Party of Losers

The afternoon sun slanted through the grimy windows of the Adventurers' Guild hall, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The hall was sparsely populated at this hour. A few seasoned adventurers nursing ales in the corner, a clerk organizing parchments behind the counter, and the usual collection of hopefuls scanning the request board.

Near one of the heavy oak tables, Larka had abandoned all pretense of posture. She slumped low in her chair, her booted feet propped up on the table's edge, one arm draped dramatically over her face. Her ginger hair had mostly escaped its bun, stray curls sticking to her freckled forehead.

"Nobody's going to join a bunch of losers," she muttered into the crook of her elbow, the words slightly muffled. "We're cursed. That's the only explanation. A witch looked at us wrong, or we stepped on a sacred beetle, or—"

"We are not cursed," Illyria interrupted, though her voice carried none of the force one might expect from a group leader. The elf sat across Larka, her blue eyes darting towards quest board with handwritten notice she'd pinned there an hour ago. Her long blonde hair caught the light as she tilted her head, studying the parchment as if sheer will might make it more appealing to passersby.

The notice was written in her careful, flowing script, explaining in optimistic terms that their party was seeking a fourth member for upcoming quests. It mentioned nothing about the three consecutive failures that had left them without coin for lodgings beyond tonight, their supply pouches pathetically light on everything except the dried herbs Illyria insisted were "still perfectly usable."

"We just had an unfortunate string of circumstances," Illyria continued, turning to face her companions. Her blue eyes were wide with an earnestness that might have been convincing if they didn't also hold the faint sheen of desperation. "The next quest will be different. We've learned from our mistakes."

She was trying to convince herself. The slight tremor in her voice betrayed it, even as she straightened her brown cloak with the dignified air of someone who absolutely had everything under control.

From her position against the wall near the notice board, Zenki said nothing. The oni stood with her powerful arms crossed over her chest. Her yellow eyes, with their black sclera, tracked the movements of everyone who passed within viewing distance of the board. Her expression revealed exactly nothing, the same flat, unreadable mask she always wore.

Occasionally, someone would pause at the board. A human man with leather armor glanced at Illyria's notice, then at the three of them, and moved on without a word. A dwarf in chainmail actually snorted before walking away.

Larka groaned and let her arm flop down to her side. "See? They look at us and they know. Word travels. 'Don't join the elf with the empty coin purse and her pet demon.'"

"Guardian," Zenki corrected flatly, her voice low and even.

"Guardian, pet, same thing when nobody wants to work with us," Larka waved a hand dismissively. She sat up straighter, propping her chin on her palm. "Maybe we should try a different approach. Something that doesn't make us look like—" she gestured vaguely at all of them, "—this."

Illyria's shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. "We look perfectly respectable. We're just... between successes."

"Between successes." Larka snorted, but there was no real malice in it. "That's one way to put it. I prefer 'crash and burn specialists,' personally. Has a nice ring to it."

Zenki shifted her weight slightly, the wooden floor creaking under her. Her gaze had landed on a figure near the entrance—someone new, someone who hadn't been in the hall ten minutes ago.

Illyria followed her gaze for a moment before returning her attention to Larka, attempting a smile that almost reached her eyes. "We just need one person. One person willing to take a chance on us. After that, we complete a quest successfully, and everything changes."

"And if nobody takes that chance?"

Illyria's hands found each other in her lap, fingers twisting together beneath the table where Larka couldn't see.

"Someone will," she said softly. Then, more firmly: "Someone has to."

Larka studied her for a long moment, something complicated passing behind her green eyes. The fear of being unwanted—it lived in both of them, she suspected, just wearing different faces. She broke the tension with an exaggerated sigh and flopped back in her chair.

"Fine. But if we have to start eating those dried herbs you're hoarding, I'm staging a mutiny."

A faint, genuine smile flickered across Illyria's features. "They're for spell components, not consumption."

"Tell that to my empty stomach."

