rope, and the faint scent of something burnt and vaguely magical. Oh, he loved this place. The markets beneath Tir Élas weren’t for the faint of heart. They were tucked underneath like a secret swallowed by the sea, known only by word of mouth and the kind of maps that were passed between criminals with shaky handwriting and good aim.
He’d been here before, once or twice. Alone. The type of alone that came with making deals that never made it to paper. Now, though? He had Calia with him. Playing the role of unsuspecting noble lass with the whole wide-eyed charm to match. A trick, if ever there was one. She was the sort of woman who’d buy a dagger just to smile at a man and test it on his ribs. But with the visage like a carved porcelain saint.
The man who greeted them sounded like gravel arguing with more gravel—until he saw her. Then his entire face went slack like someone had unplugged him. Eyes wide, jaw slightly open, every bit of bark in his voice replaced by a long, mushy blink of well, hello there.
Arc watched the transformation with deep amusement. The poor sod was smitten. If she’d asked him to carry her across a river or kill a man named Gregor, he probably would’ve done both before lunch. The man took an extra beat too long to gesture them inside. Arc stepped in with his usual smooth stride, shutting the trap door with a neat click.
“Close tha’ trap, will yeh?” the man croaked, like it hadn’t just closed itself. His gaze never left Calia, taking her in with the appreciation of a starving man spotting a dessert tray. His ears, once maybe elegant and elven, had folded down into sad little flaps like dried leaves. The whole man looked like he’d been left out in the rain for a few decades. “If ye’d be followin’ me this way, then,” he rasped, waving toward the long hall lined with support beams and flickering lanterns. The air got cooler, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something Arc couldn’t quite place— nor cared too.
As the old codger shuffled along, he threw a suspicious glance at Arc, horned and decidedly not elven, before snapping his eyes right back to Calia like she was the only thing keeping his heart going. “What is it the lass be lookin’ for, eh?” he asked, voice oozin’ like gravy. “An’ keepin’ such company, is she?” Arc smiled wide, fangs gleaming like a knave ready to sell a nobleman a patch of sky and swear it were land.
“Oh, we’re sightseein’,” the demon said cheerfully. “Thought we’d check out the local cryptid population, maybe buy a hexed spoon, see if anyone’s sellin’ haunted socks. yah know—culture.”
The old elf gave Calia a sidelong glance, brow raised; “Unless the lady’s after somethin’ a wee bit more exotic,” he said with a grin, voice thick as turf smoke. Leading them along like a squat escort. Not about to let them go without him because well, things likely did happen here. Just now these people surely weren’t expecting a girl and a demon to knock on their doors, now were they.
A woman could conquer the world with a pretty enough face, so long as she had the charm and guile to back it up. Something Calia had in spades, when she wasn’t having to play by royal etiquette rules, worrying that any mistake could cost a political relationship or fuck things up for others. Down here? Perfectly fearless. She could play the game and switch it up on a dime without worry of it causing trouble or mayhem for the wrong people. As for herself… well. She was the most deadly thing down there, now. Aside from Arc.
Calia followed close at the grizzled man’s heels, close enough he could probably smell the soaps she’d washed with. Although, seeing as the place itself had a scent she could only described as old and musty, she likely didn’t have to stand close at all. Like any noble tourist who’d never seen a seedy place in all their life, Calia gave that wide-eyed looking around.
“Don’t mind my companion, love, he’s just angry because he doesn’t believe I’ll find anything useful down here. Said it’d be a waste of my time digging around in the muck of Tir Élas. But I was told, by a far more handsome gentleman, that if I asked the right person, I’d be shown some beautifully dangerous little trinkets.”
She reached a hand out, laying it gently on the man’s shoulder with a little squeeze.
“You do have weapons and poisons, yes? Or even enchanted things? It certainly was no joke that I’ll be hunting someone down, and I aim to make them real miserable when I do.”
Far more handsome!? That was just plain rude.
Arc, ever the picture of dignified maturity, stuck out his tongue like a schoolboy denied dessert. He even gave an exaggerated sigh for good measure, the sound of a man grievously wounded in pride but far too noble to actually make a scene. He then folded his arms in theatrical offense, shifting his weight to one hip like a petulant noble forced to mingle with the peasantry. His violet eyes narrowed at the hallway stretching out before them with the full scorn of someone asked to walk through a puddle in silk slippers.
Calia, meanwhile, was doing what Calia did best—smiling sweet and laying a hand on the doorkeeper’s sleeve like she hadn’t just climbed out of a forest ready to gut someone. It worked like a bard’s charm spell. The man’s face twisted into something dangerously close to melted wax, jaw slack and eyes gone all foggy.
“A-Aye,” he stammered, wobbling slightly under the weight of her hand like it had pressed directly into his soul. “Poisons… aye, and weapons too. Things what’d make yer blood freeze in yer veins ‘fore yer legs know to run.”
Arc gave a scoff loud enough to startle a rat. “”A butter knife’s not a weapon, friend—no more than a kitten’s a warhorse. Yah’ll have to forgive me if I don’t fall into a heap of awe over yer collection of pointy sticks and vinegar vials.”
He even managed a withering look that deserved to be painted in a cathedral, gaze sliding down the man like he was evaluating a moldy turnip in a nobleman’s pantry. The man blinked, face caught between offense and the hypnotic glow of Calia’s presence, before ultimately deciding Arc wasn’t worth noticing.
They were ushered down the corridor—walls damp with sea breath, timbers braced against cave stone, and the steady drip-drip-drip of brine echoing like a ticking clock. The hallway gave way to a large hollowed chamber lit by lanterns swinging lazily on rusty chains. Shadows bloomed in every corner. Tables were patched together with driftwood and iron nails. Hooks dangled from ceiling beams, some holding nets or bundles of herbs, others holding less savory things—withered charms, a pickled eyeball or two, and what might’ve been a siren’s jawbone, glinting with gold caps.
A few sailors lingered about—grizzled men missing teeth and toes, women with tattoos up to their ears and looks that could peel bark off a tree. One fellow had a raven perched on his shoulder, whispering in his ear like it had scandal to share. Another was drinking something from a flask that steamed sideways.
In one corner, a hooded figure in deep gray kept their head down, fingers drumming the edge of a crate as they waited for some clandestine deal to finalize. No one here asked questions. They came to trade, to disappear, or to ruin someone quietly. Arc, of course, was absolutely here to be nosy.
He glided behind Calia like a bored prince surveying his lesser court, fingers tucked behind his back, gaze darting from the glint of a jeweled dagger to a rack of potions sorted by color and cruelty. On a high shelf, just barely hidden behind a curtain of mildew-stained velvet, were vials that caught his attention—red and blue, shimmering like bottled lightning and frozen fire.
And then came the drama.
The room stopped breathing the moment Calia stepped fully into the light. Peg-legs stumbled. Mugs were lowered mid-swig. Another forgot he was mid-haggle. Mouths fell open like trapdoors. Arc swore one man’s eyeballs tried to crawl out for a better look.
Yes, yes—he’d said she’d be the prettiest thing these old sods ever laid eyes on—but honestly, the theatrics were bordering on tragic opera. He nearly wanted to pass a hat around.
Still, he didn’t miss the shift in the merchant’s posture as they approached, handing them off to the clerk. After giving a low whisper to express just what they had come for. Or rather, what Calia had come for. The man behind the crates was thick through the middle and looked like he’d once been a sailor as well but now retired to become a storage barrel in a tavern. He slid around the edge of his stall like he’d been oiled, all eyes for Calia and only a sideways glance for the horned nuisance trailing her.
“So then, milady,” he oozed, voice thick as old broth in a beggar’s bowl—clotted, warm, and none too pleasant.” “What be it yer lookin’ for? Somethin’ sharp? Somethin’ subtle? Or perhaps…” His grin widened like a blade being drawn. “…ye want ‘im to suffer, slow-like. We’ve poisons that turn yer guts to honey, and blades what sing to the one ye stab.”
Arc leaned forward, propping an elbow on the corner of a crate like he belonged there, flashing his fanged smile with all the smugness of a demon who knew he’d get away with murder just by being charming. “Well now,” he said, “She hasn’t yet told me who the victim is. I’m holdin’ out hope it’s not me, but I did forget to compliment her hair braid once, so we’ll see how the next five minutes go.”
The merchant gave him a grunt, unimpressed. Arc just grinned wider.
This was going to be fun.
Archimedes was being absolutely ridiculous, but it did paint an interesting story of the two of them. She as the murderous noble woman and him as… some pompous royal demon pet? Calia couldn’t pinpoint it, but it was threatening to make her laugh again and that wouldn’t do. This was where she needed to appear fed up with his bullshit and far more interested in their little misadventure.
That part didn’t come too difficult. As they entered into a bigger chamber where the real action was being conducted, there was a hush that fell over the place so quickly that Calia could almost feel it. She was used to walking into a room and the atmosphere suddenly changing, usually to gossipy whispers or a small bit of horror. This was new.
This was fantastic!
Hamming it up to the ninth degree, she placed at hand at her chest. That universal gesture of some noble woman being ever so elegantly scandalized yet delighted by whatever it was that catch her fancy. In this case it was a den of pure debauchery with the sort of rough and tumble folks that wouldn’t think twice about stabbing halfwit noble girl and her fop of a companion.
And of course, she had the air of a woman far too arrogant to believe she was in any danger. Calia didn’t even have to fake that.
“I do need to test to see if it does as advertised,” came her rejoining reply to Arc. Complete with that up and down look and flutter of lashes to suggest he was the one she intended to test it on and it was entire reason for being there with her. Adding on that honeyed smile for extra measure. A tease. Probably.
None of these lovely ladies and gentlemen would know the difference.
“Well… I suppose if all I wanted was something sharp and subtle, any old knife would do. No, I am in the mind of something truly painful. Long. Slow. But with flare and style, you know? I did wonder a bit about poison, just so that he might spend hours agonizing over doing me wrong. But then poison alone doesn’t really have any style with it? I am thinking something physical I get to keep and admire when he is good and gone. Perhaps a weapon and a poison? Price is not a concern for me…”
The merchant’s eyes flicked toward Calia’s lashes like a moth to a torch. He stood still a beat too long, lips parting as if struck dumb by the honey and poison in her smile. Then he straightened with the creak of tired joints and something rattling in his spine like a pouch of loose coins. “Aye, price be no concern?” he said slowly, reverently, voice thick as stew boiled down to salt and grease. “Then yeh’ll want somethin’ truly exquisite, somethin’ bespoke… cruel as a jealous lover an’ just as beautiful.”
He turned, fishing behind the stack of crates with all the subtlety of a drunk raccoon, and returned with a lacquered black box. He opened it like a man unveiling a saint’s relics.
“Behold, milady. The Widow’s Whim. A dagger forged from the spine of a drowned nobleman, edges serrated to catch and sing through bone. Coated in wraith’s rot—it won’t kill ’em quick, no… it’ll hollow ’em from the inside. Like a peach left to blister in the sun. Painful. Personal. An’ best o’ all, they’ll remember yer face while it’s happenin’.”
Arc let out a long, melodramatic gasp. “Oh no,” he said, clutching his chest like he’d been theatrically wounded. “Wraith’s rot? Good gods, we’re murdering with poetry now.” He spun on his heel, coat swishing like he was modeling it for a funeral catalogue, and wandered three paces off just in time to not be seen making another sly gesture with his fingers.
A shimmer on the shelf. Two potions—one a bright crimson swirl, the other cobalt blue with an eerie luminescence—flickered, trembled, and blinked entirely out of existence like candles puffed in a crypt. Arc smothered a pleased grin behind the back of his hand, coughing to disguise it. “Honestly,” he muttered to the wall, loud enough for no one to care, “If we’re resortin’ to rotting spines, I want a receipt.” Arc made a broad flourish, “I can melt spines, the lady wants somethin’ more… hands on.”
But the merchant wasn’t finished. He was thriving. “Or perhaps…” he rasped, reaching for a cloth-wrapped case tied in wire, “…The Marrow Bell. It’s a cursed cudgel, yeh see. Ain’t much to look at, but when yeh crack it against a skull, it tolls like a funeral bell. The sound’s only heard by the poor bastard it’s meant for, and once it rings—well… their body starts believin’ it’s dead. Shuts down, one organ at a time, tryin’ to catch up to the lie.”
He gave Calia a wink as if he’d just handed her the finest wine in the realm.
Arc slinked back to her side like a cat who’d just witnessed a murder and was thoroughly impressed. He blinked at her, aghast, pressing a hand to his chest like she’d wounded him with nothing but her taste.
“Saints preserve me, love,” he gasped, dragging out the pet name like it tasted suspicious on his tongue. “If yeh pick anythin’ nastier than that charmin’ necklace of spleen-thievin’ curses, I’ll be sleepin’ with a dagger under me pillow and one eye open—an’ not even for the fun reasons!”
He gave her a long, theatrical once-over and added with a grin, “Remind me again, love—are we shoppin’ for vengeance or auditioning for the next tragic love ballad?” Arc gave a slow turn of his heel, eyes flicking from one dusty crate to the next with a dramatic sigh that would’ve made a bard jealous. “Mmm, charmin’. But I’m thinkin’ we should’ve gone to the other lot down by the sea caves. Say what yah will about them bein’ half mad and mostly blind, at least their wares scream illegal.”
He plucked up a jagged blade from the display—sniffed it, grimaced, and set it back down like it offended him personally. “This one’s got all the menace of a buttered scone. And that trinket over there?” He pointed lazily at a cursed-looking necklace that hummed faintly with malice. “Would look better on a corpse. Though I might nick it just to keep my coffee warm.”
All the while, his attention wasn’t really on the cursed jewelry or dull blades. His gaze wandered past the merchant to a more guarded collection—hidden behind a loose curtain and guarded by a warding sigil that Arc could practically taste from across the room. Now that was more his flavor.
The merchant, a man made of sweat and suspicion, narrowed his eyes but said nothing. His lip twitched like he wanted to respond—maybe even threaten—but between the lazy smirk of the horned brat and the mesmerizing green-eyed lady at his side, the man wisely chewed on silence instead. Arc gave Calia a nudge with his elbow, his voice low and devilishly smug. “I say we poke around a little more. Pretty sure the best treasures are the ones not technically for sale. And yah got an entire audience starin’ to see just how a pretty little damsel such as yerself, will be buyin’ at all.”
The Widow’s Whim. Calia was just the sort to be thrilled with named weapons, still tying to think of something appropriate for her gifted sword, so this little dagger suggesting it was the perfect sharp end for any unhappily married woman amused her. The dealer was full of shit, though. She had enough senses to tell that it wasn’t actually made of human bone – some poor forest animal, one that didn’t even have an ounce of magic in it. Wraith’s rot? Doubtful. Not a single thing about the dagger oozed the undead.
She gave Archimedes a cool and quiet look, unimpressed with his commentary. The perfect accent for him twirling away to get himself up to no good.
