The sky over the Wetlands did not merely rain; it roared. Thick sheets of water turned the horizon into a blurred gray curtain, lit only by the violet strobes of lightning. Regulus, now anchored in his multi-headed Hydra form, stood firm against the deluge. The low-slung weight of his aquatic body made the thunder feel less like a physical blow and more like a distant vibration. He moved with a newfound grace, his many heads scanning the sodden treeline with predatory focus.
"Better," he sent, the thought echoing clearly in Crispin's mind.
Crispin wiped a hand over his face, though it did little to stave off the drenching. His boots sank into the softened loam of the road, but for the first time in his life, the weight of the world felt lighter. He looked over at Bethany. Rain plastered her hair to her forehead, and water weighed down her gear, yet she smiled.
"Alric said there should be a cabin a few miles in," Crispin called out over the rhythmic drumming of the rain. "Guild property. We are to use it as a base and store our supplies. Tomorrow we'll do our first ranging session."
"Clean and tactical," Bethany replied, her voice bright despite the gloom. "I like it."
Ashara spiraled through the turbulent air above them, her sleek scales shimmering as she dove through the clouds. She gave a sharp, melodic cry that cut through the thunder. Bethany looked up, her eyes momentarily reflecting the bond.
"She sees it. We're close."
The path widened, revealing a sturdy structure made of dark, iron-reinforced timber nestled among the weeping willow-oaks. Freed in the moment—away from the watchful eyes of the High Terraces and the expectations of the Smithy—Crispin laughed. He nudged Bethany playfully, his shoulder bumping hers, and she splashed a puddle toward his boots in return. The rain soaked them to the bone, but for the first time, they claimed their freedom.
The cabin was small but remarkably extravagant, a relic of a time when the Guild spared no expense for its frontier outposts. Once inside, the roar of the storm became a muffled thrum against the thick walls.
"Our instructions are to remain on the first floor," Crispin said, his voice dropping as the professional weight returned. "All shutters must remain closed so our light stays hidden. We don't want the poachers seeing movement." He looked at her, his expression softening. "Go get changed and dry. I'll see to the shutters."
"Thank you, Crispin," she whispered, her smile lingering as she headed toward the back room.
Crispin stepped back out into the biting wind to secure the exterior latches. As he knelt to fasten a stubborn shutter near the foundation, he froze. There, preserved in the sheltered mud beneath the overhang, were boot prints. They weren't from Guild-issue boots. The prints were narrow, elegant, yet deeply pressed, as if the wearer carried a heavy burden. They looked old, perhaps from the week before, but they were proof. The enemy had been here.
He finished the task with a rising sense of urgency and hurried back inside, dripping water across the polished floorboards. He found Bethany in the main room, now dressed in a simple, floor-length white gown. She was drying her hair with a thick towel, the firelight catching the emerald light in her eyes.
"Someone tried to break in," Crispin said, his breath hitching. "I found prints outside. Elven, maybe? Or at least not ours."
Bethany paused, her expression turning serious. "Regy will be helpful then. You could help us track them tomorrow, right?" She reached out and began wiping the water from Regulus's primary head as the slime curled near the hearth.
Crispin stripped off his sodden armor. The leather and plate were a chore to remove, and soon he stood in only his padded leggings, his skin glistening with rainwater in the warm glow of the room. He didn't notice at first that Bethany had stopped moving. When he turned to reach for his bag, he caught her gaze. She was staring at his bare chest, her face flushing a deep, radiant crimson.
"I'll... go finish changing," Crispin said.
"Okay," she said, her voice a pitch higher than usual.
He grabbed his bag and retreated into the next room, but as he moved, he glimpsed her over his shoulder. She hadn't turned away. She was watching him, her eyes tracing the lines of his back before she glanced down at the towel in her hands. Crispin felt a jolt of electricity that had nothing to do with the storm.
He returned a few minutes later, clad in comfortable linen sleepwear. The room was now filled with the crackle of the hearth, which Regy had ignited with a controlled puff of Dragon-breath. Ashara perched near the fire, her scales drying as she stretched out to her full length, nearly the size of a large hound.
"I'll make some tea," Crispin offered. "Would you like some?"
"Yes, please."
They sat on the floor, the space between them filled with the scent of jasmine tea and the savory steam of dumplings they had brought from the city. The tension of the road melted into the stone of the hearth.
Bethany leaned back, her hand resting flat on the floor as she watched the embers. Crispin mirrored her, stretching his weary muscles, and his hand found the floor just an inch from hers. Slowly, as if by some magnetic pull, his fingers overlapped hers.
They looked at each other, the silence in the room suddenly very heavy and very sweet. Neither pulled away. Instead, Bethany shifted her hand, locking two of her fingers firmly around Crispin's.
They scooted closer, their shoulders meeting, until they were leaning against one another, two shadows flickering against the wall as the fire burned low.