Lucien woke up sweating cold for the first time since the truck flattened his old life.
Not fear. Just pure greed waking up mad because someone else was playing in his sandbox.
The straw mattress stuck to his back, damp from the night air leaking through the cracks, and his purple-pink hair clung to his forehead in messy strands.
Nyx was already sitting up, fox ears perked straight, golden eyes narrowed at the dark corner of the shack like it had personally offended her.
"Someone's copying my fire," she said, voice low and sharp, tail flicking once against his leg. "And it's not the cheap knockoff kind. Tastes wrong. Older."
He sat up slow, muscles still loose from yesterday's grind but the itch behind his ribs already loud.
Elara stirred beside him, green eyes cracking open, one hand automatically finding his arm like she'd done it a hundred times.
Mira was curled in the corner under the blanket, breathing steady but her fingers twitching around the new bow even in sleep.
The air smelled of cold ashes from the dead fire and that faint sweet-ozone Nyx always left behind, mixed now with the metallic edge of whatever nightmare had crawled into his head.
Lucien rubbed the golden scar over his left eyebrow, the skin warm under his thumb. "Pink-silver on the count's banner. Not your shade exactly. Close enough to piss me off."
They left before the village fully woke, slipping out under Mira's fresh illusion layer—thin, good enough to make four travelers look like dusty merchants heading north.
The road felt longer in the dark, boots kicking up dirt that smelled of dew and old leaves.
Nyx stayed in fox form on Lucien's shoulder, tail wrapped around his neck for balance, her fur warm against his skin.
Elara walked close on his left, short sword hidden under her cloak, steps quiet.
Mira took the right, new bow slung low, eyes scanning the treeline like the road owed her money.
The count's garrison sat half a league out, stone walls low and practical, torches burning lazy under the moon.
They got close enough to see the banner flapping from the main pole.
Pink-silver threads caught the light wrong, not Nyx's clean primordial glow but something thicker, older, like paint mixed with rust and bad memories.
It moved heavy, almost reluctant, the color bleeding at the edges when the wind hit it.
Mira's illusion held, the air around them shimmering faint like heat haze on a bad summer day.
Lucien felt the Greed Bloodline stir, hungry, already sniffing for the source. "Not hers," he muttered, voice barely carrying. "But close. Someone woke up a piece of power they shouldn't have touched."
Nyx's ears flattened. "Feels like a fox that got sealed wrong. Old. Bitter. Wants to bite the hand that woke it."
They didn't push closer. Lucien reached out with the Infinite Chaos Treasury, a quiet pull that stole one small scrap of the banner's fabric without a sound.
The cloth landed in his palm inside the pocket universe a second later, rough under his fingers, smelling of smoke and something metallic that stuck to the back of his throat.
They stepped through the portal right there on the roadside, silver grass welcoming them with that clean mana rush that always felt like the first cold sip of water after cheap cachaça.
One month inside. Barely minutes outside if they kept it light.
Lucien sat on the low rise, turning the fabric scrap over in his hands.
The Devourer's Gaze peeled it apart slow—threads of corrupted mana mixed with something ancient, sealed for years, now leaking pink-silver like a bad dye job on old cloth.
"Someone in the garrison woke a fragment they had no business touching. Not full primordial. Just enough to copy colors and make banners look fancy."
Elara dropped down beside him, knees brushing his. She took the scrap, sniffed it once, nose wrinkling. "Smells like my father's old debts. Rotting under fancy ink."
Mira practiced her new illusion steps a few paces away, footprints disappearing mid-stride, but she kept glancing back.
Nyx sprawled on the grass, tail thumping lazy, telling some half-remembered legend about foxes that used to steal colors straight from the sky before the gods got mad and locked them away.
Her voice lilted between languages Lucien half-understood, the words curling warm in the air.
Elara reached over and started braiding Mira's short brown hair while she listened, fingers steady, the motion simple and grounding.
Mira let her, shoulders relaxing by inches, the new bow resting across her lap.
Lucien watched them, the group tightening in that quiet way that had nothing to do with power levels and everything to do with the way Nyx's tail kept brushing his calf and Elara's laugh came easier when she messed up a braid on purpose.
He felt it in his chest—not just the Greed purring at the new toy, but something messier.
Family-shaped, crooked, the kind you don't plan but ends up fitting anyway.
Back home family was awkward group chats and unpaid bills. Here it was stolen banners, braided hair, and legends told while mana pressed clean against your skin.
Nyx finished the story with a flick of her ears. "Moral is, never steal a color unless you're ready to wear it forever."
Mira snorted, touching the end of her half-finished braid. "You wear pink like it owes you rent."
Lucien pocketed the fabric scrap, the Greed already breaking it down into points somewhere quiet in the background. No blue box. Just the warm rush that said the math was working.
They stepped back out when the internal clock ticked enough, bodies loose, power settled.
The village was in the middle of a small celebration when they returned—extra harvest baskets overflowing near the fountain, kids running with sticky fruit hands, old Tomás actually smiling while he swept.
Someone had brought out a battered flute, notes thin but happy, carrying across the square like the dirt itself had decided to throw a party.
The mood shifted when a lone messenger rode in, count's colors on his cloak, horse lathered from hard riding.
He dismounted near the fountain, boots hitting the dirt heavy, and looked straight at Lucien.
"The count summons Lord Voss for an audience in three days. Alone."
The flute kept playing for a couple more notes, then faltered. The square went quieter, not scared exactly, just waiting.
The messenger's eyes flicked to the pink-silver threads someone had started stitching onto a spare banner near the well—amateur work, but the color was unmistakable.
Lucien felt the Greed wake sharper, the golden scar itching like it smelled competition.
Nyx's tail tightened around his leg under the cloak. Elara's hand brushed his wrist. Mira's fingers found the string of her bow.
He took one step forward, purple-pink hair catching the late sun at the tips, that crooked half-smile pulling at his mouth anyway.
"Tell the count I'll be there," he said, voice carrying easy across the packed dirt. "But I don't travel alone anymore. He can learn to share the road."
The messenger swallowed once, nodded stiff, and mounted up again, riding out slower than he came.
The flute picked up again, hesitant at first, then steadier, like the village had decided the party wasn't over just because someone tried to crash it.
Lucien rolled his shoulders, feeling the multiplied power from the pocket universe still humming under his skin.
The banner scrap in his pocket felt heavier now, the pink-silver threads warm against his thigh.
Someone was copying colors without asking, and the count wanted a private chat.
He looked at the three girls beside him—Elara with her chin up, Nyx's ears twitching under her hood, Mira already calculating angles with that road-hard stare.
The square smelled of ripe wheat, woodsmoke, and the faint metallic tang of whatever stupid move the count was about to make.
Lucien's mouth twitched again. Three days. Plenty of time to multiply the interest.
The flute played on, thin and stubborn, while the extra harvest baskets kept getting passed around, kids laughing louder now like they knew the dirt under their feet had already picked its side.
He started walking back toward the shack, the others falling in without being asked, boots kicking up the same dust that felt more like home every day.
The messenger's horse hooves faded down the road, but the pink-silver color stayed behind, stitched crooked onto spare cloth, shining faint under the lowering sun.
Some invitations came with summons. Others came with colors stolen from the wrong fox.
Lucien felt the Greed purr low, already bored with waiting.
The party kept going behind them, small and stubborn, the kind of celebration that happens when people stop waiting for permission to grow.
He didn't look back. Just kept walking, the golden scar itching sharper, the three girls close enough that their shadows mixed with his on the dirt path.
Three days.
He'd bring the whole receipt book.