Sora woke before dawn.
For several moments he did not move, his mind suspended in that strange state between sleep and awareness where thought had not yet organized itself. He felt warmth first. Warmth beneath him, warmth over him, warmth gathered in pockets beneath the blanket where his body had settled through the night. It was such an unfamiliar sensation after months of sleeping against damp earth and cold stone that he remained still simply to process it.
Then memory returned all at once.
Town.
Inn.
Human body.
Thalia.
He opened his eyes.
The room was dim blue with early morning, the oil lamp long extinguished. Faint silver light filtered through the shutters, tracing narrow bars across the floorboards. Sora blinked up at the ceiling beams, listening.
The inn was quieter now than it had been the previous evening, but not silent. Somewhere downstairs came the muted thud of someone moving barrels. A woman laughed softly in another room. Water poured into a basin beyond the wall.
Contained life.
Routine life.
He pushed himself upright and immediately became aware that his hair was in his face again.
He made an irritated sound and shoved it back.
Blankets pooled around his waist. His glasses sat on the bedside table exactly where he had left them, and for a second he found himself absurdly relieved. He had expected, irrationally, that objects left unattended might vanish during the night. That seemed like the sort of thing the world had done often enough recently to warrant suspicion.
He put the glasses on.
The room sharpened.
Sora swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a while, elbows on knees, looking at his hands.
He did this less out of panic now and more out of thought.
Pale fingers.
Knuckles.
Nails.
Fine lines in the skin.
Human bodies were intricate in a way slime had never needed to be. Every inch served several purposes at once—movement, sensation, communication, vulnerability. A twitch of fingers revealed unease. A set jaw revealed thought. A smile invited response. A lowered gaze could mean submission, discomfort, secrecy, or simply distraction depending on context.
It exhausted him.
As a slime, existence had been brutally simple. Move. Hide. Consume. Follow.
As this—whatever this was—everything had layers.
He rubbed his face with both hands and stood.
Walking was easier this morning. Not easy, but easier. His body no longer felt like borrowed scaffolding moments from collapse. It felt merely unfamiliar, which was an improvement.
He crossed to the washbasin and stared at his reflection.
Messy black hair, impossible as ever.
Red eyes dulled by sleep.
Round glasses slightly askew.
The black sleeveless turtleneck and leggings had wrinkled during the night, and the oversized hoodie hung off him in dark folds, making his frame look narrower than it actually was.
He looked… real.
That was still difficult to accept.
He touched the mirror.
Cold glass met warm fingertips.
Still here.
A knock came at the door.
Sora turned.
"Get dressed properly and come downstairs," Thalia's voice said through the wood.
He looked down at himself. "I am dressed."
A pause.
Then, through the door: "Try to look less deceased."
He frowned.
"How does one do that."
"You have five minutes."
Footsteps retreated.
Sora stared at the closed door in mild offense before glancing back at the mirror.
Less deceased.
He attempted to smooth his hair.
It immediately fell back into disarray.
He tugged the hoodie straighter.
That helped marginally.
He practiced a neutral expression.
It looked uncomfortable.
After deciding humanity was too visually demanding this early in the morning, he left the room.
The hallway smelled faintly of soap and old wood. Morning light leaked in through a stairwell window, turning dust motes silver. Sora descended carefully and entered the common room.
It was quieter than last night but already active. A pair of merchants ate breakfast near the hearth. The innkeeper polished mugs behind the counter. Someone in the kitchen shouted for more bread. Through the open front windows came the waking sounds of town—wagon wheels, distant voices, the bark of a dog.
Thalia sat alone at a table near the wall.
Without her full armor she looked markedly different. The chestplate and pauldrons had been removed, leaving her in dark fitted underlayers with only her vambraces and sword belt still in place. Morning light from the window outlined the loose fall of her black-blue hair over one shoulder.
Sora slowed.
He was still not accustomed to seeing her like this.
Less steel made her seem younger, though no less severe.
Thalia looked up.
"You took all five minutes."
"I was combating deceasedness."
"That battle appears inconclusive."
Sora sat across from her.
A serving girl approached with two plates of breakfast—fried eggs, coarse bread, strips of salted meat, and tea. She set them down, glanced at Sora, and smiled politely.
"Morning."
Sora stared at her.
She waited.
He blinked.
Thalia looked at him.
Realization struck.
"Oh," Sora said quickly. "Morning."
The girl smiled wider at his delayed response and left.
Sora watched her go.
Then leaned toward Thalia.
"Humans greet each other even when they do not know each other?"
