The Dancing Dragon erupted the moment Art's pouch struck the bar.
Free drinks were a language everyone understood. Men cheered, women laughed, and wooden mugs rose into the air while the innkeeper suddenly moved with the speed of a man who had discovered religion. Only the children looked displeased. Art's entrance had interrupted Lily's song, leaving several boys pouting and a few little girls standing with their hands on their hips, glaring at the newcomers as if preparing a formal complaint.
Lily, however, was almost grateful for the distraction, as it gave her the perfect excuse to end the performance.
There was no chance she was continuing that love song with Art watching her. He had found her standing on a stage in front of half the village, singing about a lonely traveler finally meeting someone special. The thought of whatever smug remark he might make sent heat rushing into her cheeks.
Unfortunately, embarrassment was only part of the problem.
Hunger, heat, and two days of stubborn travel had finally caught up with her. The candlelight swayed. Voices blurred into a single distant roar. Her legs felt weak and strangely disconnected, as though they belonged to someone else.
She needed to get off the stage and lie down before she fainted in front of everyone.
Lily snatched up her pouches and gathered Art's cloak, leaving the lute behind. She turned toward the bar, intending to climb down quietly and disappear into the crowd.
Then her foot landed on the trailing cloak. The fabric tightened around her ankle. And Lily stumbled at the edge of the stage.
Several people gasped as she pitched forward. Normally, she could have caught herself, twisted in the air, or rolled safely upon landing. This time her body refused to respond. The room turned sideways, and the floor rushed toward her.
A pair of arms caught her before she struck it.
The young hunter who had declared his love pulled her against him. He staggered beneath the sudden impact, recovered, and lowered her until her bare feet touched the floor. Lily sagged against him, too dizzy to stand without his support.
"Lily?" he asked, alarm replacing his earlier confidence. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
She tried to answer, but her vision had narrowed around his worried brown eyes. She wanted to lie down, yet the boy seemed convinced that keeping her upright was helping. Around them, the inn had become a tunnel of blurred faces and distant questions. People gathered close, concerned but uncertain, each offering advice while none seemed to know what to do.
"I just need…" Lily began.
A powerful hand seized the hunter's shoulder.
"Move."
The command cut cleanly through the noise.
Lily was pulled away so suddenly that the room spun again. Before she could protest, Art lowered her flat onto her back, folded his cloak beneath her head and shoulders, then raised her legs across one bent knee. His movements were quick, controlled, and practiced.
"Give her space," he ordered. "She needs air."
The surrounding villagers stepped back.
Art checked her breathing, loosened the cloth around her neck, and pressed two fingers against her pulse. Then he looked sharply toward the bar.
"Water. Something sweet. Now."
For one hazy moment, Lily stared up at him.
Golden hair. Icy blue eyes. That stupidly handsome face, no longer wearing its usual smirk but tightened by something dangerously close to fear.
He knew first aid.
That was Lily's last clear thought before the darkness took her. And thus she never saw how close her fall came to starting a brawl.
The moment she stumbled, Art had moved. Yet to his dismay he was too far from the stage to reach her in time. All he could do was watch as the dark-haired hunter caught her and lowered her unsteadily to the floor.
For one brief instant, relief loosened the knot in Art's chest. Then he saw Lily sag against the boy.
Her face had gone pale. Her eyes were unfocused, and her legs could barely support her. Yet the fool kept trying to hold her upright, asking useless questions while the surrounding villagers crowded closer and stole what little air she had.
Concern sharpened quickly into anger. And he did not fail to notice how the hunter's arms remained wrapped around her, which made the anger worse.
Art started through the crowd, but before he had taken three steps, Reinheart's hand closed around his shoulder.
"Hold," the old swordsman warned beneath the noise. "The village boy has caught her. Do not make a spectacle of yourself."
Art did not look at him. His eyes remained fixed on Lily.
"He does not know what he is doing."
"She is faint. Not dying."
"You cannot know that from here."
Reinheart's grip tightened. "And neither can you. Remember our purpose. We pass as common monster hunters, nothing more. You have already thrown gold across the bar and turned half the village toward us. Control yourself."
Ordinarily, Art would have listened. Or at least pretended to. But Lily's head had fallen against the hunter's chest, and the boy was still holding her as though she belonged there.
Something hot and irrational tore through Art's usual composure.
He wrenched his shoulder free.
"Get off me."