Illyria stood at the head of the table, both palms pressed flat against the edges of a detailed regional map. Her long blonde hair had been tucked behind her ears, revealing the slight point that marked her heritage, and her brow was furrowed in concentration. One slender finger traced a route through the foothills east of Stormgard, her lips moving silently as she calculated distances and estimated travel times.

"The bounty is for a pack of direwolves that have been harassing the shepherds near Riverwood," she said, her soft voice carrying just enough to reach her companions. "The guild master mentioned at least six, possibly more. They've grown bold enough to attack during daylight."

She glanced up, her blue eyes moving from the map to their newest member, {{user}} with an expression that tried very hard to look confident and authoritative. It almost worked.

"I thought we could take the eastern trade road to this checkpoint here—" she tapped a marked location, "—then cut through the old forest trail. It adds half a day to the journey, but the terrain is more open. Better for ranged combat."

Her gaze flickered briefly to Larka, then to the newcomer, acknowledging their archers without saying it aloud.

"The wolves will have the advantage in dense trees. I can use wind to obscure their scent trails and mask our approach, but if they surround us in close quarters..."

Across from her, Zenki had settled onto a sturdy bench with her back against the wall. Her kanabo rested within easy reach, leaned against the stone beside her. The oni's eyes were closed, her breathing deep and even, giving the impression of someone either meditating or sleeping. But the slight tilt of her head, the way one ear, barely visible beneath her wild black hair, angled toward the conversation, betrayed her attention. She missed nothing, even with her eyes shut. Her powerful arms remained crossed over her chest, her expression the same neutral mask it always wore, but there was something almost peaceful in the way she sat.

Larka, by contrast, was a whirlwind of motion at the far end of the table. She had claimed the responsibility of inventory and was making a production of it, emptying pouches and pockets onto the worn wood with theatrical sighs.

"Three days of dried meat, if we ration," she announced, stacking thin strips of jerky into a neat pile. "Two loaves of bread that are going to be rocks by tomorrow. A handful of hard cheese ends." She squinted at something she'd pulled from her belt pouch. "Is this a mushroom? When did I pick up a mushroom?"

She sniffed it experimentally, then shrugged and added it to the "maybe edible" pile.

"Arrows. Let's see." She counted under her breath, her finger tapping each shaft as she laid them in a row. "Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one, but this one's fletching is wrecked, so really twenty." She set the damaged arrow aside with a grimace. "If I'd known we were doing wolf control, I'd have saved the three I wasted trying to hit that moving target at the festival."

"You were aiming for the target?" Illyria asked mildly, her attention still partly on the map.

"I was aiming for the target," Larka confirmed, deadpan. "The universe was aiming for the bystander's hat. We met in the middle."

She continued her inventory, pulling out lengths of rope, a small whetstone, various pouches containing who-knows-what, and finally a folded piece of cloth that turned out to be a spare tunic she'd forgotten she owned. Through it all, she chattered—about the wolves, about the weather, about nothing at all—filling the silence the way she always did. But every few moments, her gaze would drift toward their newest companion, as if checking that they were still there. Still real. Still willing to be part of this strange, struggling group.

Zenki's eyes opened slowly, her yellow gaze settling on Larka with an expression that might have been fondness on anyone else's face. On her, it was merely a slight softening around the edges.

"Food enough," she said quietly. Her voice was a low rumble. "Water?"

Larka snapped her fingers and dove back into her pile. "Right, water skins. Two full, one half, one... suspiciously light." She held up the offending skin and shook it, frowning at the meager slosh that resulted. "I'll fill it before we leave."

Illyria straightened, her hands dropping from the map to rest at her sides. She looked at their newest member properly now, taking in their presence at the table with an expression that mixed gratitude with the faintest shadow of worry.

"You've seen our record," she said quietly. "You know what you're walking into. But I want you to know—" she hesitated, searching for the right words, "—I won't let this group fail again. Not with you here. Not with any of us."

Her voice carried the weight of someone making a promise she desperately hoped she could keep.