The cudgel, once presented at least had a glimmer of something inside it. An enchantment of sound… some musically inclined barbarian would likely adore crushing people’s skulls with the chime of a bell. Not likely to do as promised with the whole bodily shut down, but seeing as most didn’t survived a crushing blow to the head anyhow, it’s lack of follow through wouldn’t really be discovered, would it!
It was not an elegant weapon for a pretty assassin noble.
And if Archimedes didn’t stop hamming up being the most obnoxious twat of a noble servant, her entire face was going to crack into a fit of giggles. Whispering in her ear about there being far more interesting things should they begin snooping around.
Thus she reached out with intent, as calm as could be to grasp his tunic and curl her hand into a fist to draw him a little closer. The smile she wore was sweetly kind, but that tone of voice? Loud enough for the room to hear, yet somehow still sounding like a whisper meant just for him.
“If you do not shut up, I am going to stuff you in a bottle and trade you to one of these fine upstanding gentlemen,” A lady’s warning. She was the one meant to be watched and wary of, after all.
“He is right, however,” she said with a sigh of regret, letting go of Arc to wave her hands dismissively at all that she was seeing so far. “This is all peasantry at best. I want something that belongs in the hands of a queen. Surely someone here has something outstanding. Look! Look around, let’s see you sniff something out then, you wicked little thing.”
With all the bored, entitled pomp of any noble woman she shooed him to lead the way.
The way Calia’s fist knotted into the fabric of his tunic, Arc didn’t flinch—he bloomed. A smirk curved his lips, arrogant and wicked, fit for something that was born of fire and fed on sin. Delight, not fear, danced in his expression. Her threat was music—violent, orchestral, and just for him. “Oh, my dear lady,” he purred, as though her fury was flirtation and her wrath a lullaby, “let’s not give these poor souls more than their little hearts can bear.” He patted her fist as if soothing a ruffled kitten, gaze lazily sliding to the merchant like he was inspecting a wine stain on a rug. “See, the lady’s not pleased. And if she’s not pleased, well—I’m not pleased. And if I’m not pleased…” he sighed dramatically, “Someone’s losin’ an liver. Or more.”
He grinned, all teeth, just the right kind of feral. It was a performance—one built on veiled truths and devilish insinuations. As if to say: She’s the leash, I’m the beast. Be glad she’s still holding it.
The merchant didn’t quite sneer—but the twitch at the corner of his mouth said he wanted to. Arc, meanwhile, was already smoothing the lapel she’d wrinkled, violet eyes casually taking in the black market’s offerings with a nobleman’s scorn and a thief’s precision. He let his magic coil like smoke beneath his skin—gentle, weightless, gone.
A small ornamental hairpin—gone with a breath. It wasn’t for vanity; the craftsmanship suggested a concealed blade, possibly laced with paralytic charm. Slipped away into the folds of his coat. A handful of fine lockpicks? Vanished, spirited away with a whisper. A reversible silk cloak with a sheen that screamed smuggler’s gear? Yes, he’d take that too. The fabric melted into the air with all the innocence of dew.
And all the while, Arc never moved more than a sway of the hips or the tilt of a shoulder—dripping disdain like candlewax. He even yawned.
The merchant—clearly feeling the shift in control and not loving it—ground his teeth like gravel. Still, he flicked a hand, and the air in the room stiffened as a few grizzled men subtly adjusted their posture. Silent signals. The kind that meant, try it, and we’ll sell your bones.
“Oh good,” Arc murmured with a sigh, “They brought the welcomin’ committee.”
The merchant’s voice was gravel and iron as he said, “Right. If none o’ this’ll please ye, then follow me.”
He turned sharply and motioned for Calia alone, not offering the same courtesy to Arc, though he clearly understood the demon wasn’t staying behind. Arc raised an eyebrow and fell into step beside her, posture loose, smile insufferable. They were led through a narrow hallway, walls pressing in close, the light changing to something softer—less lantern, more rune. Magic whispered in the air now. Tangible. Real. The door they reached looked unremarkable—iron-bound and scarred with time—but once opened, the air inside was thick. Not with dust, but with intention.
This room didn’t peddle trinkets. No, it housed the sort of things the world wasn’t meant to find again.
The shelves were few, but each item displayed had been placed with reverence. A mirror blackened at its center. A dagger made entirely of petrified wood. A vial of something silvery that shimmered like thought. And then, the merchant—silent until now—turned and reached for a simple blade tucked in an old, cracked case. It looked like something that belonged in a peasant’s belt… until he opened the box.
The air hissed. The temperature shifted.
Even Arc paused.
It was a short sword. Unadorned. Practical. Forged of something dark and dull—but it radiated menace. Not loudly. But like a wolf in long grass. The kind of weapon that didn’t want to shine. The kind that waited. The merchant held it reverently. “No name. No need for one. It finds blood fast, and remembers the pain.” The man was not putting on the airs or attempting to sound more convincing. That alone ought to be worth the second look.
Arc tilted his head. “Charming. Got anythin’ that’ll sing me a lullaby when it is plunged into the heart?” But his smile had dimmed slightly, and he didn’t blink once as he watched that blade. Because that—that wasn’t cheap black market bravado. That was dangerous. And Arc had no doubt Calia would love it.
Arc was having the time of his life with this little play and because of it, Calia too was wildly entertained. The two of them easily could’ve blustered in and taken what they wanted with a show of force and violence, and not even have to feel a shred of guilt about it. This was far better! All finesse and charisma and charm, with actual skill in needing to be clever.
She could feel those shadows of magic being cast right out from under their noses. Coolly watched when several postures and seats in the place adjusted due to the demon’s not-so-subtle threats. Showing no concern or fear about it herself. Who would dare attack a noble lady? Worse yet, who would dare attack a noble lady with a fang beast just looking for an excuse to eat someone’s liver.
Luckily for all of them, the merchant was thirsting for a sale and not one to be quivering in fear himself. Leading them off to a narrow passage that almost felt claustrophobic enough to have her frowning. Until she could feel those flickers of magic in the runes and more, instantly perking up every bit of her curious interest. It was a subconscious thing when she shifted slightly to lean away from the ironbound door, likely not even pure iron not that she was even thinking about it. Instead she was completely enthralled with this new room that practically hummed with all manner of enchanted things. Setting her fingers to that little wiggly thing she did when she was itching to touch.
Calia turned her back to that damned black-spotted mirror, shifting her focus to the merchant when he drew a box from one of the shelves.
A short sword of a design so perfectly simple. No flair, no art. Everything about it’s outer appearance screamed nothing special – but that was the lie. It was darkness and shadow… and it whispered a soft song that pulled something in her.
Take it. Take it, take it, take it.
The inner voice she hadn’t heard for weeks had flared back to life. That awful shadowy part of herself – and it was indeed her own self, Calia knew it now – that thrived in cold, bleak anger and begged her to give in to her worst impulses and wish for bloody vengeance now was chomping at the bit to get it’s hands on this weapon. It remembered and absorbed pain in ways Calia too unwillingly pulled it all in.
Except she already had a weapon, a precious one. She didn’t need this.
A weapon of light meant for someone else. This is you.
It was, though, wasn’t it? Because Calia never had been of the light… sure it was a part of her. But there was that deep, dark, twisted little part of her that most certainly wasn’t anything good. That part was tired of sleeping.
Shit. How long had she been standing there lost in her own inner world.
Calia reached to the side, hand circling around Arc’s wrist with a tight squeeze.
“Is it safe for me?” she tilted her green-eyed stare up at him, and there was no mask of an arrogant noble lady there. No game or part she was playing. This was a serious, weighted question seeking genuine advice. Because OH she wanted it, but precisely because of how strong that desire was, Calia feared maybe she wanted it a little too much for all of the wrong reasons.
This short sword was nothing less than truth.
Not the noble, blinding kind preached in temples, but the darker, quieter sort — the kind whispered in shadows and etched into bone. Subtle umbra magic clung to it like smoke in a forgotten tavern, curling and twining in the air, sweet as sin and twice as dangerous. It sang without sound — a siren lullaby promising the intimacy of parted flesh and the permanence of a wound that wouldn’t stop humming once it had you.
As a demon, Arc felt its presence like a taste behind the teeth.
As a mage, he recognized its weight. Not brute power, but depth — something old, coiled, and clever. The black marketeer said nothing. Just leaned against the edge of his stall, arms crossed, that greasy little grin on his face like he knew full well what Arc was thinking.
The sword rested in a box, cradled like royalty, the merchant acting not unlike a pedestal with legs. Waiting. Watching. Patient as a snake in tall grass. Arc didn’t move toward it yet — didn’t have to. Magic already tugged at the air around it, brushing against his senses like a cat demanding attention.
Calia’s fingers reached gently toward his wrist. The simple contact — light, earnest — pulled a flicker of double-take from him. First, a flash of impish annoyance and predatory mirth curled through his eyes. But it melted quickly, softening as he looked from her to the blade again.
It was a damned fine piece.
Dangerous, too.
His first thought in response to her unspoken question was a flat no. She couldn’t take it. Shouldn’t. But the thought didn’t make it past his lips. Because if they didn’t take it — someone else would. Someone who either had no clue what they were buying…Or someone who did.
This wasn’t abyssal, and it wasn’t just dark magic. It was something older. Old magic like this wasn’t just rare — it was near-extinct. Half legend, half warning label. His spine straightened.
A subtle touch whispered from his fingertips — a slow glide of touch over the back of Calia’s hand. Featherlight. Tender. A promise, unspoken: trust me.
She didn’t need to know the specifics — not yet. Only that he would handle it. That he wanted this relic, and not for the thrill. For study. For understanding. And maybe — just maybe — for the day it could find its home in the chest of a certain arrogant, wannabe warlock who had no business breathing.
“It’s beneath yah,” Arc said cheerily, the grin slicing across his face with theatrical smugness.
The merchant’s eye twitched. “Excuse me—“
Arc rolled right over him. “This place,” he gestured lazily to the cluttered stall, “Is a waste of yer time, my lady. Yah came for guarantees. For somethin’ that could truly get revenge on whoever left yah jaded and bleedin’. And what have they offered? Trinkets. Dusty hex-charms. One sword with manners, if that.”
“Oi,” the merchant snapped, “that’s an authentic—”
Arc leaned forward to assist — politely — in closing the lid on the case, his voice low and sharp enough to draw blood. “Yah’ve given her parlour tricks. Pretty baubles. Nothin’ that knows how to bite.”
As the case shut, his palm pressed flat to the wood. Magic bled beneath his skin and slipped inside. A quiet spell, careful and clever — a binding whisper that told the box: return to the Arcanum Hollow the moment you’re shelved. Not in a hand. Not being sold. Just… shelved.
The spell took. Willingly. Eagerly, even.
He could feel it.
The weapon smiled.
Retracting his hand, he gave the merchant a shooing motion like one might wave off a lazy waiter. “Go on then,” he muttered. “Try again next season.” Then he turned back to Calia with a flourish and that damnedable gleam still dancing in his eyes. “Have a touch of mercy, my lady. These poor bastards might not know the shape of potential when it’s grinning at them with fangs — but bless their hearts, they do try.“
The merchant muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “asshole,” but Arc just winked at him. It was, in all fairness, rightfully deserved.
Arc actually had to think about it. Calia could see it there in his face as he looked over her and then back to the shadow singing weapon. Exactly what he was thinking wasn’t evident or betrayed in his expression. All she knew was that gentle touch to her hand, a quiet, unspoken signal that he had this handled. Calia only need follow his lead.
He denounced the thing altogether and called it beneath her, drawing a tilt of her head while the merchant blustered in immediate offense. Taking a hand to close the box firmly – almost giving her a start, as it was like someone opening up window curtains to let sun shine in at how instant that cut-off from the sword felt. It’s tug and pull on her ceasing the moment it was out of her sight.
She understood what he was up to then without even needing to feel his own magic flowing, though there was a hint of concern in the back of her mind more about herself than anything else. As that inner voice of hers was practically purring in a pleased fashioned, settling in and rooting back into a contented silence now that it had what it wanted.
“How disappointing,” she murmured, all weary boredness and heavy sigh. “If you don’t have anything that can even entice and interest a demon, then this really has been a complete waste of my time.”
Calia could almost feel sorry for the man – almost. If she hadn’t been aware these cutthroat vagrants didn’t come by these sorts of things through good intent. Willing to bet it’d been more than just thievery to acquire collections like this. Somewhere along the lines it had been cunning and murder, and certainly soon to end up in the hands of other vicious souls. Proving again that Calia was not one who was entirely pious when it came to right and wrong, else she should’ve burned the whole place down with all the wicked souls inside it. Her self righteous indignation was focused on far bigger, far more dangerous villains.
She was not a hero to solve the world’s problems. Calia was something else entirely.
Still, she offered the man such a sugar sweet, arrogant smile. “Next time, I hope you have a better collection.” she bid him her own wicked goodbye, taking Archimedes by the arm so that he as her dutiful demon servant could escort her out of the place.
The tug on Arc’s arm came just as he delivered his overtly bright declaration — that this place, this dim-lit, incense-choked excuse for a market, had nothing worth her time. Not even a den known for bloodied deals and toothy secrets had anything to offer a woman who all but breathed vengeance and opulence.
And that?
That was embarrassing.
Clearly, the black market needed to rethink its business model. Or, at the very least, train its merchants to not be so easily outmaneuvered. The marketeer—still clutching onto the hope of a sale like a man grabbing at ash—stumbled forward, hands up in a show of appeasement, words tumbling like loose teeth from his mouth. “Ah, me lady—p’raps, p’raps if I may—there’s an artifact in th’ back, jus’ arrived, a real exclusive piece wi’ origins most exotic—”
Arc didn’t even look at him. Behind him, Calia’s grip on his wrist had already given her answer. And Arc, ever the dramatist, knew when to deliver silence better than a slap.
Still, the merchant continued, now sweating visibly, the pitch in his voice rising. “I—I do believ’ we may’ve misjudged yer needs, me lady. If ye’d give me jus’ a mo’, I’m sure somethin’ more… worthy could be arranged!”
Arc arched an eyebrow, finally glancing back with a half-smile. “Oh, yah’ve definitely misjudged,” he said, voice dry as desert bone. “But don’t beat yerself up over it. It’s a common condition.”
The merchant opened his mouth. Then shut it. Desperate now, he tried again. “Yer clearly a wum’n of—of refinement. An’ yer companion, such a sharp eye fer quality—”
Arc leaned toward him slightly, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Flattery is usually more effective before one’s pride is eaten alive, friend.” The merchant’s face flushed a deep, sour red, his brows bunching into a singular, angry strip across his forehead. If his expression had been pitiful before, now it was downright tragic — glowering, sputtering, fists clenched at his sides as if he might still pull a miracle from his sleeves.
But Arc had already turned, and the performance had moved on without him.
With Calia’s hand in his, Arc took the lead, playing the gentleman servant, the loyal dog of a dangerous lady with coin too heavy for the likes of this place. Each step was deliberate. Measured. A retreat wrapped in victory.