The force of it made Reinheart's scarred brow lower. Art did not notice. He drove through the crowd, shouldering grown men aside until he reached Lily.
The hunter tightened his hold instinctively.
"You fool," Art snapped. "Give her to me."
He did not wait for permission.
He pulled Lily from the boy's arms, lowered her carefully onto her back, folded the cloak beneath her head, and raised her legs across one bent knee. His hands moved quickly as he checked her breathing and pulse.
Only when he felt the steady beat beneath his fingers did some of the pressure leave his chest.
Then a hand seized his shoulder from behind.
"Get away from her!"
Art turned his head slowly.
The dark-haired hunter stood over him, face flushed with anger and embarrassment.
"She's my girl," he said. "You don't get to put your hands on her."
Art went very still.
"Your girl?"
The hunter tightened his grip on Art's shoulder and tried to drag him away.
Art did not rise.
He remained beside Lily, her legs resting across his raised thigh while the cloak shielded her from the crowd. Keeping one hand steady near her, he reached back with the other and caught the hunter by the wrist.
Then he moved.
A sharp twist broke the boy's grip. Art pulled once, using the hunter's own momentum against him, and flung him over his shoulder without leaving Lily's side.
The hunter struck the floor beside them with a heavy crash that drove the breath from his lungs.
The inn erupted.
Women dragged children away. Benches scraped across the boards. Mugs overturned. One delighted little boy raised both fists and shouted, "Fight!" before his mother seized him around the waist and carried him off.
Art barely glanced at the commotion.
Still kneeling beside Lily, he reached down with one hand, closed it around the hunter's throat, and pinned him against the floor. Lily's legs remained supported across his thigh, her body protected behind him as if even now Art refused to leave her exposed.
The hunter clawed at his wrist.
Art leaned over him, icy eyes stripped of every trace of amusement.
"What," he asked in a frighteningly quiet voice, tightening his grip, "did you mean by that?"
The boy coughed, but pride proved stronger than caution.
"You heard me. Lily said she loved me." A strained grin spread across his face. "You arrived too late, golden boy. She chose me."
Art's arm pressed down harder.
The hunter's smile vanished.
At the rear of the crowd, a broad middle-aged man shoved people aside.
"Take your hands off my son, you damned noble brat!"
He charged.
Reinheart moved before anyone else understood what was happening.
The old warrior cleared a bench in one stride, intercepted the man, and drove him to the floor without drawing his sword. A moment later, the hunter's father lay face down with one arm folded securely behind his back.
"Remain still," Reinheart advised.
The man struggled once. Reinheart tightened the hold by the smallest amount, and the struggle ended.
Around them, the villagers backed away. The two newcomers had not drawn their enormous swords, yet that somehow made them more frightening. They had overpowered two strong local hunters almost casually, as though violence were simply another language they spoke better than everyone else.
That was the moment Lily finally drifted back to consciousness—right in the middle of the chaos.
She opened her eyes to find the young hunter lying beside her, Art's hand pressing on his throat, and Reinheart kneeling upon an enraged older man several steps away.
"Huh?" she murmured. "What happening?"
Art looked down at her immediately.
"Lily." His voice sharpened. "Tell me the truth. Is this village boy your lover?"
Lily stared at him utterly caught off guard by the sudden question as she said, "What?"
Thus Art asked again, "Did you promise yourself to him?"
His expression was so furious and so absurdly serious that she could only blink. She was still weak, her thoughts moving through mud, and Art was leaning over her demanding answers about a boy whose name she did not even know.
"No," she said. "What you talking about? What's going on?"
Art released the pressure on the hunter's throat.
The boy dragged in a breath and pointed accusingly at Lily.
"But Lily you said you loved me!"
Lily slowly remembered the exchange onstage, and embarrassment tightened across her face.
"That was performance joke," she said weakly, irritation creeping into her voice. "Singers say things to audience. Besides, I not even know you. I not know your name."
The hunter looked as though she had struck him with the lute. Around them, several villagers tried unsuccessfully to hide their laughter.
The boy pushed himself upright, dignity bleeding from a dozen wounds.
"My name is Robin," he said quickly. "Robin Loxley. My father is the finest hunter in Einsway, and one day I will be better than him."
The man pinned beneath Reinheart made a muffled sound of approval.
Robin continued before Lily could stop him.
