The villager assigned to me was a stoic, humorless man named Joric. He had eyes like chips of flint, knuckles like old roots, and the personality of a wet plank. He seemed to think I was some kind of wide-eyed tourist who needed his hand held.
He led me through the common areas of Veridian Refuge with the painstaking patience one might reserve for a particularly slow child, pointing out the obvious with a dull, monotonous drone.
“Here,” he grunted, gesturing towards a large, open-sided structure where women were weaving baskets from glowing vines. “Is the Weaving House. We make baskets. And sleeping mats.”
Incredible, I thought, forcing my face into a mask of polite interest. Baskets. Truly, the pinnacle of strategic intelligence. I am trembling with awe.
My eyes, however, were not on the baskets. They were on the guards. Two stationed at the far end. One patrolling the roof. Blind spot behind the drying reeds: six seconds.
Amateurs.
“Tedious,” Soul-Drinker hissed from my belt, its voice a dry rustle of ancient malice that vibrated against my hip. “This place smells of vegetables and peace. It is an affront to my very existence. The guard Joric’s throat is exposed, just below the jawline. A simple flick of the wrist. We could be free of this charade and get on with some proper bloodshed.”
Be quiet, I thought back at the cursed blade. Killing the tour guide is generally considered bad for diplomacy. Besides, he might know where they keep the good wine.
Joric led me on. The Mill House. The communal mushroom farms. He pointed out every mundane detail.
My patience, never a particularly deep well to begin with, ran dry.
I didn't want to wait for a perfect opportunity. I was bored. And a bored Liam is a reckless Liam.
We were passing a dense thicket of glowing ferns. Joric turned to point out a specific type of moss.
“And this,” he droned, “is—”
I didn't wait. I bent down, scooped up a small rock, and hurled it hard into the brush ten feet to Joric’s left.
CRACK.
It sounded exactly like a foot snapping a twig.
Joric spun around, his hand going to his knife. “Who goes there?”
In the two seconds it took him to turn his head, I moved. I didn't hide in the shadows. I went up.
I leaped, grabbed a low-hanging branch, and swung myself silently into the canopy of the massive tree directly above Joric’s head.
I crouched on the branch, looking down. Joric was poking the bushes with his knife. He looked confused. He looked around. He looked right under my branch.
He frowned. He muttered a curse. Then, assuming I had wandered off or vanished into the ether, he ran toward the village square to raise the alarm.
“Too easy,” I whispered.
“Childish,” Soul-Drinker sneered. “You risk detection for a game? You have no discipline.”
“I have style,” I corrected, standing up on the branch. “And now, I have the high ground.”
I moved through the upper levels of Veridian Refuge like a ghost.
The canopy was a network of swaying vine-bridges and broad branches. From here, I could see everything. Guard rotations. Patrol routes. The armory where they were keeping Faelar’s axe.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
But my eyes, as always, were drawn to opportunity.
I passed a guard post built into a tree hollow. The guard was leaning against the wall, looking out over the village.
Hanging from his belt, tantalizingly loose, was a heavy leather pouch. It clinked when he shifted.
I didn't need money. I didn't need whatever was in there. But the itch was there.
I dropped down on a silken rope of vine, hanging upside down behind him. I reached out. I felt the leather. I flicked the latch.
Snatch.
I was back in the trees before he even blinked.
I opened the pouch. It was full of… dried beetles. Snacks.
“Disgusting,” I muttered, tossing the pouch away.
“You are a kleptomaniac magpie,” the dagger hissed.
I ignored it. My reconnaissance led me toward the northern end of the valley. The forbidden area. The geothermal springs.
Elara had been very specific: Do not go to the springs.
Which meant, obviously, that I had to go to the springs immediately.
I followed a winding path upward, through thick, exotic foliage that steamed in the humid air. The smell of sulfur and sweet flowers grew heavier.
I reached a high stone wall covered in slick, wet moss. Steam rose from the other side, glowing with a soft, inviting light.
“Jackpot,” I whispered.
I leaped, catching the top of the wall. I pulled myself up, intending to peer over the edge like a master spy.
Instead, my hand found a patch of slick, treacherous slime.
I didn't vault. I slipped.
My feet went out from under me. I flailed. I fell forward, tumbling over the wall with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.
I plummeted ten feet and landed with a loud, undignified SPLASH in a pool of warm water.
I came up sputtering, daggers instantly in my hands, ready to fight for my life.
“Easy there, tiger.”
The voice was low, husky, and amused.
I froze. I wiped the water from my eyes.
I wasn't alone.
The pool was secluded, surrounded by glowing flowers and thick steam. And lounging on a smooth rock at the water's edge, watching me with a look of pure, unadulterated amusement, was a woman.
She wasn't a guard. She wasn't Elara.
She was… magnificent.
She was completely naked, the water lapping at her hips. Her skin was flushed from the heat, glistening with moisture and the soft blue light of the moss.
She had a body that made my mouth go dry. Ample, heavy breasts rested against her chest, the water sluicing over curves that looked like they had been carved by a particularly generous god. Her hips were wide, her waist narrow, and her wet hair clung to her shoulders.
She didn't scream. She didn't reach for a weapon. She just smiled—a slow, lazy, predatory smile that matched my own.
“I usually charge admission for the show,” she purred, leaning back on her elbows, which only served to highlight her ample assets. “But for a performance that clumsy, I might make an exception.”
I sheathed my daggers. I slicked my hair back. I summoned every ounce of charm I possessed.
“I apologize,” I said, my voice dropping to a smooth baritone. “I was attempting a stealthy infiltration. I seem to have been distracted by the… scenery.”
My eyes traveled over her figure. I didn't try to hide it. She didn't want me to.
She laughed, a throaty sound. “The scenery is quite lovely this time of night. You’re the outsider. The elf.”
“Liam,” I offered, wading closer. The water was waist-deep. “And you are?”
“Mara,” she said. She dipped a hand in the water and let it run over her chest. “I’m the one who watches the springs. It gets very… lonely up here. Very boring.”
She looked me up and down. “You don't look boring, Liam.”
“I try not to be,” I said. I was close now. I could smell the jasmine on her skin.
She reached out a wet hand and touched my chest, her fingers trailing over the wet leather of my tunic.
“You’re armed,” she whispered, her eyes dark and heavy. “Dangerous.”
“Very,” I murmured.
She pulled me closer. Her body pressed against mine, soft curves against hard leather. The heat of the water was nothing compared to the heat coming off her.
“I like dangerous,” Mara whispered against my ear. She bit my earlobe, gently. “And I know you aren't supposed to be here. You’re breaking the rules.”
“I have a problem with authority,” I admitted, my hands finding her waist. Her skin was incredibly soft.
“Good,” she breathed. She pushed me back against the smooth rock wall of the pool. She pressed her ample chest against me, the sensation electric. “So do I. Tell me, outsider… are you as good with your hands as you are at falling off walls?”
I grinned. “Better.”
“Prove it,” she challenged.
She kissed me. It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was hungry. It tasted of steam and cider and trouble.
I realized, with a jolt of pure satisfaction, that I wasn't just going to get lucky. I was going to get everything I needed. A happy contact in the village was worth ten interrogations.
But first… well. The interrogation could wait.
I lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around my waist.
“Oh, honestly,” Soul-Drinker groaned in my mind. “This is disgusting. Can we go back to the stabbing? I prefer the stabbing.”
I ignored the dagger. I had much more pressing matters to attend to.
We rejoin the party the next morning at breakfast…