And behind them, the silence of the crowd confirmed it — no one followed. No one dared.
Once in the main corridor, the lanternlight stretched long and dim, flickering over the curved stone like the last embers of a dying hearth. Those who had once whispered about a sale worth a fortune now looked away, too aware of the lack trailing behind the pair. No sword. No trade. Just absence, sharp and echoing.
Arc tossed them a grin — a sideways, sly thing that clung to his face like a secret. Letting the grin widen just a touch.
The poor man would notice soon. He carried them through the hallway, no escort this time. The shadows watched, but said nothing. Arc’s voice dropped to a murmur, quiet and close. “We best hurry. Who’s to say they won’t be watching when thin’s vanish.”
He glanced sideways toward Calia, tone softer now. “And we did promise Nova we’d say goodbye.” Not a panicked farewell. Not flames behind them or curses in the wind. Just a proper ending. Because even Arc, for all his sharpness and showmanship, knew when it was time to leave the stage with dignity.
Before the curtain caught fire.
Calia remained so perfectly silent, so above the whole lot of them, so lofty and haughty – without even having to fake most of it, she was too involved with her inner thoughts to give any more care to the vagrants of this smugglers market. Relying heavily on Arc’s penchant for theatrics to set the stage of their exit, with little worry about anyone following.
Not right away, anyway. In the long hall out he’d leaned and whispered that they needed to go while the getting was good and she simply nodded in agreement. If they were lucky, a few other more suspicious customers would pay a visit before anyone realized things were missing. If not…? Calia might be launching people into the sea in the very near future.
The mountain princess waited to use her voice until they’d left the underground and she was able to take in a deep breath of fresh salty air. That demure little short sword was there in the back of her mind, trying to take over all her thoughts now and she was consciously having to push it aside. Aside from that shadowy surprise, their excursion had been every bit of entertaining. It was a bit of a war in her head now of being delightedly amused and having this little shiver of having encountered something that so sweetly whispered her name.
All the while holding tight to the demon’s hand, for in the moment he was the thing keeping her tethered to the waking world and not deep within her own thoughts.
“That’s going to be hard,” she murmured with a grimace in terms of saying goodbye to Nova. “If I weren’t concerned she might actually be able to hex people…” Calia let that trail off. Goodbyes were unpleasant and she wanted nothing to do with it. But they did promise.
Once they had safely emerged from the dank, suffocating underbelly where the market liked to bury its secrets—where shadows clung to corners and the air tasted like rust and forgotten deals—they were free. Free from the potential pursuit of a stolen trinket, though Arc was certain they had covered their tracks. How could they prove anything? No one had seen it happen. That thought might’ve been entertaining, perhaps even amusing, had the situation unfolded differently.
But for now, they were given reprieve.
The fresh, open air of the docks greeted them—salt and wind, the embrace of the sea. Arc could feel the weight lifting from his shoulders as he let them shake loose a little, releasing the tension of the charade they’d just played. For a being like him, full of flare and mischievous delight, it had been a thrilling adventure. He’d leaned into the mischief, as any minor demon might, seeking to stave off the itch for chaos that bubbled inside of him, the hunger for mayhem and blood that so often found its way into his actions. The weight of his elven guilt sat at the back of his mind, ever-present but not overwhelming—his hands had seen enough red, a reminder to avoid adding more to the tally.
The docks, though, were open and bright, a place where he could breathe freely again. Eyes from all around, the prying gaze of the world, but none that seemed to linger. His glamour slid back into place, a gentle wave of magic rolling out like the cool, cleansing wind.
But then, her grip on his arm tightened, and he hummed softly, intrigued. She spoke of goodbyes. The kind that lingered and hurt. And Arc—ever attuned to the shifting moods around him—felt her words in a way that called upon something softer in his usual theatrics.
He understood that particular sorrow. The sting of parting, the quiet ache that followed. Goodbyes, even temporary ones, always carried weight, especially for someone like her, someone who had weathered loss. They had fought together through dark things, and he knew the toll those battles had taken. A simple return to the moonlight wouldn’t be enough to erase that.
So, without saying a word, Arc’s free hand slid gently from her arm and moved to her shoulder. His touch was light but firm, not seeking sympathy but offering an anchor—a physical presence to keep her grounded. The movement wasn’t a question, but a quiet gesture of support, one that spoke without needing to.
As he pulled her near, just enough to give her that sense of steadiness, he allowed his other hand to slip into the folds of his coat, summoning a soft, subtle twist of magic. The magic wove through the air like a whisper, and from the space between his fingers, two small ornamental hairpins materialized—delicate, crafted from a material that shimmered faintly in the light. With telling springs now that the light was better, that they were in fact weapons. Perfect for her. Concealed, pretty and oh so deadly.
He placed them in her hand, his tone shifting just slightly, carrying the weight of kindness. “It’s only temporary, lass. And I fear any hex Nova might pull would be a far more permanent thin’. Think of this, then, as a reason to return. To remind yah that not everythin’ gets bogged down, no matter how deep it tries to bury ya. There’s always somethin’ waitin’. Always someone who’ll want to see yer face again.”
Arc’s words were warm, though lightly veiled in his usual irreverence. The magic he wove was subtle, his actions gentle but purposeful. He wanted her to see it, to feel the gesture not as an obligation, but as a quiet promise.
A promise to come back. A promise to carry something beyond the weight of their battles. A promise wrapped in the smallest of tokens.
There was an entire cluster of mixed up thoughts in her head, all vying for their moment and attention as they tended to do. Here it was out in the broad beautiful sunlight, those reasons why she tended to say very little. Not simply out of fear of people misunderstanding her, but because she drew in so much information and experiences all at once, that they always took time to settle into order. She was excited, sad, frightened, and intrigued. Content, restless, pleased and full of dread. All from just a single outing that proved they could work so well together when they were on the same page, discovering something that triggered her dark inner voice, and being reminded that they were going to have to say goodbye to this place.
He put his arm around her shoulder, eliciting that strong sense of wanting that she never realized was always there deeply buried. The physicality Calia never knew could be so valuable and necessary. A comfort of knowing someone was there, with a literal hold so one didn’t go drowning in their own mess of thoughts.
She wanted to talk about all of the things milling about in her head too, but Calia didn’t know where to start or what to say. Seemed strange to just blurt things out on a whim.
Then he slipped something into her hand and while she naturally began her usual examination of the hair pins to see exactly what they were and the why of handing them to her at all, he spoke of Nova and how there was someone to return to. Someone who wanted to see her face again.
Every thought in her head crumbled away into ashes. Or more accurately, an ocean full of tears now threatened to start too early, before she’d even gotten anywhere near the goodbye parts. Calia did not yet have a home to return to, but now there were real actual people scattered across Edelguard that would be glad to see her again. People she could go running to when she’d had enough of the world and needed somewhere safe and familiar to be.
Silently she took those beautiful deadly pins to wind in her hair, a purposeful motion to help steady her hands and draw her focus.
“Yeah, okay,” she murmured – croaked more like it, past the hard lump in her throat. That simple phrase she always seemed to default too when she was caving in, agreeing, not about to argue a truth that was given to her. It was the only words she could get out, but in that same moment too she shifted to throw her arms around his side for an awkwardly walking squeezing hug. Now at least having a new way to communicate her feelings, even when words were failing her.
One didn’t have to be a mind reader to sense the gears turning in her head. It was written plainly in the way her gaze drifted, the way her jaw settled with quiet tension. She was thinking—deeply, heavily. Twisting and turning through a maze of thoughts he wouldn’t dare interrupt too soon. Arc, for all his flair and mischief, knew better than to pull someone from their thoughts before they were ready. Reflection was no curse, after all. It was only when it turned inward like a trap, a spiral you couldn’t climb back out of, that it became dangerous. And if that time came, well, he’d be there—ready to nudge her back toward the light with some pestering jest or badly timed joke.
For now, he watched in silence as her fingers curled around the gifted hairpins. She didn’t say much. Didn’t have to. The way she rose and began to gently weave the delicate pieces into her dark hair spoke volumes. The contrast was striking—white and gold gleaming against those deep, shadowy locks. It suited her, in a way that felt intentional, even if she hadn’t realized it yet.
Her reply came bare, clipped at the edges with the sort of weight she still carried, but that was fine. He understood that silence too. Let her go through her motions. Let her feel what she needed to feel. He’d be the gnat later—buzzing at her ear when the heaviness grew too much.
When she leaned in, that small, awkward bump of bodies as she walked too close in thought, he didn’t flinch or tease. He simply matched it. And in that quiet reciprocation, he leaned down just slightly to press a platonic kiss to the crown of her head—a feather-light thing, more grounding than sentimental. Comfort without demand.
It shouldn’t be surprising. Arc, for all his theatrical tendencies, was always generous with affection. He gave what he had freely, unashamed of kindness.
“Ought to stop by a proper market,” he offered casually, voice warm as sea breeze, “See if we can scrounge up somethin’ for that meal yah were schemin’ over. Rice or grains travel easy enough from what I remember.” A beat passed, his tone taking on a sly ease as he added, “Though I suppose it don’t matter much. If we toss it all in the hollow, it’ll keep fine. Won’t spoil. Stasis and all that.”
His arm shifted, draping more deliberately across her shoulders now, the way one might sling a cloak for comfort. Fingers gave a light squeeze—just enough pressure to let her know she was still tethered to the now, to him, should she need it.
“Might have to be a better haggler than a charmin’ theatrical fop who makes things vanish,” he smirked, glancing sidelong at her, “These sorts tend to be… honest. Earnest. The worst sort, really.” He chuckled softly, letting the weight of his words settle into something gentle and sincere. No rush. No pressure. “Yah just say the word, Calia. When yer ready to do anythin’ else, we move. Till then—I’m here.”
If only it could have been like this at the start. Comforting and easy! And though she did wish it, at the same time she knew it couldn’t have ever been like this either, not without them suffering through what they had first. Learning those few harsh lessons is what actually made this mean something. So even while she straightened back up again, pushing a majority of her thoughts to the side – things she could talk with him about later, as they’d have the time – Calia focused in on what she needed to get through right now.
Leaving Tir Elas.
“That sounds like a good idea,” she piped in, once she found her voice. Of course going through the market sounded like a good idea, it meant wasting more time in avoiding having to say goodbye to the moonbeam elf! “I’d like to have some wild rice, cheese and bread. It’d be the only things hard to get.”
Calia finally dug up the courage to actually look up at him, examining his face and expression. Pondering the right things to say, a thank you maybe. Other things. None of it really seemed to accurately described how she felt, and it could’ve been simply because she’d rarely if ever felt those things before so she didn’t know right words yet.
“A good bit of alcohol that doesn’t taste like a sailor’s backside?” she suggested instead, brightening into a winsome smile.
“Looks like we’ve got the start of a shoppin’ list,” Arc said with a smirk, though he wore the expression of someone deep in thoughtful calculation. As if he were carefully assembling some grand, seasoned plan instead of, well… trying to figure out how not to starve on the road.
Truth be told, he hadn’t done much adventuring of the traditional sort. Not the packed-bag, wilderness-campfire, trail-walking kind. So yes, concrete thought was very much required. Begrudgingly.
He could feel her gaze—the subtle weight of that side-eye, likely amused, assessing just how seriously he was taking this. But he didn’t meet it. Kept his eyes forward, chin slightly up, scanning the quiet bustle around them like a hawk on patrol. Professional. Dignified. Ridiculous, really.
Then she mentioned a nip of something to keep in their pockets, and Arc’s ears perked ever so slightly.
“Aye, that I agree on readily,” he said, nodding with exaggerated solemnity. “Doesn’t need to be sweet as sin—but gods above and below, it cannot be somethin’ that tastes like it’s been brewed in a bloody chamber pot.” He gave a full-body shudder, the kind that started at the neck and traveled down his spine like someone had dropped a frog down his shirt. Overly theatrical. Entirely intentional.
“And whatever that last concoction was—” he added, with a scandalized expression, “—I’m half certain it doubled as axle grease.” Despite the dramatics, there was real planning brewing behind his eyes. His tone softened slightly, grounded beneath the humour.
“After this though,” he went on, fingers absently brushing the edge of his coat as if already accounting for hidden flasks and folded coin purses, “We’ll need to think on how to earn a bit o’ coin.” His gaze flicked toward her, finally. Light, amused. But honest. “I’ve got ways, of course.” That impish grin curled at his mouth. “But we won’t be able to keep coastin’ on just wit and charm. No matter how good a team we make.” He nudged her lightly with his elbow. “And we do make a damn good one, don’t we?”
Arc was in fact taking it far too seriously. Even if Calia had never been off on her own long journeys, aside from making it from Caeldalmor to here, she really didn’t need a lot. Calia was so adeptly self sufficient, anything she needed she could find out in the woods. With magic at her fingertips it was even easier. Surely he as a scrappy demon also didn’t need much and could always figure something out.
It amused her, though, that he seemed to determined to plot out these small details and treating it like it was some grand adventure they we going on together. Including all the fussing and dramatics that came with it. Pure ridiculousness.
“A good team,” she agreed with that ever widening smile. “I can hunt. Do physical work. Coin is easy to come by when we need it. Although now you have me curious about what sort of shenanigans you’re going to get up to. Going to start charging all those ladies you seduce, or do you have better things in mind?”
At the nudge of elbow she grasped it gently tugging him off to turn around a bend towards the open air market. With as much as she was going to need to eat in keeping her energy and stretch up while using all his magics, they were surely going to exhaust all that was left in her pockets. They might have to start raiding ruins and doing a little treasure hunting on the side. Some monster slaying. Hired mercenaries.
There was a world full of options, all of them sounding entertaining!
“I don’t know how ample the means of huntin’ will be once we start gettin’ into territory of rock faces and mountain ranges,” Arc mused aloud, not in the least bit concerned. His tone carried the easy cadence of someone already ten paces ahead in planning—even if half those plans involved clever lies and twinkling smiles. “Wouldn’t hurt to have some thin’s on hand, just in case.”
He gave a small shrug, gaze drifting out across the winding coastal path ahead of them. The salt wind tugged faintly at their clothes, a reminder they were still near the sea, but the land beyond promised harsher terrain. “Granted, if yah use yer fae-steppin’ right,” he added with a sly lilt, “I don’t see why yah couldn’t trot off to yer favourite village, pinch a loaf, grab a drink, maybe even scratch a few itches—if merrymakin’s what’s callin’.”
It was said so smoothly it hardly registered as anything but pragmatic. Arc wasn’t the jealous sort. Not outwardly. And with demons now clearly sniffing around their trail, his mind was preoccupied with greater threats—and greater opportunities.
When she joked about the sort of schemes he might entertain to earn coin, even going so far as to suggest he become a paid escort, Arc pulled up short with a melodramatic gasp, hand over heart.