"I spoke too soon, perhaps, but I meant what I said. Let me court you. When we are grown, I will have my own house, my own land, and more meat than you could ever eat. You would be my only wife, and I would treat you well."
Lily's mouth fell open.
She had expected an apology.
Instead, this stranger had apparently planned their entire future during one children's song.
"What?" she whispered.
Art laughed without amusement.
"How generous. A small house, dead animals, and the honor of spending her life washing your hunting clothes."
Robin surged to his feet. "Better that than becoming some decoration in a rich lord's hall."
Art reached beneath Lily and lifted her into his arms before she could object. One arm supported her back, the other beneath her knees.
She squeaked in surprise.
Art looked at Robin over her head.
"She would never choose a life of mud and hunger when I could give her education, protection, wealth, and a place beside me."
Robin stepped closer despite the obvious difference in height and strength.
"A place beside you? Or behind you with all the other girls some spoiled noble collects?"
Art's expression darkened.
"At least I could offer her more than rabbit stew and a leaking roof."
"And I would offer her loyalty," Robin shot back. "She would be my wife, not one prize among many."
Lily looked from one boy to the other in disbelief.
"Stop talking like I am goat at market," she snapped. "I not marrying anyone. I not for sale."
Neither boy looked at her.
"Quiet, Lily," they said together. "Men are speaking."
Silence followed. Lily's violet eyes widened.
Somewhere behind them, a woman muttered, "Oh, those boys have chosen death."
Art and Robin continued glaring at each other, apparently unaware that the small girl between them was considering several forms of violence.
Robin lifted his chin. "You act important, but all I see is an arrogant rich boy hiding behind a false name. Who are you?"
Art's anger settled into a thin, dangerous smile.
He turned slightly and rolled one shoulder, allowing the edge of his cloak to slip aside. Beneath it, the pommel of the enormous sword across his back came into view, a golden dragon worked into the dark metal.
Robin saw it. So did his father. And the color drained from both their faces.
Lily could not see the emblem from where Art held her. She only noticed the sudden change in the room. Heads lowered. Conversations died. Even the innkeeper stopped pretending to polish mugs.
Art let the cloak fall back into place.
"You may continue knowing me as Art," he said. "Tonight, I will overlook your insults. You may thank Lily for that. I have no desire to distress her further."
Robin's fists clenched, but he stepped back.
Art's smile sharpened.
"And you need not concern yourself with her future. She will decide it when the time comes—after she has learned enough to avoid promises made to the first village boy who applauds her singing."
That was almost reasonable.
Then he added, "Until then, she is under my protection."
Lily glared up at him.
"I am under nobody."
"Of course," Art said.
His tone suggested the opposite.
Reinheart released Robin's father, who quickly withdrew with his son. No one else attempted to intervene. The villagers returned slowly to their seats, though the room no longer felt as carefree as before. People avoided looking directly toward Art and Reinheart, like sheep pretending not to notice two lions resting among them.
Reinheart cleared a nearby table with a look. Its occupants immediately discovering that they had urgent business elsewhere.
Art carried Lily over and sat, keeping her against him while Reinheart brought water and ordered the innkeeper to produce food. Art wrapped the black cloak around her, tucking it close as though she were a child rescued from winter.
Lily's pride suffered more with every careful movement.
"I grateful," she muttered. "But no treat me like baby. I can sit alone."
Art studied her face, then loosened his hold without argument.
That was suspiciously easy.
Lily slid from his lap and stood. Yet the moment her feet touched the floor, the room tilted.
She waited until it steadied, hoping nobody had noticed, then took one step toward the bar. Another. On the third, the candlelight smeared into long golden lines.
Her knees weakened, and Art caught her before she fell.
Lily tried to pull away, but her body no longer listened. Her stomach cramped with hunger. Her legs burned from the journey. Her arms ached from playing, and even breathing felt like work.
She had walked for days, slept beneath a tree, eaten almost nothing, crossed an unfamiliar forest, entered a village alone, been cheated, and performed song after song for a room full of strangers.
She had kept moving because stopping would mean admitting she could not do everything herself.
But she could not keep moving, not anymore.
Realising her own weakness, tears suddenly gathered in her eyes before she could force them back. She gripped Art's sleeve with both hands, no longer caring who saw.
For the first time since leaving her lake, Lily allowed herself to sound as exhausted and frightened as she felt.
"Please," she whispered. "Help me."