Emila stared down at the cat food in her lap, it was homemade, of course, tested and approved by her two critics, Beans and Goldie. Totally safe, wrapped in leaves like little parcels of tiny hope, and tucked away carefully inside her cat satchel. Alongside the food, there were their toys: twigs shaped like birds (custom commissioned), straws carved into fish shapes, and balls made from old rags.
She swallowed, feeling her stomach growl in protest. She'd been surviving on carrot sticks and turnips since yesterday, and now she was dying for some meat. The cat food had meat in it, though, so she figured one or two bites wouldn't hurt. She'd spent almost all her coins on the ingredients—dried rabbit meat, fish, wild greens, powdered bones. Definitely safe for humans, right?
Just one bite…
A voice cut through her concentration, and she almost dropped her stash of gourmet cat food.
"You're here again, Castor."
Em looked up to see Maura, the tavern maid. Maura's scowl was practically etched into her face like some permanent feature, making her look way older than her actual twenty-eight years. Only three years older than Em.
"Maura," she greeted with a grin, trying her best to look innocent despite the makeshift cat feast in her lap. "Can I have a glass of water, please? And maybe you've got some stale bread lying around?"
Maura raised one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "We have stale bread. With mice bites. But what will I get in return?"
Emila shrugged dramatically. "I'm broke, Maura. But I do have some leftover truffles, if you want 'em."
Maura stared at her for a moment, and she couldn't help but chuckle at how unamused Maura looked. Finally, the woman sighed and left.
When she returned, she was holding a glass of water, warm bread, and jam. She set it down on the table with a little more force than necessary, before slumping into the chair opposite her, eyes narrowing in that all-too-familiar way.
The look of someone who knew they were about to give a lecture, one that she had heard way too many times.
Emila, having gotten over the awkwardness of it all, dug in. Bread, jam, and a sip of water. She didn't care what Maura said next. Her stomach had made it clear: it was time to eat. And for the first time in a while, Maura wasn't going to stop her.
After a few bites, Maura finally spoke.
"You're going to die, Emila, if you don't stop this nonsense. How can you seriously think you'll pass that shady guild's test? Even if you do, you won't last long. Just go back to trading truffles. Or find a new tavern, something that's fire-proof ."
The words hit Em like a ton of bricks, but she chewed through the lump in her throat. The memory of the Mossy Mug kitchen— that kitchen—was still painfully fresh.
She was just heating a stew. A simple task. She was used to it. The smell of fresh broth was comforting, until she heard a faint scratching noise from behind the pantry. She froze.
It was the alley rats. They were the homeless children of Gladeport. Ragged, starving, and hunting for scraps. She'd been there once. Still one of them. Her heart ached for them. That was why she did it—rummaging through the pantry for old bread, a few fruits that were past their prime, some leftover cheese.
That was when the disaster started.
A small flame flickered on the counter. Then, another.
She turned, eyes wide in horror as the wooden counter caught fire, the flames licking the edges of the cupboards and cabinets. She shrieked, grabbing her skirt to fan at it like some ridiculous, helpless idiot. It only made the flames worse.
In seconds, Maura had rushed in, throwing water on the fire, but the damage was done.
By the time Madame Lessa—the owner—arrived, her face was a mix of rage and horror. One look at Em, her face smeared with soot, strands of cheese still hanging in her braid, and the fire that had spread to half the kitchen. Madame Lessa didn't need to say a word. She just knew .
It's her again.
That was how Emila had ended up at the back of the tavern, covered in soot, penniless, and very much unemployed. Again.
"Too late, Mau," Em declared, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, which unfortunately still smelled like cat food and regret. "I already signed the contract. Advance payment received."
One gold and a few silvers. Gone. Just like that. Spent on very necessary things: cat food (obviously), a couple of sad-looking turnips, some carrots, a feathered quill that tickled her nose when she wrote, and floral-scented parchment—for mission purposes . Definitely not for doodling cats wearing cloaks or mushrooms with faces and hats.
Maura's eyes bulged like she'd just swallowed a live toad. "Y-You…" She opened and closed her mouth. "You absolute idiot mushroom hoarder . You just signed your own death certificate!"
