Dawn sifted through the leaves in thin, pearly threads and the little shelter of woven boughs breathed with the forest—cool air in, warm air out. Vasha was still awake from second watch, a quiet silhouette with her knees hugged to her chest, tail curled about her ankles like a white plume tipped in blue.
Her eyes were ever watchful, scanning the surroundings for any sign of trouble. Her gaze fell on the sleeping figure of the human woman with the red curls and a soft smile appeared on her face. How lucky she felt to just happen to run into her in the market yesterday. Now she was here in this strange little camp, accepted by a druid to assist him with his search. When Vasha heard something she looked up, ears perked. Thorn’s soft tread return from the perimeter, she gave a small nod and finally let herself relax.
“Nothing close,” he rumbled, crouching to rake soil over last night’s embers. “Pack.”
The ebony skinned Oakhai nodded. It was more than Vasha could have hoped for. She was just an outcast after all.
Suraia stirred at his voice, blinking as the living roof above them resolved into leaves and dew and the pale lift of morning. For a few heartbeats human woman lay very still, listening to birdsong thread the trees. It was strange to wake in the open with others nearby—strange, but not unpleasant. She hugged the oversized cloak that had functioned as a blanket for her close, enjoying the warmth if only for a moment longer.
Vasha stretched, then tilted her head towards Suraia. “We need to pick up your stuff today at the trading post,” she said. “Apothecary first, then later the tailor, yeah?”
Suraia’s eyes widened. She had forgotten entirely in the blur of fear and exhaustion. She sat up quickly. “Oh… uhm… yes. We… we have to do that.”
Thorn turned, his frown heavy. “Back to that place?” His tone made it sound like marching into danger.
Vasha flicked her tail. “She has paid for them. Besides, it is like potion-making… stuff… and the other half of her outfit. It is almost like she’s now only wearing undergarments… sort of.”
There was a long pause, the Ee’dornil’s reluctance thick in the air. Then he gave a short, resigned grunt. “Then I will go with you.”
He reached for his fur pelt, but before he could shrug it into place, Suraia gathered her courage and held out the oversized black cloak she had used as a blanket.
“You’ll… stand out less if… if you wear this,” she murmured, cheeks burning red. “It… it has a hood...”
For a moment the large elf only looked at her, unreadable. Then, slowly, he accepted it, drawing the cloak over his shoulders beneath the pelt. The hood shadowed his sharp features, though no garment could disguise his sheer height.
“It will do,” he said, brusque but not unkind.
Vasha offered a crooked smile, respectful but teasing. “Like a tree in a wheatfield, Master Thornwing. But at least now it is a hooded tree.”
Thorn only grunted, but Suraia ducked her head, a little smile tugging at her lips. She had offered him something of hers, and he had taken it. Quickly the red headed woman gathered her over-the-shoulder bag so she was ready to go.
The druid gently placed his hands on the ground and their makeshift shelter retreated swiftly, leaving the area as though they had never been there.
“Stay close,” the Ee’dornil said to no one in particular before he started moving. The human woman and the Oakhai rushed to his side and they were off.
The path back wound through dew-laden undergrowth and the faint trails of game. Morning light broke fully as they walked, dappling Thorn’s hood and turning Vasha’s braid into a ribbon of silver-white and blue. The trading post appeared ahead—smoke rising, voices carrying, the clatter of hooves and carts.
Even cloaked, Thorn drew stares. Mothers pulled children aside; merchants paused mid-bargain. Suraia shrank deeper into her grey cloak, cheeks hot, while Vasha walked boldly, ears twitching and tail flicking as if to dare anyone to whisper.
They reached the crooked door of the apothecary. The bell above chimed, and the familiar scent of dried herbs, sharp spirits, and lavender drifted out. The shopkeeper looked up from polishing a scale.
“Ah, back for the rest of your things,” he said brightly, ducking below the counter. He returned with the battered alchemy supplies, now scrubbed clean, and a roll of surgical tools bound in linen. “As promised—fit for use. You’ll find the edges sharpened and the glass re-stoppered. Good as new, more or less.”