“My lady!” he declared, looking positively scandalized. “Even if I were to start chargin’ for such… indulgences, I fear the price would be so steep, my ego’d be left in tatters when not a single fair soul could afford me. I am, tragically, destined to be a very expensive whore—with no clientele. A heartbreaking paradox.” He sniffed dramatically, only to grin wide the next moment, all false-wounded pride gone in a heartbeat. “So, I suppose I’ll be a free whore instead. And find smarter ways to brush two coins together ’til they double—and triple.”
The grin only grew as she tugged him along, clearly not letting his theatrics slow her down. He followed easily, footsteps matching hers with ease.
“We’ve got a health potion and a mana brew now. Once I properly figure out the recipe on the latter,” Arc added, voice lowering with a hint of confidence, “We’ll be able to sell such goods in any half-decent town. With my charm, I could sell water to a mermaid.” He winked at her sidelong. “And with your flare, they’ll be beggin’ us to open a shop.”
He gave her shoulders a playful squeeze as they moved through the thinning crowd. Then, with a casual roll of his neck, he added, “Not opposed to a bit of physical work either—I ain’t no dainty tulip.” His tone dropped a touch, amused and warm. “And if we find ourselves raidin’ the unsavoury sort—helpin’ those in need, gettin’ our hands on coin and gear while we’re at it—well,” his smile curled wider, teeth showing now, “Yah’ll have a mighty purrin’ demon at yer side every night.”
He punctuated the promise with a guttural purring noise—not quite human, not quite feline, but definitely something in-between. Deep, velvety, and absolutely intentional.
He did have a point that the rockier areas of the mountains were going to have far less forests full of creatures. It’d be a lot hard to find good sized game, not impossible, but surely harder. Who was to say they’d not have days of just being too tired to bother, preferring to make an easy meal of what was on hand. She’d keep it all in mind though. If Calia came across a good sized deer or a mountain goat, she could dress it and break it down to store away in his Arcanum Hollow without worrying about the meat coming to spoil.
He mentioned her fae travel and that drew a small grimace from her.
“My fae traveling is not… quite what it was,” she admitted. “I passed out as soon I got here and Nova found me. It was just a good nap, really, but I think if we aim to do any traveling that way you need to be with me to pick my ass up off the ground after.”
Not an issue Calia was terribly worried about as long as he was with her. A repeat of her being unconscious bad enough for someone to drag her off and him getting kidnapped was not anything they needed a repeat of.
Of course his protests about being a saucy slut and not aiming to get paid for it was just met with her wide cheeky smile. No apologies, just amusement. Laughing at the idea of making a good chunk of coin just robbing people who deserved it. It was a good way to get what they needed, do a good deed, while being absolutely terrible themselves at the same time. A good kind of trouble.
“Don’t-” she chirped out the second he started that audible purring! Reaching quickly to cover his mouth and trying not to look amused by it, because it was positively embarrassing. “You can’t be making filthy sounds like that out here in public! And don’t even try to convince me that it’s not!”
“Interestin’,” Arc drawled, dragging fingers along his chin in exaggerated thought, as though Calia’s magical misadventures were some great academic puzzle rather than a story about her teleporting halfway across the wilds only to pass out like a fainting goat in front of Nova.
They strolled the wide boardwalks of Tír Élas’ cliffside market, the warm tang of salt in the air and gulls wheeling overhead like noisy jesters. Stalls lined either side, awnings fluttering in the breeze—bold bolts of dyed silk, trinkets carved from driftwood, sea-salted cheeses, and smoking fish on hooks all fighting for attention. The boards beneath their feet creaked with age and charm, every step echoing with the sound of barefoot children running past or a bard’s lute-song drifting in the distance.
“Must be the output,” Arc went on, glancing toward her sidelong. “That fae travel of yers. Worked better through beasts, didn’t it? Horses takin’ the brunt while you just rode the magic. Now it’s all on you, and well… yer not exactly four-legged and built like a wagon hauler. No offense.”
He grinned, cheeky, and gave a casual roll of his shoulders.
“Still. We’ll train yah up proper. Small skips first. Lil’ flits. Like a pixie on espresso. Build that stamina till you’re hoppin’ place to place without facin’ plantin’ into moss. And me?” He tapped his temple. “I’ll work on bloodstone reserves or, gods willing, a spell that don’t need me to know exactly where I’m goin’ before I yeet myself through a rift. Who needs maps when yer full of unearned confidence and hellfire?”
There was an easy rhythm to it now—their steps falling into time with the lazy sway of the market, the occasional bump of shoulders when someone shuffled past too close. Calia’s earlier scrutiny of his economic proposals—read: robbing bastards who deserved it and being a flirtatious menace in the meantime—had led to some interesting facial expressions.
Especially when he started purring.
“Filthy?” Arc’s muttered into the hands she threw over his mouth. As if he’d just been accused of arson in a monastery. Theatrically appalled, he staggered half a step back, eyes wide and brimming with wounded drama. “Filthy, she says,” he repeated in a hushed, scandalized tone, like a dowager catching someone eating soup straight from the tureen. He looked left, looked right—as if the Boardwalk Council of Decency might come sprinting out with torches and citations. The salty breeze off the ocean rustled his coat like it, too, had just learned of his apparent indecency.
“It was a comfortin’ noise, I’ll have yah know. A gentle rumble of camaraderie. They do it in sophisticated circles. Elites. Monks, even.” He waved a vague hand upward, as if referencing some ancient mountaintop purring society. “It’s spiritual. Therapeutic. Possibly endorsed by druids. Or cats. Same difference.” A beat. Then with a devilish glint in his eye, he added, “‘Course, if it also happens to sound like I’m about to nibble on someone’s thigh, that’s hardly my fault. Nature’s a sensual artist.” Then came the grin.
“C’mon now, what sort of men have yah been around that don’t make a pleasant sound or two? Little purr. Little hum. Little serenade against the nape,” he said, voice dipping just low enough to tease. “It’s not like I’m crawlin’ between yer thighs and singin’ lullabies to the lady garden.” Then he added, “Unless asked politely.”
And that was when he began a strategic shuffle to the left—just out of reach. Smirking, eyes gleaming. A hand lifted in feigned defense as he slowly released her from the curl of his arm.
A wise move, as they were now close enough to smell roasting spices from the nearest food stall, and at least two vendors were already giving them the side-eye of not this nonsense before lunch. The market wasn’t exactly prim, but it was bustling, and nobody liked flirtation so thick it could curdle cream.
“Alright, alright,” Arc said, holding back laughter as he straightened himself up. “I’ll save the purrin’ for when there’s a campfire flickerin’ and no one else around to get scandalized. Or for sunspots. I do like a sunspot nap. Curled up on a rock like a beast with no shame.”
He cast a glance at a nearby stall selling dried citrus and bundled herbs, already considering if they needed lemon for the smoked fish or if it was purely a flex. “Now,” he said, voice returning to a faux-formal tone, “Shall we start tradin’ coin for goods like law-abidin’ citizens?”
Calia was certain that Arc was at least half right about her fae travel – her stamina was the issue. While she was certain she never used her skill through her horses, as they never experienced any fatigue beyond a normal run… Herself on the other hand? There’d been such a huge difference between using her own feet, now triply so without her magic to help ease the toll on her body. And funneling it all through a demon wasn’t exactly the most efficient!
That required no commentary, however, as his theatrics over being a purring, filthy tart out in the broad light of day was far more important. Embarrassing. Entertaining. Claiming that such a thing was done by monks and elites and druids! Flailing arms and posturing enough to draw curious eyes in their direction. So of course Calia was reaching and grasping at him him to try and cover his mouth again, even when he dodged and sidestepped her!
There was no way to hide how she actually felt, though. Trying to force that disapproving frown on her face while giggles still slipped out.
“Shameless is right, isn’t it,” was her amused retort once he’d finally acquiesced from his nonsense. Giving his arm a soft flick with her fingers, before she herself turned back to the task at hand.
When Calia wasn’t all wrapped up in her own head of having to perform one mask or another, she took to interactions naturally. It never occurred to her that she could do this with all situations if she’d just stop getting in her own head. For her, this was a simple script – Calia knew what she was looking for, how to ask for it, and when it was better to apply charm versus being firm. In her mind, it was simply that these people were working hard at making a living – one was supposed to be kind and respectful of the service they were providing. Black market traders? It was okay to screw around with them, they didn’t usually come by their own goods fairly. These people deserved to be treated well so they could live well.
…although, if a little extra smile and a well timed compliment got Calia a better deal, she didn’t hesitate with that either.
Items she couldn’t find out in the wild were her top priority, planning ahead the need for better meals to sustain her use of filtered magic. Not too much where she was loading up Arc’s arms like he was a pack mule, but enough to prove she was thinking beyond two or three days. Butter was a coveted thing, so was good cheese. Wild rice and a giant loaf of bread. A jug of mead that smelled strong enough to actually get one a little tipsy, but not like it would taste like it was made to clean floors!
When she’d found all that she’d wanted, that faint expression of dread had returned to her features again. But Calia had run out of things they could do to avoid the coming goodbyes. Having to take a deep breath and just deal with the fact it was time.
By the way her features flickered—tugged between amused indulgence and the faintest shadow of disappointment—Arc found it nearly impossible to be anything other than exactly who he was. Maddeningly impish. Cheerfully ill-behaved. Entirely unconcerned with the disapproving glances of strangers, because really—who cared? None of these people knew him from a hole in the ground. And at this point, that comparison wasn’t even a stretch. He was, quite literally, cloaked in glamour to keep the passing folk from realizing that the villain of Edelguard was currently loitering beside a fae girl in a seaborne market, picking at olives and mouthing off.
So when she giggled and declared he was, in fact, shameless, he didn’t deny it. Arc simply offered a languid shrug, arms rolling wide in theatrical acceptance as if he’d just been awarded a title—Lord of Indecency, perhaps—and was too humble to claim it outright.
Still, he tottered after her loyally, relinquishing his lazy drape over her shoulders so she could flit between vendors, haggle with honeyed smiles, and wage war with the flutter of her lashes. Arc, for his part, was an ever-present mix of helpful and unhelpful—offering commentary, carrying nothing, occasionally stealing bits of fruit, and mentally tallying each coin exchanged with the precision of a streetwise mathematician. It wasn’t that he planned to rob anyone. Not really. But if things went sour… well. He could fix it. Legally or otherwise.
Knowing Calia, she’d prefer the former. And lately, much to his own surprise, that damned elven moral compass of his was starting to lean the same way. Boring. But manageable.
Eventually, the spree dwindled. With her arms full of purchases and her glow a little dimmed by the weight of completion, it was obvious the errand had run its course. Arc, ever the gentleman when it suited him, flicked his wrist to open a discreet Arcanum hollow—tucked just behind a crate of dried fish—for her to stash the goods. No point in pretending either of them was going to haul their spoils through town like pack mules.
But then came the thing she’d been quietly dreading.
Goodbyes.
A word that tasted strange in Arc’s mouth. Not unfamiliar, just… difficult to define. Something he could, in theory, understand. In practice? He barely had the script for it.
They ambled back along the wooden planks, the salty wind teasing at cloaks and hems, and Arc tucked his hands behind his head in mock ease. His violet gaze drifted toward the maiden of stone and mountain. Where they were working their way to where Nova likely waited—cheeks bright, arms open. Ready for farewells and promises and all those mortal sentiments Arc had always kept at arm’s length.
He was thinking. Calculating. Trying to pick a line. Something to ease the weight in Calia’s chest without making a joke of it. Something funny? Too flippant. Serious? Risky. Gentle…?
He sighed, theatrically of course, then offered, “Yah know, if yah want… I can ask to make a bloodstone. That way, I can open a portal here for yah whenever yah feel like seein’ the little love.” Something practical. Something quiet. Something that now could easily be seen for kindness, if she was looking for it.
As usual she’d eyed that Arcanum Hollow in the brief moments it was there. Stashing their newly acquired things away neatly and touching what pieces of magic she could to help add to her knowledge of it. When it was out of site, she rubbed her hands together, almost absently trying to weave the threads for one of her own, honestly wanting anything to focus on besides her upcoming dread!
Then Archimedes did what he did best – stated something so wildly out of her expectations that she actually paused for a moment. Actually, seriously considered this offer of his to make a bit of magic that’d be able to send her right back here any moment she wanted to. Tempting… but unnecessary.
Calia reached out to grasp his hand between hers, an oddly soft smile blooming.
“I appreciate it,” she affirmed softly. “but we don’t need to do all that just because I’ll be missing her. We’re going to find our way back here. In fact, I’ll make sure it’s by the next High Tide, just so it’s that extra bit special. Something grand to look forward to so it’s not just all doom and gloom on the horizons.”
There was something comforting in the thought of knowing she had somewhere to come back to for very special reasons. Maybe even a new tradition in the making, of an old life and a new life, and all the little surprises in between.
When she took his hand and pressed it gently between her own, it wasn’t the contact that made Arc glance down with that peculiar, narrowed look. It was the smile she wore—soft, sincere, and unguarded. The kind of smile that suggested he was starting to keep count. Not of misdeeds or sarcastic quips, but of every rare moment she didn’t recoil from closeness. Of every flicker of something warm that slipped through the cracks.
Maybe she was starting to believe she wasn’t the monster she pretended to be. Just misunderstood—inside and out.
He didn’t call her on it. Didn’t joke, didn’t scoff. Just gave a long-suffering sigh as her words floated up—something about returning for the next High Tide Festival. His nose wrinkled on instinct. “Well,” he said, voice still warm thankfully even if it was clipped, “When that happens, I’ll be checkin’ out somewhere else.”
His fingers gave hers a single, warm squeeze—just enough to make it clear he wasn’t being cute. Arc didn’t do the Festival. Even if the evening prior hadn’t been terrible, it didn’t wash away the years and years he spent with his disappointment and childish pain. The sound of it alone scraped at old bruises. Years of watching from the edges, uninvited, unnoticed. The music and laughter never did a thing for the pain in his chest, and nostalgia wasn’t a sweet thing in his world—it was a blade turned inward.
But this wasn’t about him.
He cast a sidelong glance at her—this fae girl who somehow turned farewell into a promise, who could smile like storms never touched her. If Calia wanted to spend the festival here, with Nova wrapped up in her arms and sea salt in her hair, then so be it. He’d be around. Lurking. Watching. Making sure he didn’t ended up on someone’s cursed dinner plate. That was, of course, assuming this they managed everything at all. Then again, if that were the case then there was going to be no reason for him to return anyways.
Semantics. Grim ones. But semantics all the same.
When her hand slipped from his, he let it go, stretching his arms behind his head in his usual parade of effortlessness. A low whistle drifted from his lips, casual as ever.
He didn’t ask if she was alright. Didn’t prod. Just made himself present. Quietly available, in case she needed to vent, or cry, or fold into some other emotion she usually mocked on sight. Arc didn’t say he understood. But the space he left beside her said it all the same.
No surprise there that Arc wanted nothing to do with the festival should they manage to make a return. Calia didn’t scoff about it, tell him he’d be fine or try to lure him into joining her anyway. He’d shared with her a pain about his past and that meant something, even if it’d been a century ago. Calia herself would never want someone to glaze over her pain, trying to paint over it with pretty colors to erase it away until she was damn well ready to do it herself.