Em shrugged as though it was nothing. "I used glitter ink. Put some daisy doodles around my name. Wanna see?"
Maura looked like she was three seconds away from smacking Em upside the head with her satchel. Instead, she yanked out a crumpled roll of parchment and slapped it onto the table. "How did you even pass the exam? The interview? They just…offered you a contract? You didn't even question their credibility?!"
"They seemed credible," Em said, picking cat hair off her sleeve. "They had wax seals. Real shiny ones. And the examination? I found this parchment just lying there with all the answers written on it. I just… copied it."
Maura let out a sound between a gasp and a scream. "You cheated , you unrepentant little wench!"
"It is fate!" Em argued, eyes wide with mock innocence. "That parchment wanted to be found. It was glowing with destiny. Practically whispered, 'Take me. Claim me, Emila'. And the interview…"
Maura narrowed her eyes. "You lied, didn't you?"
"Not exactly," Em said, straightening like she was about to tell a noble tale. "They asked about this scar." She raised her right palm, the one with the long, ugly mark. "I said I stabbed a man who tried to rob me."
"Well, you did," Maura muttered. "And then you cried and apologized while still stabbing him . According to your story."
"He lived ," Em said defensively. "Pesky robber. Kept yelling even after I told him I was new to stabbing."
Maura folded her arms. "Did you also tell them you stabbed him with a spoon? And managed to hurt yourself more than him in the process?"
Em scoffed. "There are things that should be left unsaid, Maura. It's called mystery. Intrigue. 'Builds character."
Maura groaned into her hands.
"But what's done is done," Em continued, undeterred. "I got the job. Training starts today. My first mission's simple. I need to find this man, tail him, send information to the guild. Apparently, he hangs around here. That's what the street raccoons told me."
"The what?"
"You know," Em said, waving vaguely. "Scruff and the other street kids." Scruff, the older one with orange hair and a missing tooth who could surprisingly read, snatched her contract, laughed right in her face, called her a buffoon, and still whispered some intel. For two silvers, of course. "Possibly allies, possibly future thieves of my cats and truffles. They keep stealing Beans. I keep stealing him back. It's a healthy dynamic."
She slid the contract across the table. Maura didn't even look at it. Just stared at her, looking like she'd forgotten how to breathe.
Em met her gaze. "Don't look at me like that. As if you didn't steal silver from Madame Lessa's purse last week."
Maura's jaw dropped. "You saw that?"
"Maura, I see everything. I just don't rat on my friends." Em leaned back, crossing her arms. "Besides, she underpays you. It's wrong to steal—and lie—but we need to survive."
Maura was silent for a moment, her face softening just a little. Em picked up the parchment and flicked it playfully.
"Well, do you know that name?"
Maura muttered under her breath as she glanced at the first page of the contract. Her eyes narrowed, reading the script like it was some cursed parchment. Then, just as quickly, her eyes went wide as if the paper suddenly grew fangs.
"This… this is your target?"
"Yes. Some man named Lushon Alovera. Must be an herb picker or a succulent dealer."
Maura's hand flew to her mouth, and she whispered something under her breath in a language Em couldn't even begin to understand. "I forgot, gods, I forgot that you're an illiterate piece of fungus."
"I can write, read and count," Em shot back, defensive. "Though the script sometimes shifts into vines. Letters get tangled and twisted."
"That's it, Emila Castor. Your death has been sealed. I am losing a dear friend tonight, perhaps."
"Why? Who is this man?"
Instead of answering her, Maura stood up, her face suddenly serious. She gathered the empty glass of water, the plate, and the jar of jam with such a quiet intensity it almost felt like a ritual.
"Go back here at nine this evening," Maura instructed, her voice low. "You'll see someone at the corner, beside the dying plant of Madame Lessa. Your target will be there." She shook her head again, muttering in that foreign tongue. "I pray for your soul. May you find eternal supplies of cat food and truffles in your next life."
With that, Maura walked away, leaving Em in a mix of confusion and a slight sense of dread.
Em stared down again at the name on the contract.
What was it about this Lushon Alovera that made Maura act like she was already planning for Em's funeral?