The tub water had long gone tepid, but I barely noticed. Steam clings to the stone walls in lazy swirls, mingling with the faint scent of oil and lavender rising from our skin. Kit’s legs rest across mine, her toes skimming my shin in idle affection. I lean back, eyes half-lidded, savoring the rare peace of this moment.
She shifts beside me—graceful, deliberate—and the water laps around us in soft applause. A mischievous smile plays at her lips, amber eyes glinting under heavy lashes.
Kit trails a fingertip down the center of my chest, drawing a teasing line that stirs more than the waves.
“Still mine?” she murmurs.
I catch her wrist and press a kiss into her palm. “Always.”
She slides between my knees—fluid, feline—wet hair clinging in silvery ribbons across her back. Lanternlight catches the droplets on her skin like falling stars. Her hands glide along my thighs, confident and slow, and I feel breath catch in my throat.
No commands. No requests. Just her.
Our gazes lock, and in that look is everything: history, trust… and the quiet pull of the bond between us.
Kit lowers herself, and I exhale like I’ve been struck by lightning.
Her touch is sure, movements rhythmic and devoted. Every tilt of her head, every soft breath against my thigh carries heat. I grip the edge of the tub and the side of her head, her hair tangling in my fingers, and let out a ragged groan that echoes through the chamber.
My hips tremble. Her focus never wavers, but the glimmer of her smirk remains, a silent promise of how well she knows me.
Then it comes—my release—a choked cry, a shuttered gasp, a full-body quake as I unravel in her care. I surrender not from weakness but because she wills it so.
When she rises, Kit leans down to kiss me softly, deliberately—her lips still warm. Then she whispers in my ear, reverent rather than teasing:
“I love you.”
I pull her close, breathless and wrecked, and let the words return hoarsely:
“And I am yours.”
***
The sky is a clear cobalt blue, faint whorls of high clouds drifting lazily over the treetops. Dew‑washed greenery scents the air as our trail winds into a sun‑dappled glade. Birds sing like they’ve been paid to perform, each note crisp and bright. Even the insects hum in rhythm with the steady thud of my boots on packed dirt.
Kit walks beside me with a slight bounce in her step, her white hair tied back in a loose braid—one stray strand dancing against her cheek. The vine‑like tattoos on her arms are mostly hidden beneath well‑fitted leather and cotton, though the lilac glow of her flowers peeks out just enough to catch the light. Her curved blades sway at her hips, and a pack of neatly sorted supplies rests over her shoulder.
I’m armored but relaxed, hair still tousled from a hasty comb‑through. The strap of my greaves squeaks faintly with each stride. I squint into the sun, but there’s a softness to my expression—a man who slept well, woke to warmth, and now steps into danger with someone worth guarding at his side.
We don’t speak at first. We simply walk, letting the world be loud with life while we savor the silence between us.
Eventually, Kit nudges my arm.
“Do you think the birds are flirting with each other too?” she asks, tilting her head toward a pair of bright green tree‑singers flitting branch to branch.
I chuckle.
“Probably. Would explain all the showing off.”
She smirks.
“We could learn from them.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“You saying I don’t show off enough?”
“Oh no,” she says with a sly grin, “you’re an expert at showing off. I just want to make sure you’re not out of practice.”
“Challenge accepted.”
We crest a low rise in the trail. Ahead, the forest grows thicker, darker—branches knitting into arches, moss crawling up trunks like velvet fingers. The hunting grounds lie beyond. The tone shifts… but only slightly. There’s still sunlight. Still laughter trailing our steps.
Just another morning walk into the wilds—steel, shadows, and us together.
We pause beneath a half‑fallen arch of stone wrapped in ivy. Morning light filters through the canopy, painting the mossy path in shifting patches of green and gold. Instinct takes over, and I go still—counting, checking, preparing.
I shift the weight of my chainmail, feeling the links settle across my shoulders. Still, I tug at the collar as if something might have slipped. My shield sits on my back for now, but my spear rests comfortably in my hand. I plant its tip in the soft earth beside my boot, twist, and listen to the faint scrape—testing its balance.
Kit crouches beside me, tightening the cords at her calf.
“Greaves holding up?” she asks without looking.
“Well enough. I still hate the squeak,” I admit.
“I thought you enjoyed a good squeak?” She smirks, then taps the leather strap slung across her chest. Her armor is midnight‑dyed leather wrapped tight over pale cloth—light enough for swift movement, tough only against glancing blows.
I duck my head, teasing,
“You sure you’re not underdressed for a hunt?”
She stands, rolling her shoulders like a cat stretching after a nap. Twin daggers, slender and elvish‑made, glitter at her hips.
“I like being fast… If they can’t catch me, they can’t kill me.”
I brush a bit of leaf from her sleeve.
“You know that’s not how armor works.”
“I know you worry too much.” Kit steps close and presses a kiss just under my chin. “That’s why I let you wear all the metal. I’m counting on you to catch all the blows.”
I huff, though I can’t hide the curl of my mouth.
“Just stay behind the shield when the screaming starts.”
She winks.
“If the screaming starts.”
Bushmen Forest waits ahead.
I hate this place.
But with her beside me,
the path feels lighter.
We crossed a shallow stream, boots whispering over moss‑slick stones. Sunlight filtered through the canopy like gold through green glass. Peaceful. Warm. But tension hummed beneath it all.
My spear rested across my shoulders, chainmail settling across my giant frame.
“Alright,” I said, glancing at Kit. “We finally get to fight side by side. Try not to get too distracted watching me work.”