As long as he recognized that she’d said we. The option was there if he wanted to take it. To accept the involvement only if and when he was willing.
So it was a smiling nod and a hum of affirmation that she’d heard him. Leaving it to be something to revisit a year from now. An entire year! So much had happened in a few short days, who the hell knew where they’d be next week, let alone in the next year.
It was high time she stop pussyfooting around this, though! A deep breath taken in and Calia was leading the way back to the tavern owned by a burly half drow, half orc, and tended to by a tiny moonbeam elf that Calia could almost be convinced she was in love with, if it weren’t for the fact she had no interest in kissing on her. It was simply a deep infatuation of an entirely different kind, something soft and precious that she’d just have to tuck away.
She made a few quick steps up the wooden boards and into the place that was no longer crowded and boisterous from a full festival. Resting her hands on her hips when the girl was nowhere in immediate sight, giving a wicked sort of fox look when she opened up her mouth to announce her presence.
“Oh no! Not a single sight of Nova. Guess I get to walk away without the unbelievable heartache of having to say goodbye! A tragedy, truly, to step back into the shadows where the likes of me belongs!”
There was a quiet appreciation nestled in all of this—the fact that she didn’t push, didn’t plead, didn’t try to wrap her words in softness over something he clearly didn’t care for. She left it alone. Let it sit. Accepted it for what it was: an old wound he didn’t intend to reopen, not even for her. And in the end, that small mercy smoothed the edges of their walk toward Driftwood Haven—turning a potentially sour farewell into something gentler. Something bearable.
Its door creaked open to a space that wasn’t bursting with life, but still held a pulse. A few patrons, a few half-finished drinks, but not the kind of crowd that made you want to duck and disappear. Which suited Arc just fine.
Behind the bar, in his usual perch like some grizzled gargoyle of the coast, stood Brux—very drow, very orc, and unmistakably unimpressed as always. His crimson gaze flicked up the moment Calia stepped through the threshold with all the flair of a travelling bard making her grand return. She earned little more than a dry blink for the effort.
But then—crash! It sounded like an entire kitchen being upended.
The door to the back flung open, and in the halo of kitchen light stood Nova, radiant and chaotic, her silver hair yanked into a high ponytail, apron dusted with flour and speckled with dough.
“Don’t yah even attempt it, yah little fiend!” she bellowed, pointing dramatically at Calia like a war goddess catching her sworn enemy mid-scheme. Brux rolled his eyes so hard Arc was convinced the sound of it could flatten trees. Or at least rival a rockslide.
The elf darted out from behind the kitchen threshold, completely ignoring the taproom clientele. With the urgency of someone on a divine mission, she skidded across the floor and came to bounce on her heels right before them—brimming with energy. “Wait!” she blurted before either of them could speak, finger raised like she’d just invented fire. “Don’t move a muscle!”
And off she went again, vanishing into the kitchen like a silver comet.
Arc blinked. Glanced at Calia. Shrugged. And just like that, he let the glamour slip. It fell off him like a discarded cloak—lazy, unceremonious. The single horn, the shade of his hair, all of it plainly visible now. If Brux cared, he didn’t say a word—though the set of his jaw suggested plenty. Probably already thinking up what sort of gossip would ripple through the town by supper. Good. Let them talk. It’d only help the old man’s coin purse.
“You both best be careful on the roads,” Brux muttered, scratching into his ledger without so much as lifting his head. “Word is the heart of Edleguard’s about to be hit with a heat wave.” He sounded unbothered, like he was commenting on stale bread. From the kitchen came the muffled sounds of Nova’s one-sided rant—pots banging, flour flying, something about people not minding their magic around rising dough. “Not that I think either of you would call heat a problem,” Brux added.
Arc gave a slow shrug, lazily wagging clawed fingers at a few gawking patrons who hadn’t yet figured out how to stop staring. “Shade. Water. Rest when the sun’s highest. Ain’t complicated. Not worse than a sulphuric burst in the hells on a good day.” He turned to Calia with an overly casual glance, like he wasn’t already making a mental checklist of what she’d need to survive the journey. “We just gotta make sure yah don’t go turnin’ into a bright red lobster from a hot sun and dehydration, lamb.”
Right on cue, Nova returned—triumphant and grinning—with a small basket bundled in cloth. She shoved it into Calia’s hands with all the gravitas of a royal gift. “Garlic rolls,” she declared. “Eat them sooner than later. They won’t last. And think of it as one more reason to come back when yah can.” She didn’t even flinch at the sight of Arc’s fully revealed self. If anything, she included him with a breezy glance and a cheerful, “The pair of yah.” As if that had always been the plan.
With the sound of a crash Calia gave a beaming smile as if that’d been what she’d been planning on all along. Going from hands on hips to clasp them behind her back, suddenly the picture of innocent when Nova practically kicked open the kitchen door to go pointing an accusing finger at her. Like some beautiful silver gilded queen trying to stop her subjects in their tracks. Vanishing in a flurry of skirts no less!
Calia made a soft amused sound, flickering just a glance at Archimedes and his shrug. Holding in another giggle of a snort at the pure ruckus going on now in the kitchen.
“Summer has begun, so it seems,” was her rejoinder to Brux’s warning of an oncoming heatwave. Cracking an effortless sort of grin at the mention that neither she nor Arc would be likely affected by too much heat. Calia believed it. Not to say that she particularly liked those scorching summer days, but she’d never quite felt the elements the way others did. Finding herself laughing at the demon’s suggestion that she’d even become a red lobster at all!
The real trouble was in whomever was trying to follow them. Demon, dark fae, or otherwise.
No need for bringing that up, nor was there the time, for Nova made her grand reappearance with a basket of goodies no less. Thrusting it into Calia’s hands, to which she very gently handed over to Archimedes with all of the reverence and due care such a gift deserve.
Then quick as a whip Calia was gathering the girl up in such a tight squeezing hug, it might as well be attempted murder! Somehow both soft and breathlessly squishing at the same time, pouring every ounce of all her unspoken thoughts into that moment. Calia might not be in love with her, but it’d indeed been love. Love at first sight, first conversation, and every single moment after. Which truly was sort of spectacular as Calia hadn’t believed she was even capable of loving somebody she wasn’t blood to. If that wasn’t magic, then Calia never knew magic at all.
“You best have some good wishes for next festival, I hope to be here to see them,” she murmured, giving a quick affectionate kiss to the girl’s temple before she finally released. Stepping back with a suspicious amount of glittering at the corner of her eyes and an expression that said she might bite someone if they mentioned it.
A delighted squeal tore through the air—prompted not by danger, but by Nova getting swept into one of Calia’s hugs. The kind that walked a fine line between most endearing show of affection and near-death experience via rib-cracking. Arc, meanwhile, had taken the basket filled with the warm, butter-slicked basket of garlic rolls like it was a treasure chest, parting the cloth with a reverence usually reserved for relics or fine weaponry. Peering inside. The scent alone whispered seductions to him—soft, flaky, golden little sirens daring him to devour them before Calia had the chance to blink.
If she wasn’t careful, he would make them vanish. Right before her eyes. Sleight of hand, poof, and the whole lot gone. Just another magic trick.
Nova didn’t seem too concerned with mortal peril herself, practically plastered to Calia’s leather assassin form with arms thrown around her like ivy. Her giggles bubbled up as effortlessly as always, that sunbeam of a grin never wavering even after she was released. She grinned at the peck to her temple like it had been a benediction.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nova declared, golden eyes resting on Calia with sparkly intent, “I’ll have plenty of new outrageous wishes for yah by the time yah show up again. Each one more ludicrous than the last. This last one’ll look tame in comparison.”
She squeezed Calia’s arm in a warm press of fingers, a shared glint of mischief traded between them. No words needed. But her tone dropped just enough to add, “You both be safe, yah hear? If I catch wind that either of yah aren’t—” she held up a finger, eyes narrowing with mock threat, “—it won’t be a hex yah have to worry about.”
Arc, only half-listening while debating how many rolls he could stuff in his mouth before anyone stopped him, arched a brow toward the glittering little moonbeam. She was sweet. And pretty. And quite possibly weaponized in her charm. He saw the gawkers. He saw Brux. And since when had Arc ever cared about optics? “Oi,” he called, suddenly serious as he extended a hand toward Nova like they were about to seal a business deal. She blinked at it, puzzled, reaching without hesitation.
Truly a mistake!
With a wicked flourish and a dramatic gasp from the elf, Arc swept her off her feet, dipped her back in a flourish worthy of stage lights, and stole a full, show-stealing kiss. The kind that would’ve made a romance novelist weep and a few bystanders audibly choke on their drinks. He spun her upright again before she could protest, and she landed on her feet in a flurry of flushed cheeks and blinking lashes.
Nova blinked once. Then twice. Tried to fix her hair and regain whatever composure she thought she had left. “Well. That—was— yah be safe.” Trying to find herself even if she maybe ought to have expected him to have some antics!
Arc grinned with all teeth, utterly pleased with himself. “Been fun! But this place fuckin’ blows.” He turned to Brux with a twin-finger wiggle of farewell. “Don’t miss me too much, Brux. I’ll keep yah in my thoughts.” He even winked for good measure.
Brux, to his credit, didn’t explode. But the glare he returned could’ve curdled milk and ignited dry timber. The kind of stare that suggested if Arc ever came back, it would be purely for target practice. “Careful,” Brux drawled without looking up from his ledger. “You keep stealin’ kisses like that and I’ll start charging a show fee.”
Arc tossed his head back with a delighted cackle. “Yah wound me. Should’ve told me sooner—I’d have sold tickets.”
“Only thing you’re selling is headaches,” Brux grumbled.
Arc blew him a kiss. “That one’s for free.” Settling his sights upon Calia, “Well love, shall we before we get caught up in some new scandal? Or Brux hefts us out like stray cats!”
“You can bet that it is not Arc nor I that will be unsafe,” mused Calia at this threat of hexes, both because they were far more dangerous than anything else out there… but perhaps a little bit because she genuinely believed that Nova might actually attempt a good hexing! Even across land and mountains!
Of course, leave it to Archimedes to make an entire spectacle of this goodbye, pulling the girl into such a kiss that Nova was liable to be thinking about it for days to come! Leaving the woman so bedazzled that whatever poor sop came next was going to have one hell of a memory to try and outshine, that Calia truly felt sorry for the future beau. He’d have to be more interesting than a literal demon!
Next year Calia may genuinely need to rain men from the sky for the girl. Shoot an angel down from the clouds or something.
Regardless, she did laugh even as Arc was insulting the place to the very patron and not caring a whit about the threats that shot back. Oh, how she didn’t want to leave, but now maybe she was ready to go. Setting out in a way that might be wistful, yet there was hope in it too. A gift from their sea god Isyn or a small moonbeam of an elf, who knew.
“Until next time,” she bid warmly with a salute of two fingers, a deliberate avoidance of a goodbye. Giving instead a promise that there would be another day. When it would be, didn’t really matter, Calia was simply confident that it’d happen.
For her own sake, Calia absolutely did not look back. Making her hasty exist somehow still look relaxed, despite the fact she might just be breaking inside. Finding the smell of garlic rolls in a basket a small sort of wicked torture sent along by Nova, even while they strode down the wooden boards of Tír Élas back towards the towering redwood forests. Not knowing yet exactly what route they were going to take, only that it would be northwards through Edelguard to seek out a different mountain pass than the one they’d entered through.
Calia could not find the will to speak until they’d made it well out of the seaside port town, where the ocean waves could no longer be heard through the thickness of trees and the salted air had started to fade.
“…if you haven’t saved me at least one of those garlic rolls, you’re getting nothing but squirrel bones for dinner later.”
He trailed hot on Calia’s heels, a silent shadow in her wake as they departed the tavern—leaving behind one starry-eyed moonbeam of an elf and one very done orc-drow glaring into his ledger like it personally owed him money. Arc didn’t bother with a parting word. He didn’t need to. The way he sauntered out behind the sloe-eyed princess, hands folded behind his head, expression lazily unreadable—that was plenty.
Let them whisper. Let them wonder. He wasn’t about to leave this town without at least a few new rumours sparking to life. Just less hellfire and brimstone, more dramatic striding through golden morning light like a villain trying very hard not to look too invested in the girl ahead of him.
He was content to let silence do the talking for a while. With every step, the salt-sting of the sea faded behind them, replaced by the hush of redwood groves—the forest of his roots stretching open before them. He rolled his neck with a faint crack, the motion slow, like a man waking from a very smug nap. It was only her threat—regarding the sanctity of the basket in her arms—that finally cracked his sealed expression.
“Poor squirrel,” Arc muttered with mock solemnity, his tone a dramatic eulogy. “Dragged into this tale only to become the leftover crumbs of a demon’s downfall. Tragic, really.” He gave a wistful glance to the basket, as if mourning what could have been. “Lucky for yah, I’m feelin’ generous today. Not a single roll has been absconded with. Thought about?” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh, plenty. But turns out I fear yer righteous reckonin’ more than I fancy bein’ a petty bread thief.”
Arc tilted his head skyward, eyeing the canopy like it held the answers to all life’s mysteries—or at least a sign telling him whether she’d kill him for licking the butter from one corner. “Besides,” he added breezily, “I ain’t entirely sure what’s in those rolls.”
His gaze slid to her from the corner of his eye, all knowing mischief and faux-innocence. “As divine as they smell, I happen to be fatally allergic to a certain very common herb used in these parts.” Arc let the words hang, dramatic pause and all. “Which means,” he continued, voice dropping into something almost noble, “Yah get to keep them all to yerself. Lucky you. I, on the other hand, will nobly suffer. Starved. Snubbed by buttery temptation. Denied the warm embrace of a dinner roll… just to avoid dyin’ in the woods with a tongue too swollen to sass properly.”
He sniffed, the picture of a long-suffering martyr. “But really, it’s fine. I’ll just… chew on a pinecone or somethin’.”
Calia sincerely doubted he feared her at all. Couldn’t trust her as far as he could spit, sure. Fear her, never!
And for once… she was okay with not being feared.
Which did lead to her immediately giving him a curious once over at this suggestion that he was allergic to something as simple as garlic rolls. They had what… five ingredients at most, unless it was some fancy herbal blend?
“Since when are demons allergic to anything at all?” she asked, with all that suspicion right there out in the open in her tone. Already hooking that basket on her arm and flicking back the little cloth that covered it’s bounty to pluck up one of the rolls for examining. Still warm and smelling oh so divine.
If he said something as silly as made with love, she’d laugh herself to tears.
Instead her expression shifted to something genuinely concerned, looking him up and down again.
“…you do need to tell me so I don’t accidentally kill you just trying to feed you a good dinner. I am as culinarily charmed as I am with magic, so I’m not about to be preparing meals of unsalted greens and overcooked rabbits.” Even just the thought about unseasoned food had her wrinkling up her nose. He hadn’t pointed anything out at the market, so at least she knew it was something that grew wild!