"Yes."
"Why."
"Because unlike monsters, society requires social lubrication."
He paused. "That sounds unpleasantly biological."
"It was not meant literally."
Sora sat back and looked at the breakfast.
He still had not entirely mastered utensils, but he was improving.
"Eat," Thalia said.
He did, though slower than last night, trying to observe how the merchants nearby handled their own meals. Spoon. Bread torn by hand. Tea sipped, not swallowed in one go.
Human rituals.
Halfway through the meal, Sora became aware that people were looking.
Not everyone.
But enough.
A pair of merchants glanced over occasionally. The innkeeper looked over whenever he passed. Two women near the front window whispered after noticing Thalia.
Or perhaps noticing the odd black-haired boy seated with her.
Sora lowered his voice. "I think I am attracting suspicion."
Thalia sipped her tea. "You are seated rigidly, watching strangers eat as if preparing to imitate them."
He looked scandalized. "I am adapting."
"You are looming."
"I am sitting."
"Menacingly."
Sora frowned and deliberately relaxed his shoulders.
This somehow made him look more uncertain.
One of the women by the window caught his eye accidentally.
Instinctively, Sora offered a tiny smile.
It was hesitant and gone in an instant, but soft enough that the woman's whispering stopped. She blinked, visibly startled, then smiled back with the absent warmth adults reserved for harmless younger people.
Sora looked deeply confused by this development.
Thalia noticed and turned her attention back to her tea before her expression could betray anything.
That smile again.
It arrived whenever he forgot to defend himself against the world.
Not practiced charm, not strategic friendliness—just brief genuine openness, as though some gentler part of him slipped through the cracks before he realized it.
Annoyingly effective.
After breakfast, Thalia stood.
"We need supplies."
Sora rose with her and followed outside.
Morning had fully broken now.
The town in daylight felt even busier than it had at dusk. Market stalls lined the central street in bright clusters of cloth and wood. Fresh vegetables glistened with water droplets. Bakers stacked loaves in window displays. Butchers hung cuts of meat on iron hooks. Children chased each other around a fountain while adults shouted prices over them.
Sunlight spilled across everything.
Sora slowed almost immediately.
There was too much to look at.
A man hammered horseshoes outside a smithy, each strike ringing sharp through the square. Two women argued over apples. A cart loaded with cabbages rolled past so close Sora instinctively stepped behind Thalia.
She glanced back but said nothing.
He emerged again once the cart passed.
"This many humans in one place should be illegal," he muttered.
"Keep walking."
They moved through the market.
Thalia purchased dried rations, medical wraps, lamp oil, and fresh waterskins with quick efficiency. Sora trailed after her, trying and failing not to stare at everything.
He paused at a baker's stall.
Rows of pastries sat cooling in the morning air, glazed with sugar.
Sora leaned in slightly.
The baker, an older woman with flour on her sleeves, noticed.
"Want one?"
Sora blinked. "What."
She held up a small honey pastry.
"For staring so hard."
Sora looked at Thalia.
Thalia was paying for bandages three stalls down and pretending not to see this.
Slowly, Sora pointed at himself. "Me?"
The baker laughed. "Yes, you."
He accepted the pastry like it might explode.
"It is edible," the woman assured.
Sora looked down at it, then took a careful bite.
His eyes widened.
Sweetness hit instantly, warm honey and soft dough.
He made a tiny involuntary sound of startled delight.
The baker laughed harder.
There it was again—that smile, quick and bright and utterly unguarded as he looked down at the pastry like he had been handed treasure.
"Thank you," he said, very serious about it.
"You're welcome, dear."
Dear.
Sora stood there holding the pastry, momentarily too bewildered to move.
Thalia returned just in time to witness the end of the exchange.
"What happened."
"I was given sugar."
"I can see that."
"For free."
"That is how gifts work."
Sora looked at the pastry, then at the baker, then at Thalia.
"Humans are inconsistent."
"Extremely."
They continued deeper into the market.
Yet beneath the ordinary rhythm of morning, Thalia's posture had begun to change. Sora noticed it first in the way her eyes scanned rooftops, then in the slight tension gathering at her shoulders.
"What."
She did not answer immediately.
Instead she slowed near the town fountain.
Then quietly said, "We are being watched."
Sora stiffened.
His gaze moved subtly.
At the far side of the square, half obscured by a cloth merchant's stall, stood three men in dark insignia-marked cloaks.
Not townsmen.
Not guards.
Their eyes were fixed on Thalia.
And one of them had already begun walking toward them.