Suraia accepted the bundle reverently, her fingers trembling over the familiar weight as she carefully took out her alchemy kit and sorted the items into it and the surgical tools into her bag. “Thank you… truly.”
The man gave a sympathetic smile. “Healers are always welcome here. May Myalanna keep your road safe!”
They had barely stepped back into the market bustle when a young man in polished Xaverion guard armour intercepted them. His helm was tucked under one arm, sandy-brown hair sticking up despite his attempt to smooth it.
“You—ladies.” His voice cracked slightly before firming. “You’re requested at the watchtower.”
Suraia stiffened, clutching her bag. Vasha stepped forward, bristling. “Requested—or arrested?”
The guard coloured faintly. “Requested,” he said, then lowered his tone. “Please. Best to come willingly.”
The two women shared a look and Suraia glanced at Thorn for a moment before they hesitantly started following the Xaverion guard to the watchtower.
The Ee’dornil’s jaw tightened, but he followed without a word, his stride drawing more stares than the guard’s summons.
The watchtower stood squat and square at the edge of the trading post, its stone walls weather-darkened, the Xaverion Order banner hanging on the left side of the door while another banner with a crest hang on the right side. Inside, the air was cooler, smelling of ink and damp leather. A desk cluttered with parchment and quills dominated the chamber, beside a notice board layered with curling sheets.
The young guard led them in and shut the door. “My name is Christopher Cooper Crooby,” he said formally, squaring his shoulders though he still looked boyish in the armour. “And I will be plain with you—I received a request for your arrest this morning.”
Vasha’s tail lashed. “From that pompous half-elf, no doubt!”
Christopher hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Young Lord Aelric Harren Vale. Son of Lord Lucian Harren Downings and Lady Eydana Vale Loynai. His father owns this trading post—his family funds the watchtower itself. He claims you assaulted him and his companions last night, and…” His eyes flicked from the two women to Thorn. “He wants the head of a giant wolf?”
At that, Thorn gave a scoff like a crack of bark.
Vasha’s ears snapped flat against her head, her tail lashing once in fury. “The head of the wolf?” she spat, voice dripping scorn. “He saved us from him! Aelric had Suraia pinned to a wall, grinding against her, probably whispering exactly what he planned to do to her while his thug held me back. And now the little lord wants a trophy of the one that stopped him from forcing himself onto her? He should be grateful it only scared him!”
Christopher’s face tightened, colour rising in his cheeks. He raised his hands quickly. “Listen. I do not believe him. I want to hear your side.”
Vasha wasted no time, recounting the ambush in the alley, the threats, the stolen gold. Her words tumbled fast, heated. Suraia kept her eyes lowered, fingers twisting in her cloak, only whispering assent when asked.
“So it was the wolf that turned the tide,” Christopher finished quietly when she paused for breath. His expression was unreadable for a moment, then he nodded to himself.
He listed the names one by one—“Aelric Harren Vale. Rostan, his hired guard. Lareth, the wood-elf boy. And Jory, his servant.” His voice held the rhythm of someone who had already memorised these details, as though filing jet another report no one would ever read.
“And now he is calling for Miss Silverbell’s arrest. For her… ‘pet fox,’ as he put it. And, yes, for the wolf.”
The silence stretched until Thorn finally rumbled, “The wolf will not be found if it does not want to be found.”
Christopher exhaled, almost in relief. “Good. The last thing I want is to clean up Aelric’s tantrums. I came here to keep order, not chase shadows for spoiled brats. Most of the trouble here begins and ends with him, but my hands are tied.”
He leaned on the desk, lowering his voice further. “But there are real problems. Animal attacks from the forest. People falling sick without reason. That is what I should be focusing on. Not…” The young Xaverion guard’s voice trailed off, not finishing what he clearly wanted to say.
“That is why I am here,” Thorn suddenly said. “There is something disturbing the forest and I intend to find out what it is and put an end to it.”
Christopher’s eyes flicked to Thorn again, and then to Vasha. “I can pay. Half now, half when it is done.”
From a drawer, he produced a pouch and counted ten gold coins onto the desk. Then, with deliberate ceremony, he wrote a notice, pinned it to the board with a brass tack, and gestured. “There. Your contract, clear as day if anyone asks. Makes it official.”