Still… “Truly, I ought to know anything that can hurt you so I can make sure I avoid it.”
“Since I was born elf,” Arc replied without missing a beat, casting her a flat look in response to her squinting suspicion. “Yah not wrong—pureblood demons? Probably immune to everything short of holy water and heartbreak. But me?” He gestured to himself with a lazy roll of fingers. “I started out elf. That stuff sticks. Or—I dunno—maybe I’m just cursed with exceptionally poor luck.”
Probably both. Definitely both.
He let the comment hang in the air, nonchalant but weighty. It was only when she prompted—half amused, half serious—that he sighed and tilted his head back in grand theatrical suffering, as if the burden of truth were just so heavy.
He didn’t answer right away. Not because he didn’t trust her but more because he wasn’t sure how much of what he was about to say she’d actually believe. Eventually, he groaned aloud and threw his arms to his sides, wrists flicking like he was shaking off the ghost of dignity. “Alright, alright—y’asked.”
He held up two fingers. “False thyme. Veilbane.” He counted them off with a tone that was all old folklore and funeral-song. “Marjoram. That’s the one with the sweet smell—elves use it in bread doughs and savoury pastries. And for guiding souls outta bodies at funeral rites.” His nose wrinkled in deep, personal betrayal. “Nothin’ quite like attendin’ some old king’s send-off, breathin’ that incense all in, and next thing y’know yer tongue’s goin’ thick, and yah’re sweatin’ like yah just sprinted through the Ninth Circle. Just that yah do end up high tailin’ it to make yerself very acquainted with the nearest column to be desecratin’ the floor with yer insides. “
One finger went down.
One remained.
And this one… he hesitated.
His usual smirk faltered, just a beat. “This one’s not like the rest,” he said, quieter. “Ain’t just unpleasant. It’s… fatal. Fast.” Arc gave the remaining finger a lazy flick. “Dandelions.” He said it like it was a curse. Like the word itself tasted wrong in his mouth. “Those smug little sunshine weeds people keep throwin’ into tea like it’s divine prophecy in a cup.” He gave her a look. A meaningful one. “Mild exposure? Tight chest. Ringin’ in my ears. Head goes all fuzzy. Doesn’t take much to tip that into bad. Minutes, if that.”
Arc shifted slightly, his voice still casual—but his eyes sharper now. Focused. “Then comes the fun part: sight distorts. Like seein’ through the veil between planes, too clear, too fast. Then? Collapse. Full body paralysis. Spasms. Heart rate drops like a stone in a well. Breathing turns shallow, skin goes clammy.” A pause. “Ten minutes. Maybe less. Without help, it’ll kill me. Just like that.” Snapping his fingers for emphasis.
And then, as if he hadn’t just outlined his very specific and very real death scenario, Arc gave a shrug. Light. Almost breezy. As though it were a minor inconvenience and not a recipe for a tragic obituary. He looked at her then—really looked. The sort of look that lingered. Quiet, open. Waiting.
Waiting to see if she’d laugh.
Or if she’d finally understand why he might be sniffing every cup of tea before drinking it. Why he flicked away wildflowers with a look that could curdle butter.
Knowing that he’d had this allergy since before being a demon did help it make sense. Though what an unlucky star he’d been born under to even still have such afflictions as a demon. Sort of made being a demon half pointless if you couldn’t even be immune to everything. If she had any interest in demons whatsoever, seemed like just the sort of topic one might want to study or investigate.
Apparently by means of the two fingers he held up, that meant there was more than one. Causing a raise of her brow as he stated the first. Marjoram. Lucky for him that was not something often used in her mountain home, although it was quite close to oregano wasn’t it… Well, regardless, that was simple to avoid cooking with, and simple enough for her to recognize the scents and tastes in food to be able to warn him off anything. Already even pulling apart one of those garlic rolls to give it a quick examination of visuals, scent, and a quick pop into her mouth to see if it were safe for him or if Nova had inadvertantly given her a demon repellent.
The second she could see and understand the hesitation the moment he mentioned it was a fatal one. Listening with due attention – to hear dandelion.
Her steady footsteps drew to a slow stop and instead of a laugh as he was expecting, she looked… stunned, honestly! That had to be the most common damnable wildflower in every mountain forest, in every open valley and plain! So common you could trip over a rock and land on one, in fact right where she stood she could see at least three of them just by a quick glance around. They were in salads and teas and in wreaths and bouquets.
How had the man even survived to adulthood, let alone become a demon!
She did start walking about, though. That shock fading off to something thoughtful. Something plotting.
“…I’ve never made a protection charm against a flower before. That one might take me awhile to figure out,” she mused softly. “Maybe if I had it incinerate them when you draw near, but that’d surly making sneaking in meadows difficult…”
Even still pondering how she was going to put it together. At least when it came to the garlic rolls, they were free of both marjoram and oregano, lending her to holding out a fresh one to him that she hadn’t pulled apart. “This is safe.”
Oh, he was well aware—painfully aware—of just how stupidly common his most dangerous allergy was. That was half the problem. Dandelions weren’t rare cursed herbs or exotic mushrooms harvested at moonrise—they were everywhere. In cracks between cobbles. In untamed fields. Even tucked into someone’s thoughtful afternoon tea.
All the more reason he never told anyone. Why would he? It was ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. A single brush with the wrong flower and he could drop like a stone—and that wasn’t exactly a confidence-inspiring revelation, especially for someone with demon horns and a reputation for not dying easily.
But Arc had learned early. Very early. The memory of it was sharp, cold, and permanent.
His father’s face still lingered in the back of his mind—tight with fear, the edge of his voice unshakable when he’d knelt in that damned golden field and told Arc, clear as day: Never touch one again. Ever. And even now, grown, changed, made of things other than just elf-blood, Arc had never once argued.
He’d been careful. He was careful. Sure, there had been accidents—small ones, terrifying ones, and one particularly idiotic attempt to chew on a petal to see if his tolerance had “evolved” (it hadn’t). But he knew what to do now. He knew the signs. He knew the cost.
So as he explained it to Calia now—his voice less flippant than usual, more grounded than he liked—it didn’t escape him that there were probably dandelions somewhere nearby. And maybe that was why his gaze flicked around as he spoke. Maybe that was why his shoulders were just slightly tenser than normal.
And maybe, just maybe, he was bracing himself for her reaction. Because everyone had one. A laugh. A blink. A snort of disbelief. Something. So when she… stopped—not to gawk or giggle, but to think—and then started walking again with a quiet murmur about building a protection charm against the damn weed?
Arc blinked. Once. Slowly. Then arched a brow. The quizzical kind. Not judgmental. Just… surprised.
And when she actually said she’d make a protection spell. To do it, like it wasn’t a complete waste of her time? His eyebrows nearly left his skull. “That’s—” he started, then cut himself off, scrubbing a hand through his the dark wild locks. “I don’t think yah need to be wastin’ yer time developin’ magical wards against lawn infestations.”
He tried for nonchalance, rolling a shoulder. “Long as I don’t ingest or touch the bloody things, it’s fine. Let ’em exist like the smug little bullshit yellow lies they are. Otherwise, I’d’ve keeled over years ago.” Still, something about her saying it at all left him a little sideways. Concern always had a strange shape to it—especially when it wasn’t asked for. And this? This wasn’t performative. She meant it.
Which made him feel weird.
Weirder still was the fact that telling someone this wasn’t easy. Not really. Most people assumed demons didn’t get sick, let alone dropped dead from a weed. But he wasn’t just demon. That was the part most people forgot.
As she offered him a bun, Arc’s stomach gave a slow, flipping tug that caught him entirely off-guard. Some terribly sentimental flicker crossed his face before he shook it away quickly, like a leaf off his coat. He straightened, rolled his shoulders, and lifted his chin just slightly—trying very hard to look unaffected.
“Nova gave yah those,” he said, casually. “Ain’t no reason to be sharin’ ’em with someone who might just gobble it down without appreciatin’ the taste. S’posed to be enjoyed. Savoured. Revered. Yah know—worshipped, maybe.” He added the last part with a grin to cover whatever had nearly cracked through earlier.
Lacing his hands back behind his head, he leaned into that impishness again, letting the tension bleed out of him. “Keep yer treats. I don’t actually wanna find out if yah were serious about feedin’ me squirrel bones,” he said with a wink, flashing her a grin full of mischief, even if the edges of it still held something quietly grateful.
It was far, far too late in telling her not to do it. Calia already had about three different ideas on how to accomplish such a thing, though it would take a little bit of testing. Already throwing out the idea of enchanting the man himself, as those sort of spells required maintenance… what would happen to that enchantment if she died? It needed to be something he could have with him to last the test of time. Not to mention the layers she would have to weave, because it would have to protect him both from physical touch AND ingestion, and Calia didn’t exactly yet know how to protect someone from poisons! That’d be a first!
He’d given her a very strange sort of look when she offered him the bun, which Calia could only assume was related to the moonbeam elf herself. Having already fallen in love with the girl, as she’d suspected. Honestly, she really couldn’t blame him, she was half infatuated with Nova herself. That sort of person, so full of genuine kindness, open spirit and wonder in the world was such a rare and irresistible thing. Especially to ones that’d been trampled on so badly that it was hard to hold onto hope themselves anymore.
“I find it very hard to believe that you wouldn’t worship, savor and revere anything involved Nova,” she answered with a light laugh. Putting that bun away regardless to finish polishing off the one she already had in her hands. Soon to hand him the basket with a small gesture that it ought to be put away in his Arcanum Hollow so they’d be perfectly safe for when it was time for dinner. Doubting he’d be so resistant to having one then, at least!
“Seeing as you are indeed still living, you know enough herbalism or potions to have an antidote to poisoning? I would like to have some on hand, and for you to show me how to make them. If we’re liable to get into all manner of fights with dark fae and demons, it’d best to be sure you didn’t get felled just from being rolled in the grass.”
Then, just as deadpan as she always tended to say things it was a simple statement.
“I can make a very fine squirrel bone stew.”
“You’d think that,” Arc replied to Calia’s suspicion, his tone light but honest, sliding into that familiar rhythm of sincerity laced with swagger. “But funnily enough, as adorable and infectious as she is, I’m not smitten with her.” He lifted a hand, palm up like he was offering the truth on a silver platter. “Colour me surprised about that too. She’s practically the embodiment of what would be perfect but—” He leaned back a little, casually theatrical. “Honestly? I was expectin’ her to hogtie me with sweetness till I was drownin’ in it. The kind of slow, syrupy wallowin’ misery that folks write ballads about. But I’m not infactuated with her. I’d call that growth or something.”
When she passed him the basket again, he busied himself with unzipping the hollow—pocketing the baked goods away into the void plane with careful precision. He didn’t look at her, which was probably for the best. If Calia had spoken her thoughts aloud, he’d have given her a look. One of those incredulous, slow-blinking you must be jokin’ stares. The idea that his earlier flicker of sentiment had anything to do with Nova would’ve been laughable.
No. That particular softness had been her doing, and the fact she hadn’t seen it almost made it worse. Still, the bread was stashed, and the silence filled comfortably again until she circled back around to something more practical. The herbalism. The antidotes.
He gave her a crooked grin—wry, almost conspiratorial. “That’s the thin’,” he said, fluttering his fingers open like a magician about to perform. “Back when I was just an elf? Fixes were easy. Magic in the palm of your hand, quite literally. My vara—he used to flush out the allergy with a cleansing spell. Fast, sharp, straight to the point.”
Then his grin faded to something closer to dry amusement. “Problem is… that’s divine magic. And now, well. Divine magic and I don’t get on so well. It ain’t just unpleasant anymore—it’s liable to help the whole dying thin’ alon’.”
He squinted at his hand, flexing the fingers like they might hold some forgotten solution. “I can still be healed,” he added after a pause, “But not with healin’ magic. The stronger the spell, the more likely I’ll go up like a pyre.” He blinked, thoughtful. “Not entirely sure I’m jokin’.”
A tap to his sternum followed, casual but pointed. “I’ve gotta expose this to intense heat. Sets off my internal core, kicks it into overdrive. Fever so bad it boils the toxin out through my skin. Not elegant, not gentle, and definitely not something yah want to see after lunch.”
He didn’t stop there, of course. He never did. “Chest glows red first. Then black. Veins start flarin’ like molten wire. You’ll know it’s workin’ when there’s steam risin’ off me like I’ve just crawled outta a volcano.” He gave a little shrug, resigned. “Not a cure. It’s a furnace. I light myself up from the inside and hope that smug little bastard of a flower sweats out before I stop breathin’ entirely.”
There was no melodrama in the way he said it—just dry, singed fact. Like someone reciting a recipe for survival they’d never wanted to learn but had memorized all the same.
“It works,” he added, more quietly. “But it leaves me scorched, sore, magic rattlin’ around like broken glass in a jar. Not exactly my most pleasant self. Can’t say I recommend the view.”
His gaze flicked back to her as she remained fixed on him, thoughtful and measured. There was something strange in that expression—something she wasn’t saying yet—and it made him smirk. “I ain’t thought much about herbs or potions for it,” he admitted, shrugging again. “Didn’t exactly expect anyone to give enough of a shit to look into it.”
And then, because he could never leave anything sincere untouched, he tilted his head at her with a grin that pulled sharp at the corners. “Love, I ought to be more worried about you, actually. Why the hell are yah boilin’ squirrel bones?” His brows lifted, mock-accusation written all over his face. “Is this revenge? A threat? Some strange ritual I’m liable to walked in on halfway through?”
Calia may have given him quite the dubious stare about his protest over being completely smitten with Nova. She found that incredibly hard to believe just by the ways he looked at her alone, but it was possible now that he’d had an evening with the girl it had sated his curiosity and infatuation. Had a moment to live in it, enjoy it, and discover it was more sugar than he’d like.
It did make Calia laugh, however, accepting his answer for what it was, at least seeing the truth in it. After all, it’d been Liriel who was once his truest love. Even the sunshiny likes of Nova had a hard time living up to the grand presence of the Crowned Princess, future Queen of Edelguard.
The more important issue here was that apparently he’d been saved purely by magic in his life as an elf, which was perfectly doable… except now he was a demon! Relaying to her how that now complicated the arts of healings. It took everything in Calia’s power to not bark out a round of shouting on just WHY he didn’t tell her this sooner.
She’d used healing magic on him once after he’d punched that mage, he hadn’t said a damn word! Likely singed and spiked like the fires of hell too. The idiot hadn’t even cringed.
Instead she was heaving a deep sigh, eyes rolling up to the sky with a soft sort of exasperation. Acceptance, maybe, that perhaps he hadn’t thought it important to tell her then. Or trusted her enough.
“Would have been nice to know that a bit sooner. You’re quite lucky I didn’t want to risk using your magic while you were already so weak, I’d have surely killed you already.” Thankfully she knew now. Healing magic stemmed from the divine? From light, perhaps? That just meant that Calia would need to conjuring up healing from different methods. Like the way she’d help the wounds near his runic tattoos so they wouldn’t scar… that hadn’t been divine magic, that was simply encouraging his own flesh and blood to move a little quicker.
