Lucien didn't run. He just walked, boots dragging lazy through the square dust like he had all afternoon and half the night to waste.
The tavern squatted at the far end, shutters half-rotted, roof sagging under its own weight the way old buildings do when nobody's bothered fixing them since the last bad harvest.
Nyx leaped off his shoulder mid-stride, purple-pink fur blurring into human shape in the narrow alley beside the building, tail lashing once like she was pissed the whole thing had interrupted her nap.
Elara stayed back in the square, cloak still low, flashing that careful smile she'd been practicing on the old ladies by the fountain.
The bond between her and Lucien gave a faint tug, warm but not demanding, like she was testing how far she could stretch it without snapping.
"Let me handle this alone this time?" she'd asked earlier, voice low enough that only he caught the edge.
Lucien had laughed under his breath, the sound rough and short.
"Only if you promise not to make me too proud."
Now he circled the tavern, Nyx at his heel in full girl form, silver-pink hair tucked under a hood she'd pulled from nowhere.
The air smelled of spilled ale and old woodsmoke, the kind that clings to your clothes for days.
He didn't look up yet. Just felt the weight of eyes that didn't belong, the way the Greed Bloodline itched behind his ribs like it smelled something off-brand.
They climbed the back wall easy, fingers finding cracks in the plaster, boots scraping soft against the thatch.
Nyx went first, tail balancing her like she'd done this a hundred times in whatever primordial cave she used to call home.
Lucien followed, the golden scar over his eyebrow burning faint now, the way it did when the system wanted his attention but knew better than to flash a panel in broad daylight.
On the roof the girl was crouched low behind the chimney, skinny frame folded tight, short brown hair sticking up in messy tufts like she'd cut it herself with a dull knife.
Patched traveler clothes hung loose on her, bow laid beside her knee, string slack.
She spotted them the second their heads cleared the edge and bolted, boots scrambling for the far slope.
Lucien let the Primordial Presence slip out, light, nothing dramatic.
Just enough weight in the air to make it feel like the sky was about to spit rain any second.
The girl's foot caught mid-step. She stumbled, caught herself on the thatch, breath coming sharp.
"Spy for who, little rat?" Lucien asked, voice low, almost bored, the São Paulo drawl still clinging to the edges even after everything.
She spun, back pressed to the chimney, eyes wide but jaw set like she'd bitten into something sour and refused to spit it out.
Mira, he'd learn her name soon enough. Sixteen maybe, face still carrying that half-kid sharpness that hadn't decided if it wanted to grow up yet.
Nyx leaned against the chimney opposite her, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed but not angry.
More like she was sizing up a new toy that might bite back.
The girl—Mira—spat the words out fast, like if she said them quick enough they wouldn't stick.
"Came from the merchant caravan camped outside the village. Rumors about impossible harvest. They pay decent for proof of… dirty magic."
She jerked her chin toward the square, voice cracking just once.
"Figured I'd climb up, take a look, maybe earn a meal that wasn't stale bread."
Nyx's tail flicked once, slow.
"Dirty magic. Cute. I call it well-done greed."
Lucien crouched down, elbows on knees, close enough to smell the road dust on her clothes and the faint metallic tang of the bowstring oil.
No killing intent. The Greed Bloodline hummed low, curious instead of hungry.
He reached into the Infinite Chaos Treasury without looking away from her, pulled out a chunk of bread from the tavern stash—still warm, crust flaky—and a single coin he'd multiplied earlier, the metal gleaming a little too clean.
He held both out, palm up.
"Go back to your bosses. Tell them Eldoria isn't easy prey anymore."
Mira stared at the offering like it might burn her.
Her fingers twitched, then closed around the bread first, then the coin, grip tight like she was grabbing hot coal and didn't care.
Something shifted behind her eyes—hesitation, yeah, but also a flicker of interest, the kind that says she'd seen too much and the math didn't add up the way her caravan told her it should.
Subtext sat heavy between them: she could've run harder. She didn't.
She stuffed the bread in her pocket, coin disappearing into a hidden fold of her patched tunic.
"They won't believe me," she muttered, already turning toward the roof edge.
"Not about the part where the orphan talks like he owns the dirt."
Lucien didn't stop her.
Just watched her slide down the thatch and drop into the alley, boots hitting packed earth with a soft thud.
Nyx stayed quiet until the girl's footsteps faded.
Back at the shack the air smelled of hot soup—onions, a little garlic, whatever herbs Elara had scavenged from the square gardens.
She had the pot balanced on the rickety table, steam curling up lazy.
Nyx licked a smear of sauce off her finger the second they walked in, ears twitching.
"She smells like someone who could turn ally," Nyx said, casual, like she was commenting on the weather.
"Or problem. Hard to tell when they're still half-feral."
Elara glanced up, spoon paused mid-stir, green eyes catching Lucien's for a beat longer than necessary.
The bond between them gave another warm pulse, steady now, like it had decided they were past the testing phase.
Lucien took the bowl she offered, soup burning his tongue just enough to feel real.
He blew on it once, thoughts drifting to how the village was already yielding without him twisting arms—mana seeds doing their quiet work, people bringing extra without being asked.
Felt almost too easy. Almost.
He tasted another spoonful, salt and heat spreading through his chest.
Random thought hit sideways: back on Earth this would've been some delivery app order and a spreadsheet full of complaints. Here it's soup and spies on roofs and girls who almost smile when you hand them stolen bread.
Nyx flopped onto the mattress, tail curling around her ankle, still licking her finger like the sauce was the best thing she'd tasted in centuries.
Elara sat across from him, knees brushing his under the table, the three of them fitting into the small space like it had always been theirs.
The night settled thick outside, village quiet except for the occasional dog barking at nothing.
Lucien finished the soup, bowl scraped clean, the Greed purring low and content.
Later, when the lantern had burned down to a flicker and the shack creaked with its usual complaints, the knock came.
Light. Hesitant. Right on the window shutter like whoever was out there didn't want the whole square knowing.
Mira stood outside, breathless, short hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.
Her patched clothes looked even more ragged in the moonlight, bow slung across her back crooked.
"The merchants," she said, voice low and ragged, eyes darting past him into the shack like she expected someone to grab her.
"They brought a low-level cultivator to 'check' the village tomorrow. And he's not like the others."
Lucien stood in the doorway, soup still warm in his stomach, the golden scar itching again.
Nyx's ears flattened behind him. Elara's hand found his wrist without a word.
The night air felt heavier all of a sudden, carrying the faint road dust Mira had tracked with her.