She smiled sideways, tugging her hood up as the shadows deepened.
“You haven’t seen me fight yet either,” I added. “But you’ll learn fast.”
A chuckle escaped me, then faded as the forest thickened.
“Let’s talk Bushmen.”
Kit dropped into a crouch beside a leaning pine. I knelt next to her, tracing shapes in the dirt with a fingertip.
“Somewhere between plant and predator,” I said. “Vine‑covered bodies. Twisted limbs. Tendril arms covered in thorns. Lumbering, but their strikes are fast. And the cuts stack.”
“Death by a thousand scratches,” she murmured.
“Exactly. Bigger ones can fire volleys of thorns—ten, fifteen feet across. Saw a scout get stuck like a pincushion. Don’t get caught in that.”
“Good thing I don’t stand still,” she said, hand drifting to her daggers.
“And Elders?” she asked.
I exhaled slowly.
“Twice the size. Stronger. Smarter. Never seen one but heard of one that dragged people into its body and digested them alive.”
She grimaced. “Charming.”
“They’re rare. But if you see anything with three or more ‘arms’—back off fast.”
Kit nodded. “You’re up front. Shield and bait. I stay low, move fast, flank and bleed them.”
“Exactly.” I rose, spear shaft tapping against my boot. “They go for movement and vibration. Don’t rustle too much. And if I shout curl, that means volley incoming. Find a tree and drop flat.”
“Got it.”
She paused, eyes softening.
“You’re good at this. Not just charging in. You think.”
“I’ve made mistakes before,” I said quietly. “I try not to make them twice.”
“Good. Just don’t die in front of me. Would ruin my week.”
I grinned. “Deal. Let’s hunt.”
Kit moved like mist over roots and loam—tail flicking, ears twitching at every creak. Her eyes narrowed.
There—unnatural green.
Three Bushmen crouched low in the underbrush, vine‑creatures shaped like humanoids only in the most grotesque way. Thorned tendrils coiled lazily from their shoulders. One pulsed as if breathing.
Kit flicked her tail: two targets, spread, slow, dangerous—then vanished into shadow.
I crept forward, chainmail muffled under canvas. Spear ready. Shield low.
Kit was in position and ready. I pulled the mob with a quick casting.
Arc‑Lightning.
Stormlight flashed blue‑white across the clearing, bursting from my fingers, leaping between the Bushmen.
Kit sprang. Ambush.
Her twin daggers struck the nearest brute—
and barely sank in.
Too dense. Too thick.
She twisted for a second strike—
A tendril lashed across her thigh.
THWACK!
“Agh!” She rolled away, bleeding.
“They’re brutes!” I shouted. “Watch the swings!”
I surged forward, spear blazing with stormlight—
Eldritch Strike
Thunder snapped as I drove it into the nearest Bushman. Vines burned away in a burst of white‑blue light, but the creature only staggered.
“Damn things don’t die easy!”
Another tendril slammed my shield—
THUNK!
numbing my arm through steel.
Kit ducked under a second blow, breath sharp. “They’re not kobolds! They’re like trees that hate you!”
A vine whip cracked, nearly sweeping me from my feet. I was quick to prevent that, casting Shield.
The crackling barrier deflected the worst of it, ringing like lightning hitting a bell tower.
“Split them!” I barked. “Divide their reach!”
Kit vanished into brambles, moving with painful grace.
I planted my boots—
Thunderwave
The shockwave blasted one Bushman into a tree, bark exploding.
But they kept getting up.
Kit circled wide, favoring her leg. One Bushman turned toward her, sensing her heartbeat in the brush.
She stopped running.
Her eyes narrowed.
Her hands tightened at the hilts of her daggers.
Whispers—not heard, but felt—slipped through the air.
Her vine tattoos shimmered.
Violet light pulsed up her arm, gathering in her palm—
Her curved blades ignited with violet fire.
The Bushman lunged.
Kit ran in—
Echo Step
flickering forward like a skipped frame—
sliding under a sweeping tendril.
Her blades sang upward—
Soulfire Veilstrike
The Bushman convulsed, vines smoking from within, cracking apart as violet fire hollowed it out. It shrieked and collapsed.
Kit stood panting, ears twitching.
The flames flickered—
then vanished.
Her knees buckled.
“I… felt it leave me,” she gasped. “Like something pulled through my core.”
I roared, driving my spear through the last Bushman—stormlight bursting from the tip. It fell twitching, vines curling in death.
Silence.
Birds returned, cautious.
I limped to her, offering my hand.
She took it—no grin this time.
“That thing I did… that cost something.”
“It always does,” I said.
She leaned briefly into me, cheek warm against my shoulder.
“Well,” she muttered, forcing a smirk, “at least I looked cool doing it.”
Kit brushed sap and blood from her cheek. The glow along her arm faded back into vine tattoos.
“Still standing,” I said.
She flexed her hand. “Yeah. I thought it would feel like power. It kind of did. But…”
She stared at her palm.
“It tugged. Deep down. Like it wanted more than I was offering. Like something opened a door inside me I can’t shut.”
“Welcome to mana drain,” I said.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Plenty left in the well.”
We both knew better.
This wasn’t exhaustion.
It was initiation magic.
The Bushmen left silvers in their wake and the smell of sap and crushed greenery. Better than kobold coppers and slime discarded junk to be sure.
The wind shifted, warm with late morning sun.
Kit finally grinned.
“I’ll admit it—way better than stabbing kobolds.”
Her eyes brightened.
“Ready to find out what an Elder Bushman looks like?”