While he described how he’d heal himself from such ailments in the demon way, she gave him a flicker of a thoughtful glance. Filing away those details and that knowledge to help her consider how to replicate it in the future. Heating him up like a volcano? Not a problem! Doing so without accidentally killing him in the process? …way trickier.
Calia could figure it out though. That was the beauty of magic, there was always a way if you were willing to think with a little imagination.
He did not seem to appreciate her suggestions of squirrel bone soup, however, leaving her to keep that air of innocence painted on her expression. Shrugging her shoulders with light ease, carrying on this silly joke as if she were actually serious.
“Far more healing than any chicken noodles. A good stock, boiled for three days until all the meat and marrow has gone soft. Granted, getting squirrel knuckles in your teeth isn’t any fun. You’ll just have to consider that part of the charm.”
A finger drifted up, slow and absent-minded, to rub at his cheek where her words had touched—soft, but not accusing. When she pointed out that it would’ve been nice to know healing magic could hurt him, Arc actually had the gall to look a little… bashful. He gave a quiet shrug. Not defensive. Not dismissive. Just the kind that said it didn’t feel like a big deal at the time, even if maybe—maybe—it should have.
“I think I might’ve flopped outta reach had yah tried,” he admitted, voice low, almost sheepish. “Didn’t seem important to share, all things considered.” He didn’t elaborate, but he didn’t have to. The weight of their past was thick enough between them to say the rest. Their history hadn’t exactly been embroidered with trust. If anything, they’d circled each other like wild dogs with teeth bared, each waiting for the other to make the first mistake. For a long time, he’d believed that if Calia knew the wrong thing about him—anything soft, vulnerable, or deadly—she’d use it. And he wouldn’t have blamed her.
But now?
Now he knew better. “I’m sorry, lass,” he said finally, the words stiff with unfamiliar weight. “I just… y’know.” It wasn’t an excuse. He wasn’t trying to soften the sharpness of it. Just a plain offering—clumsy, unpolished, but real.
And that was enough. They were two people built out of self-preservation, sharpened by necessity. Functionally independent. Singular by design. Trust didn’t come easy—but here it was, slowly threading itself into the quiet between them.
Of course, it didn’t last long. Leave it to Calia to carry on with her scandalous squirrel broth like it was just another Tuesday in the woods.
The way she met his wide-eyed dismay with such casual innocence had him squinting sideways at her, utterly unconvinced. “The way yah talk about it,” he said, eyeing her with mock suspicion, “I think I’ll have to take over all cookin’ duties from here on out—strictly for survival reasons. Can’t have squirrel soup ambushin’ me in the wild.”
His lips curved into a sly grin before adding, with a dramatic flick of his wrist, “Though to be fair, I’ve never had chicken noodle either. Could be I have been eatin’ rodent stew my whole life and just didn’t know it. Would explain a lot, actually—like the twitchin’. And the vague urge to hoard shiny thin’s.” He gave her a sideways glance, eyes glittering. “Yah sure this isn’t some elaborate fae plot to turn me into a forest gremlin alongside being a demon elf?”
Well there was a look that she’d never seen before. Or honestly had felt he’d even been capable of! That wry sheepishness of realizing there were things important for her to know, or more shockingly, things she actually wanted to know. That Calia did in fact care about these details concerning him. They’d wasted so much time of those bad first impressions and wrong assumptions, acting on those alone without ever attempting to see past them. Now here they were stumbling over the fact that they’d never been enemies to each other in the first place. Not really.
Calia could’ve pointed it out, said she’d told him so, and manner of throwing it back in his face. Instead she’d simply laughed at the idea of him being so avoidance of a healing touch that he’d been rolling in the dirt to avoid her hands.
Reaching out to gently squeeze his forearm, a show of friendly affection, an acceptance. This was something new now and they’d learned better.
In the end she couldn’t hold up her nonsense about squirrel stew either, not when he complained about having to do all the cooking as if eating a squirrel would actually kill him too! Erupting into a new round of musical, delighted laughter.
“I can do without you being a forest gremlin. I like you fine enough as a wee jeweled scared, at least that way you’re pretty enough to wear and far easier to shield should someone start taking a swipe at you. Regardless, I won’t be cooking up any squirrels if I can help it. Are there any other surprises I should know about? That demon that trapped you as a scared in the first place? May as well start keeping a list of who all might be trailing after us.”
At her gentle squeeze, it had become instinct now—natural, almost—to reach over and let his fingers brush lightly across the tops of hers. A small, wordless gesture of appreciation. Nothing flashy. Nothing poetic. Just quiet and deliberate, like he was still figuring out how to say things he didn’t have the vocabulary for.
Maybe because it was still… weird. He’d spent so long being content, if not smug, about being on his own. Proud, even. Singular. A man shaped by solitude, untouched by attachments, with no obligation to anyone but his own whims—so long as he was enjoying himself, what else mattered?
And now this. He wasn’t entirely sure what this was. Whether it was about him. Or her. Or maybe the strange realisation that he didn’t mind having someone along for the ride—even if that someone was a chaos-stirring woodswoman with a suspicious affinity for boiling bones.
When she pulled away again, doing her best to preserve the crumbling illusion of culinary innocence, Arc let it slide with a toothy, easy grin. “I think we might end up with a whole line of folks wantin’ to slap me. And I don’t think I’d be too thrilled watchin’ yah fight all those battles. The whole reputation doesn’t provide a lotta help.” He tilted his gaze toward the trees, violet eyes scanning the forest’s dense sprawl. They were heading north, sure—but the road would fork soon, and the path they took next would matter. Not that he minded the unknown. He was built for wandering. But not always with someone walking beside him. “At least,” he added dryly, “Not without makin’ some coin off it. Might as well use my devilish charm and grim reputation to line our pockets. Figure if I’m gonna be a magnet for trouble, might as well turn a profit.”
He hummed after that, low in his throat, as if debating whether or not he’d just accidentally given himself a business model. Then came her next question—simple enough, but spoken with just enough weight to imply she wanted real answers. Anything else she ought to know? About demons? About danger? About… him?
“Well,” he drawled, “If it was still followin’ us, I’d say yes. But the whole tailin’ after us part gets tricky once it’s been good and killed.” Said so casually, it was almost comical. Almost. “If I hadn’t had to beat it to a pulp after it grabbed me,” Arc continued, scratching lazily at his chin with one claw, “I probably could’ve walked my own ass down that hillside instead of playin’ ‘demon-shaped backpack’ on yer shoulders.”
His gaze drifted down to her then, lips quirking. “How d’you think I found yah in the first place—with the Milkmaid of Misery?” The phrase rolled off his tongue like a blade wrapped in velvet. “I didn’t just kill the bastard—I took a souvenir. Maybe a snack.” He shrugged, utterly unbothered, hands gesturing loosely as if cannibalizing demons for spellcraft was as mundane as sharpening his claws.
“Point is, yah can go ahead and scribble that second-rank hell-gnawer off any bounty list. That one’s handled. As for the others?” He gave her a slow smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Best to leave those names right where they are. For now. The list is likely to get longer anyways.”
There was comfort now in knowing they had a new physical language they could work with, as Calia sure had never been good with words. Always sounding callous, too blunt, like she did not care or that she was trying to be threatening and push people away from herself. Where it might’ve been true that she mean to protect herself, she didn’t actually mean to keep herself at a distance. Not the way people always kept thinking about her!
To be see, acknowledged, accepted for what she was. That’s all. Calia wasn’t complicated, others made it complicated with unspoken rules and expectations that did not fit her. She was either too big or too small to fit within them, never quite right.
This new understanding between them actually felt like there was room to exist and grow. Calia could breathe. And it was evident in the way she walked, without holding tension in the frame of her body, or keeping her expressions so carefully schooled to this rest blankness.
Free to actually smile. At his revelations that many were liable to come taking swats at him, especially once he got up to making a little coin to fund this journey of theirs. The way she gave him a cheeky grin about carrying him through the town, without a single speck of regret. That flicker of amusement about milkmaid of misery as he did have such a funny way with naming things and she hated that she was so amused by it, as it really only encouraged him to be more creative.
“Gross that you’re full of demon heartmeats, but… good. At least something came of it. Though, I would like to avoid you being kidnapped a third time You’re mine to protect now, I’d like to save going scorched earth for the bastard that has my own heart.”
She’d repeated the words he’d said to her so easily, for they were true now weren’t they! Whether either of them wanted this binding, they were now a duo. A fiery, awkward duo. Until he no longer needed her, and she did not need him, Calia had every intention of making sure he got to live. Freely, safely. And if he’d meant what he said about being loyal to her, the he himself would have no one in his life more loyal then her. Even long after the binding was no longer there.
It meant something to her, that belonging, whether he knew it or not.
Soon enough they’d come to a turn in the road, and while Calia knew where direction her heart was tugging, that didn’t necessarily meant it was the correct direction for traveling on foot. She’d slowed to a stop, resting hands on her hips and giving him that wordless, where now, but ultimately piping up.
“To the frozen wilds of Edelguard and hope we do not meet your Cragjaw? Or is there a better way?”
“It wasn’t usin’ it,” Arc replied smoothly, meeting her wrinkled-nose expression with a sparkle of merriment and not a hint of shame, “so I figured I might as well have myself a reward.” As if devouring another demon’s heart was as casual as picking up a free lunch. In this case, it kind of was!
He brushed his hands down his coat sleeves in a vain little show of dusting himself off, the movement full of exaggerated civility. “Yah did say,” he added, finger lifting for emphasis, “that if they were ill-behaved, I could. And wouldn’t yah know it, that one was real poorly mannered.”
There was a hum from him next—a low, thoughtful thing—until her voice cut through with something else entirely. Not the spell-devouring or the demon antics. No, it was the other thing. That she was protecting him.
He blinked. Didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head like a crow hearing music, trying to decide if it liked the sound. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the sentiment. It just… sat funny in his chest. Crooked. Like it didn’t quite belong, but he wasn’t about to give it back.
Oh no. Someone cared.
How terrible.
Still, he said nothing about that part. Didn’t touch it. Left it hovering there like a ribbon she’d tied around his wrist when he wasn’t looking. Instead, he latched on to the second thing. “Okay, let’s hold up,” he said, lifting both hands in mock pause. “We’re doin’ some selective wordin’ here, lass.” His grin edged back into place, sharp and gleaming. “I also do not want to be kidnapped again unless—” and here he lifted a single finger like he was giving a courtroom declaration, “—it’s by a vetted woman. Then, y’know, she can kidnap all she wants. No complaints.”
The smirk he gave her then was criminal. “I’ll be a very good demon. Stay put, no candy trails, no disappearances, nothin’ that ends with you havin’ to rain fiery death on unsuspectin’ idiots from the sky.” He closed his eyes with a radiant smile, as if that settled it. Problem solved. Good demon behaviour engaged.
Of course, Arc wouldn’t actually go wandering off for just any pretty face. Not anymore. Not since her. He’d been aimless before—restless, reckless—but now? He was still chaos, sure. But it was directed chaos. And it answered to her. Because the truth was simple, even if he never said it outright: He was loyal.
It wasn’t supposed to be in his demonic nature—but there it was. Twisted into his marrow like a bad joke the universe hadn’t worked the kinks out of. And she’d somehow activated it just by being exactly who she was. He meant what he said. And he would stay true to it.
That grin only slipped when they reached the fork in the road, and she brought up Cragjaw—her mention of the frozen wilds veering their path toward the teeth of something ancient.
He looked at her then, scandalized. “I thought yah wanted to pet it?” The disbelief was real. “I mean—sure, there’s better ways to spend an afternoon than gettin’ nibbled on by a glacial death lizard, but c’mon. Are yah really tellin’ me we’re not gallivantin’ through a drake’s domain just ’cause it’s risky?” His brows rose. “Since when did we not do thin’s just ’cause they’re dangerous and mildly stupid?” He paused, then added, deadpan: “That’s practically our whole brand.”
“That’s true,” she replied giving a nod as if they were having this prolific conversation and he’d pointed out a grand flaw in her argument. “I did say problematic sorts are yours to eat, main, punch, or do as you please.”
It was hard to keep up that impassive expression though, not when he was all exaggerated movements and posturing. All motioning hands and sharp fangy smirking. Every little physical motion being noted and even mirrored in some way subconsciously, through the way she’d lean her upper body to the side. How her head would tilt and follow the motions of his fingers. In how she shift her arms or took a quick step.
Calia moved like a tree and he was the wind, even when she tilted her head back and laughed all over again.
“I couldn’t very well announce to the sweet little miss that I’m more likely to take inspiration from our dear Prince Consort and attempt to launch creatures into the sky, now could I?” Just the thought alone was liable to send Calia into a fresh fit of giggling.
Truly, Calia would attempt to make a friend before she ever chose violence. She did not attack first, but she damn well would defend herself with extreme prejudice should some giant hungry beast of a thing attempt snapping jaws and swinging of claws.
“Then allow me, Oh Demon of Best Behaviors, to rephrase the question,” she chimed, reached to give him a gentle push to the arm. “Is taking a risk the fastest way to get us to a new mountain pass? I’m not afraid of a fight or having to do some sneaking. But if fighting past some beast is going to take longer than just going around him, we can skip the whole thing.”
Of course, then she paused, suddenly to get that wily fox look on her face again, That slow tilt of her head and wandering creep of a smile. The sort of look that might dazzle a man in a bar, but anyone with sense would know trouble was sure to follow.
“Unless he has something worth stealing. You’re so worried about coin and I suppose I do have an entire new kingdom to rebuild.”
“Probably not,” Arc said with a smirk, arms folding loosely over his chest. “She might’ve been horrified… or worse—interested. Wouldn’t put it past Nova to want to join yah in flingin’ unsuspectin’ critters into low orbit.”He made a thoughtful face—mock serious, as if genuinely weighing which fate was worse. “Though now that I’m thinkin’ about it,” he added, eyes narrowing with playful menace, “that might be how we end up with a second squirrel uprising. First one launches, second one comes back for vengeance. I ain’t about to find out.”
He gave a light shake of his head, clearing the image from his mind as Calia rephrased her original query—less about can they go through Cragjaw’s territory, and more about whether they should. Whether it was worth the time, the risk, the scenic detour through a very toothy region of the map.
Of course, she was already smiling like she knew something. That gold-goblin grin curling up her mouth like treasure was whispering to her. Which meant she thought he knew something.
And—well. He did.
Arc sighed, dramatic and long-suffering. “Drake, Calia. Not a dragon. Huge difference. Drake’s like a very pissed-off lizard with altitude issues.” Giving her a playful flicker of fingers to her pushing at him.
His eyes rolled skyward, then cut sideways to her with deliberate mischief. “I don’t think they hoard shinies like overgrown crows. But,” he added, drawing out the word, “if Cragjaw’s scales are as thick and frost-bound as the stories say, then yah could probably sell just one for more than a bounty payout.”