Thorn picked up the gold coins and handed five of them to Vasha. She turned them over in her palm, her ears twitching in surprise. “Enough for a bow and arrows,” she said softly. “And a dagger. I can hunt, keep us fed.”
Suraia, watching from the edge of the room, felt a twist of worry. Thorn had not given her any coin at all. With her lips pressed together she started admiring the floor. She had managed to get robbed within a day he had brought her safely back to a settlement. Perhaps she was not part of this “work.” This way he could be rid of this burden she was.
But Thorn caught her glance, his expression softening just enough. “You stay close, Silverbell. A healer will most likely be needed.”
Suraia looked up if only for a split second, straight into Thorn’s slightly glowing eyes before she quickly looked away again. Relief flooded her, though she only whispered, “Th-thank you.”
“Perfect, that settles it then!” Christopher said with a gentle smile as he looked around the room at the trio.
They stepped back into early afternoon bustle. Thorn moved like a looming shadow at their side, the black cloak’s hood pulled low. Still, his size turned every head.
Suraia looked up at the sun before turning to Thorn hesitantly. “Uhmm... the tailor... my... dress... it... it should be finished by now...”
“Go, take Vasha with you,” Thorn said. “I will be there shortly.”
At the tailor’s, the promised overdress was waiting, its light blue fabric freshly fitted to Suraia’s slender frame. The silver-haired seamstress ushered her behind a screen to try it on, fussed with laces and hem, then stepped back with a satisfied hum. “See how it brings out your eyes, dear? Lovely, lovely.”
Suraia smoothed the front of the overdress, half shy, half proud, and dared a glance towards the door—
—where Thorn ducked inside, and the room seemed to shrink.
The plump tailor gasped. “By Ysandra’s grace… look at the size of him! What shoulders!”
Her companion laughed, waving a bolt of dark cloth. “Imagine the cut of a coat on that frame.”
Thorn folded his arms, the borrowed cloak rustling. It was not precisely a glare—more the immovable patience of an old tree faced with chattering birds.
Suraia’s cheeks burned hot enough to rival a forge.
The tailors tittered, one still holding up cloth towards his shoulder. “You, sir, deserve garments that do you justice.”
“No,” Thorn said simply, tugging the cloak’s hood lower.
The seamstresses sighed but turned back to their gentler quarry. “There. Better,” the elder said, circling Suraia. “Eat more, child.”
Suraia only nodded, wishing the heat in her cheeks would fade. She could feel Vasha’s grin on her like sunlight and dared not meet Thorn’s eye at all.
With a satisfied nod the younger seamstress presented Suraia with a neat parcel of spare laces and a small mending kit “for journeys,” then shooed them fondly into the lane.
The market greeted them with clatter and scent—roasting nuts, horse, oiled leather. Thorn steered them to a general goods stall.
“Cutlery,” he said, laying down coin. The merchant produced a small tin pan, spoons, and a knife, all plain but sturdy. Thorn inspected the knife’s edge, nodded once, and swept the lot into his pack. He added two loaves of bread wrapped in cloth and moved on without fuss.
Suraia trailed after, clutching her bag, struck by how little thought he gave to the coins—only to what would serve them on the road.
Vasha had already peeled off to a weapons stall where bows lined the backboard. She lifted a short bow, tested the limbs, then plucked the string once, listening to the note.
The smith eyed her fox ears warily. “Oakhai, eh? You lot do shoot true.”
Vasha’s ears flicked back. “We lot can do a great many things,” she replied, sugar-sweet with an edge. She drew to half, then let the string relax with a satisfied nod. “This will do.”
She selected a quiver, two dozen arrows, and a hunting dagger, sliding it to her left hip as though the spot had been waiting. The effect changed her in an instant—still playful, but ready.
Thorn returned in time to see the set of her shoulders. He gave one short nod. “Good.”
Vasha flashed teeth. “Now I can pull my weight.”
Suraia hugged her bag closer, comforted by the weight of cleaned vials and rolled linen. She had no weapon to show. Doubt pricked, then eased as she remembered Thorn’s earlier words. Stay close, Silverbell.