Maura went to Emila's side like the bearer of bad news. She didn't sit, only leaned down and muttered out of the corner of her mouth, "There. That's the one."
Em followed the subtle tilt of her head, and nearly dropped her quill.
She'd spotted him the moment she stepped into the tavern. Half-swallowed by shadow, hood was up, but enough had slipped to show his hair—long and red. His skin caught the firelight like burnished copper, and his face? His face was the kind tavern girls wrote dirty songs about.
That's no ordinary man. That's a fae . The tall, magical people the vendors and merchants spoke of.
Em instantly decided it wasn't him. Just a tall, brooding stranger who happened to be sitting in her target's usual seat. A coincidence. Nothing more. Definitely not the one she was sent to spy on.
No way.
"That's truly Lushon Alovera?" she whispered, voice shrill with disbelief. "He's a fae ?" Her words were sharp enough to slice air, but the man in question made no sign of hearing her.
It was not mentioned in the contract.
…Maybe it was.
Okay, fine, it probably was. Somewhere in the middle. Or at the end. Or hidden in that cursed wall of text that made her eyeballs want to detach and roll under the nearest table.
She didn't read the whole thing, alright?
The letters started dancing by the second paragraph. Her head throbbed. The guild should've just put a big glittery warning like:
YOU MIGHT BE SENT TO TRACK A POSSIBLY MURDEROUS FAELING IN THE WOODS, SOME BREAD AND CAT FOOD.
That, she would've read.
Maura didn't answer. Just rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "You still have time to back out. Save your future. Burn the contract. Return the gold."
Em shook her head. "Gold's gone," she said, patting the worn pouch on her hip. "And my signature is written in glitter ink. It's staying."
Her gaze flicked briefly to the red-haired fae across the room, then back to the page.
She began scribbling like a woman possessed.
Lushon Alovera. He's a fae. A fae.
She whispered it again, under her breath, for emphasis.
Maura glanced at her work. "What in the spirits' name are you doing?"
"Profiling my target," Em replied.
She wrote, muttering as she went:
Hair: red and angry.Eyes: one gold, one mechanical. It whirs.Face: lethal.Cheekbones and jaw: sharp as a blade. Could definitely cut a carrot.Nose: I like it.Mood: gloomy. Like morning rain.
Maura exhaled through her nose and pressed a hand to her face. "I knew you were an idiot. I just didn't realize you were this level of idiot."
Em ignored her. She was already doodling: a hooded figure with pointy ears, a tiny whirl for the eye, and cloak lines that swirled like wind.
She risked another glance at the fae. He sat in the corner, alone and still.
Em returned to her doodles, adding some fangs and tears because he looked like a dejected forest fox who lost his lunch.
Eventually, he rose.
Coins clinked on the table. Em stiffened as he walked past. But he slowed, just near enough to glance down at her parchment.
Her scribbles, her ridiculous little doodle, the scrawl of Lushon Alovera with sparkles drawn around his name.
He paused.
Then, in a low voice, he said, "I don't have fangs."
And just like that, he was gone.
The door creaked closed behind him.
Em blinked once.
Then twice.
And finally wrote at the bottom of the page:
Denies having fangs. Suspeshoes.
----------
The door creaked shut behind Lucien, muffling the low murmur of the Mossy Mugs tavern. Cool Gladeport air met him like a sigh, damp with mist, fragrant with peat, old stone, pine and the occasional smell of the sea.
He exhaled slowly, his breath fogging. He hadn't meant to linger. Just a quiet drink like the nights before.
He glanced back at the closed door where he could still faintly smell and hear her. That strange human girl.
She'd stared. Scribbled. Doodled .
Lucien rubbed his temples, muttering under his breath, "Lushon Alovera? What in the blight is that?"
He'd barely caught it, her voice low and incredulous. But it had reached him all the same.
Lushon Alovera. It sounded like a rare tea. Or some wretched seasonal pastry. He didn't know whether to be amused or insulted.
And the drawing…was that a fox beside his boot?
"No," he muttered and started walking away, pulling the hood of his cloak lower. "No, I do not have fangs. And if anyone asks, I'm not sparkly either."
He kept walking, back to Whirwood, where the silence grew thicker and his name, whatever version she butchered, echoed in his mind.