He gave her a slow once-over, voice going low and taunting. “Might even be able to smith yerself some fancy battle armour. Something real intimidating. Real queen of the north.” And then came the look—eyebrows lifted, grin all teeth. “But hey,” Arc said, shrugging. “If yah wanna try that… I won’t stop yah. I’ll just stand way over here and admire the drama.”
“I’ve never seen a dragon nor a drake, so what would I know,” she rejoined with enigmatic smile. Aside from calling herself a dragon because it was the closest thing she could think of a powerful pain in the ass beast that could describe her at all. She should’ve known better, that all of her odd habits strangeness were far more akin to fae and their alien weirdness.
One day she’d like to learn more about that, from someone other than confused jackals barely as old as she and dark fae that were far more interested in twisting her than helping her. Or chatter faerie wood trees that spoke in vague riddles and advice that just flew right over her head.
He was right about one thing, though! Calia suspected he knew exactly the right way to take and whether or not it would be worth the time to tread into some ancient creature’s territory risking life and limb. If a drake’s scale was valuable, then that’d be more than worth the trouble. If they didn’t run into the beast, then it was no issue at all. Simply a straight shot to the next mountain pass.
Calia took a look up at the sky to gauge the position of the sun, then glanced around them quickly for the angle of shadow. Needing no more than that to choose which fork in the road to take, knowing which direction was due North and having at least seen a map or two. Anything more detail than that, she trusted Archimedes was likely to pipe in to correct her with a smirk and a suggestion.
“I might cut a nice figure in frosted armor,” she admitted, already resuming her walking the chosen direction. Soon to flash him a quick and wicked grin of all teeth. “It’s not me that needs to be presentable for the mountains clans, though. Don’t forget, we’ll be needing you a kilt of nice tartan and to grow you that pelt of wooly hair. For those mountain maidens you’re going to dazzle.”
“Yah’ve surely read books,” Arc said, shooting her a look that walked the line between disbelief and condescension. “Drakes have no wings. Dragons do. That’s not even a lore debate—that’s just page one of the overgrown lizard section.” He wasn’t buying it for a second—the idea that she didn’t know the difference. No way.
Of course, both creatures came with monstrous temperaments, whether or not they could fly. But dragons? He’d never seen one. Knew they had existed, sure—in myth, in old songs, in bestiaries that listed far more beasts than he’d care to meet in a lifetime—but he’d never gone looking for one. Why would he? He liked having his skin attached to his bones. Besides, the world was crawling with variations: wyverns, sea serpents, cockatrices… all of them angry and scale-covered, most of them with bad breath and worse attitudes.
Still, he bit back the ramble.
Mostly because Calia had chosen the path—and it was toward the rocky, frost-scaled beast that might eat them. She shot him a look full of jest and challenge, all teeth and thrill like she’d just rolled a die for chaos. He matched her stride with ease. “I’m sure it’d look devastatingly appropriate,” he mused, “A whole battle set forged from drake-scale. Very regal. Very yah. If yah can find someone bold enough to forge it. Which could be a challenge but one surely some blacksmith out there is dyin’ for.”
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, lips twitching. But then her look must’ve turned just a shade too knowing, and he lifted his chin pre-emptively. “Oh no,” he said, putting a clawed finger in the air like a warning sign. “We ain’t wanderin’ that figurative path again. I am not gettin’ shoved into a kilt and paraded like some mountain yeti prize for the local lumber-lovin’ ladies.”
He gestured grandly down the line of his own body, brows arched high. “This?” he declared. “This is a state of perfection. Carefully curated. Immaculately unaltered. If mountain dwellers can’t appreciate it raw, they don’t deserve it.” His nose wrinkled in exaggerated distaste. “They oughta be more curious about the demon part anyway. Or at least a little impressed I ain’t some dainty sugarplum elf with poetry breath and as breakable ribs.”
He puffed his chest up theatrically, then leaned in a little with a grin. “I could be climbed like a tree, Calia. That’s gotta count for somethin’. I’m exotic!”
There was a very peculiar look on her face when he so bombastically insisted that she’d surely read books, not that it lasted for very long as he very much needed to educate her on the subject. Sending Calia into this slow, beaming sort of grin as if she’d just discovered something very entertaining.
Archimedes enjoyed teaching things. Not necessarily correcting people, those sorts of people loved to point out everything a person did and said that was wrong to feel oh so superior and above the one they were correcting. Arc had this thrill in sharing information – when it wasn’t too personal anyway – giving knowledge. He’d not been born and raised to be an advisor to the now-deceased crowned prince – that was a role chosen for him, likely because someone had seen it in him. That insatiable thirst for knowing things and then turning around to share it with ears that wanted to listen.
Did he even realize this?
“Oh aye, they’ll be climbing yah like a tree. Grabbin’ ontah them horns and just a swingin’ till yer crushed underneath them thick mountain thighs,” she chirped back, thick with a mimic of that accent of his. Almost close to perfected now having spent a few days in Tir Elas and getting to hear a whole lot of it!
That peculiar expression returned though, something soft, looking him up and down with a sort of debating examination. Thinking… deciding in those quiet moments if she even wanted to say what she wanted to say. It was in that expression too when she did, that quiet acceptance and the sheepish sort of shrugging of her shoulders.
“Books are hard to read,” she admitted then. “I can… with an aggravating amount of effort. Used to drive my professors mad, thinking I was being lazy and difficult, as I had no issues with lectures and lessons to retain information. Up until I was expected to take notes or sit and read for hours and hours. Words and letters just get all jumbled up. Not exactly great for learning a wide range of things outside of what others were willing to stand there and show me.”
“Ah,” Arc drawled, lips quirking as he watched her mimicry with an approving eye, “Gettin’ half decent at mimickin’ me now, are yah? Keep that up and I might start sendin’ you in my place. Just a prettier version. Bit more leg. Might do better in negotiations.” He stroked his jaw thoughtfully with clawed fingers, as if imagining the possibilities. “All yah need now’s a proper man’s voice and a bit of strut—and maybe tone down the whole feminine vibe unless yah got a glamour tucked up yer sleeve.” He flicked a knowing glance at her. “But I’d bet coin yah already got a veneer ready to go.”
Of course she did. He didn’t even need to ask. Then again, he couldn’t help but twist the tone back to the ridiculous. “Although,” he added, wrinkling his nose, “That ain’t the kind of climbin’ I had in mind. Each to their own, but somethin’ about bein’ treated like a watermelon between thunder thighs doesn’t exactly instill thrill.” He paused, thoughtful. “Suppose I’ll swear off the mountain women then. Clearly, I’m too dainty.”
He gave her a look. And then a second, more curious one when her features shifted—her usual fire fading into something quieter. Not quite embarrassment. Just… peeled back, slightly. His ears perked, subtle but focused, as she shared that particular truth: she could read, yes—but not easily.
His answer was immediate. “So?” Arc said, blinking like it was the most ridiculous thing to worry about. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with learnin’ visual. I know that wouldn’t have flown in yer royal court, what with all their stiff collars and polished books, but that’s half the damn problem with ’em teachin’ sorts. Assumin’ everyone learns one way. Their way.”
He made a sweeping, expressive gesture with one hand, something fluid and unfussy. “Hands-on, visual learnin’ is just as valid. Maybe even better. Especially when yer not bein’ boxed in by some uptight instructor who thinks readin’ off a wall of words is the only way to grow a brain.”
A shrug followed—lazy, but proud. “Yah’ve come a long way. Even more now that yah get to choose how to get involved. Ain’t nobody got the right to tell yah it’s wrong, unless they can show yah why with hard proof. Otherwise?” He smiled, slow and sharp. “Fuck ’em.”
He let that linger for a moment, a little fire behind it, before the edge of his expression softened. “Yah don’t think I was implyin’ yer dumb or somethin’, do yah?” he asked, tone gentler now. “That bit about readin’? I just figured… y’know, as a wee bab, yah might’ve been into those big storybooks. The ones with dragons and knights and too many adjectives.”
His mouth tugged into something a little more self-conscious then, eyes flicking back to her. “If I insulted yah—I didn’t mean to. Really. I was guessin’, not judgin’.” And that? That wasn’t for show. That was honest.
He really shouldn’t be giving her more ideas on what she could be doing with glamours and magics, for who was to say she couldn’t easily put on herself a nice demon illusion and truly be the biggest menace of all pretending to be the great Archimedes Silverstone, demon traitor to Edelguard. He’d have truly been born under an unlucky star to have ended up bound to such a wicked thing!
Still, her teasing about mountain women was doing wonders for having him wary and she almost felt bad about it. Sure, they were a far hardier bunch, but they weren’t all going to be thick and muscle warrior clans women. There were the fair skinned and freckled sorts too, gentle and pretty with the gingery red hair just the way he liked them. Tempers as wild as a raging bull and just as crazy too, but that was going to be his own problem.
Naturally, Calia wasn’t even the tiniest bit surprised that he was adamant about her learning visually being just fine. Not when he himself was one who seemed to love learning and sharing all that he knew. After all it was that very temperament that gave her that space to even feel confident enough to even share such a detail – one where most tended to look her up and down like she was some sort of failure of a proper princess.
Maybe once upon a time she’d been deeply insecure about it. Not now, though. Especially not now.
Instead blooming into this cheeky sort of smile when he got so fiery and defensive about it himself. Up until he got that soft look about him, that in turn had her pausing to blink a moment. There was the surprise. That he’d worried he hurt her feelings and for once, he honestly hadn’t!
“When you hurt my feelings you can bet I’ll tell you,” she answered with a laugh, taking a step or too closer to bump him with her shoulder. A gentle motion that was more of an affectionate brushing than one of those rough elbow checks trying to launch someone off the road. “You’ve told me your weakness, and now I have told you mine. It’s what friends are meant to do, yes? Share their troubles?”
Then there was that shrug of her shoulders and a wry sort of expression, for just like him Calia too had trouble with leaving things truthful and vulnerable for too long without wanting to spin some joke or nonsense on it.
“Just means you’ll have to double check for me all those boring treaties and such I’ll have to sign, so I’ll not be promising away my soul to somebody. Should help keep you busy and away from those sturdy mountain girls.”
Granted, what would he care if she decided to masquerade with his face and cause a little mayhem in his name? He’d already bought and paid for the title of villain where he came from—had the scars and the whispers to prove it. What was one more misdeed laid at his feet?
He’d probably encourage it, if she asked. Cheer her on with a front-row seat and a glass of wine. Let her raise hell and pin the blame on him—after all, he’d never get back the reputation that was ripped from him the day he signed himself over to the Abyss. It wasn’t like the good folk of his homeland were lining up to forgive the hellspawn anytime soon.
Might even be better that way. If she did need to be cruel, or reckless, or just plain angry—maybe it was safer to do it behind his face, not hers. Let the world clutch their pearls and hiss about Arc the terrible, while Calia stayed untouched in the eyes of anyone that mattered.
But that wasn’t a topic to prod too hard. Not right now. What was harder to let lie, however, was the way her voice had turned—soft, a little self-conscious—when she’d mentioned reading.
He bristled. Not at her, but at whatever sanctimonious bastards had shoved the warrior princess between pages and told her she wasn’t enough if she couldn’t memorize columns of script. Education used like a mace—beating a child into a mould she didn’t fit. It made his teeth itch. So yes—he got impassioned. Probably didn’t even realize how much.
And when he paused, catching his own breath, he wondered if maybe she’d said it because he’d said something careless. Offhanded. Maybe even hurtful. Her bump to his shoulder said otherwise—said she’d have told him if he had—but still, his expression softened. Brow drawn. Lips pulled in that guilty way he got when he felt something too much and didn’t know where to put it.
“Fuck if I know,” Arc muttered, voice low, “this whole friends thing is… old, new turf.” He gestured vaguely to the woods around them, as if their empty surroundings could provide proof. “As you can see, I’m brimming with insight on the subject. Me and my leagues of adoring comrades.” A sharp grin followed, his chuckle effortless and dry. Even blowing a kiss to his nonexistent fans. “Real social butterfly, me.”
But he was trying. Trying to understand this thing—what it meant to share. The good. The bad. The gut-spilling awkward middle.
Thankfully, she steered them out of sentiment before it got too heavy, latching onto the idea that he now had reading responsibilities. “Oi—fuck me,” he groaned, eyes rolling skyward as if pleading to some long-dead deity. “Let’s just hope yer scary enough no one tries to get clever and sneak ‘left leg, right thigh and stomach’ into a treaty clause.” He shook his head, resigned, as if the whole thing were deeply unfair. “When it comes time to properly meet yer distant mountain kin, I’ll be nothin’ more than a pretty, sassy beetle with impeccable manners,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “Won’t make a fuss. Won’t spoil the soup. I’ll even let someone call me ‘lad’ without startin’ a scene.” Then he lifted his chin, mock-regal. “Best behaviour. Good demon. Promise.”
“Oh, I see. We’re going to remain well behaved and refined,” mused out loud. Soon coming to a loud laugh. “Well, I hope not too well behaved. There won’t be any fun in that.”
There was a warmth there in that statement and a strange sort of fondness that’d crept in and rooted itself deep down in her little cold cavern of nothingness. Watching him walking there doing his best impression of some perfectly behaved noble, despite the fact he looked as if he could break a body with his bare hands and still had that broken horn proving he’d damn well get away alive afterwards.
She didn’t know what made her think of magnets in that moment, as people so often thought of magnetism only in the sense of attraction. When the reality was that magnets were of duel forces. Flip one of them the wrong way and there was no chance at them connecting together. They’d always push apart no matter how much you tried to force it. Yet, all it took was one of them to tip in the right direction and they’d snap together as if they’d always meant to be that way. And the stronger that connection, the harder it was to pull them back apart again.
Calia did not know which one of them finally flipped. It could be that both of them had been spinning around in circles so much that they finally got tired of spinning and by pure luck they’d landed in a place where they could actually connect. She only hoped that now they’d been forged stronger because of it.
The means of conversation from there stayed light, often even pure silliness. When there were no words to speak, silence was just as calm and comforting. Walking through the giant redwood forests with an ease that Calia had not felt in a long, long time. Not since those quiet days before she even knew demons were actually real, and she was free to wander mountain forests as if she herself had always meant to be in them. With the wake of knowing that there with beings out there wanting to keep track of them both, she didn’t freely use his magic as she might’ve liked. No touching everything she wanted to touch just to encourage a bush or grow a flower. Calia did not go trailing after calls and whispers, although there were moments she’d smile wide and glance off towards the trees. Even make a gesture or a wave or a soft shake of her head in greeting or refusal.
Although, at some point she could not resist trying her hand at attempting an Arcanum Hollow of her own. Drawing the strings of magic in her hands and wriggling with it, concentrating on those attempts of construction so hard her brow would be furrowed. Letting out a soft curse here and there when it would fall apart and collapse. Giving up in a huff only to stubbornly pick it back up an hour or two later after allowing herself enough time to rest her senses and ease her frustration.