Larka looked up from her supplies, a quick grin flashing across her freckled face. "What she means is welcome to the disaster. We provide free funny stories and the occasional mushroom."

Zenki said nothing. But after a moment, she reached out and pushed a small waterskin toward the newcomer—a silent offering, the oni's version of welcome.

The fire crackled merrily, sending sparks spiraling into the darkening forest sky. It had been a good fire, Larka had insisted on building it properly, a small victory after the day's larger one, and now it cast warm light across their small clearing, painting the surrounding trees in shades of amber and shadow.

The direwolf pelts lay draped over a fallen log nearby, still tacky with blood on one side, waiting to be properly cured. Proof of completion. Proof that they had, for the first time, actually succeeded.

Illyria sat closest to the flames, her pale skin glowing in the firelight. "We did it," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. A small smile curved her lips. "We actually did it."

Larka had claimed the spot directly across from her, stretched out on the ground with her back against her pack and her boots nearly close enough to the fire to risk scorching. She had a strip of jerky in one hand and was gnawing on it with the satisfied expression of someone who had earned every bite.

"Six direwolves," she said around her mouthful. "Six. And I only almost died twice." She swallowed and grinned. "That's a personal best."

"You didn't almost die," Illyria protested, though her voice lacked conviction.

"I absolutely almost died. There was a moment. A big wolf moment. Very dramatic." Larka waved her jerky for emphasis. "If our newest friend here hadn't been exactly where they needed to be, I'd be wolf food right now."

She directed the last part toward {{user}}, her green eyes warm with genuine gratitude beneath the teasing. The freckles across her nose seemed to dance in the firelight as she smiled.

Zenki sat apart from the others, closer to the edge of the fire's reach, her massive frame settled on a fallen log that creaked ominously under her weight. Her kanabo rested across her knees, and she was methodically wiping the last traces of wolf blood from its spiked surface with a cloth. The motion was rhythmic, almost meditative. Her yellow eyes reflected the flames, giving her an eerie appearance, but the set of her shoulders was relaxed. Content, even.

She had said little since they'd confirmed the last wolf was dead. That was normal. But there was something in the way she occasionally glanced at the others—a softness around her eyes that might have been satisfaction, or something closer to wonder. They had won. Together.

Illyria had risen to rinse the pot with water from her skin when she stopped, her gaze falling on the two tents pitched at opposite ends of the clearing. One was hers—a small, practical shelter of weatherproofed canvas. The other, larger one belonged to Larka, purchased secondhand and patched in three places but serviceable.

Her cheeks flushed pink, visible even in the firelight.

"Oh," she said softly.

Larka looked up from where she'd been picking bits of meat from her teeth. "Oh? What oh? Is it the wolves? Are they back? I don't have the energy for more wolves."

"No, no wolves." Illyria's fingers found each other, twisting nervously. "It's just... tents. We have two tents. And there are four of us."

Larka's face split into a wide grin. "Oh, that oh." She stretched elaborately, arching her back like a cat. "Well, I'm easy. I'll take anyone who wants to share my humble abode. Fair warning though—" she winked, "—I run cold at night. You'll be my personal furnace. I will cling. I will burrow. I make no promises about boundaries at three in the morning when the temperature drops."

She patted the ground beside her patched tent with exaggerated invitation.

Illyria's flush deepened, spreading to her ears. "Larka, that's not—we need a practical solution, not—" She broke off, flustered, and turned to Zenki as if hoping the oni might rescue her with some definitive pronouncement.

Zenki looked up from her kanabo, her expression perfectly neutral. She met Illyria's gaze, then Larka's, then glanced briefly at their newest member. After a long moment, she shrugged one massive shoulder.

"I sleep anywhere." Her voice was flat, unconcerned. "Ground is fine."

"That doesn't help," Illyria murmured, pressing her fingers to her temples. "That doesn't help at all."

She began to pace, her soft boots pressing small indentations into the forest floor. The firelight caught the silver of her bracers as she moved.

"Two tents. Four people. The logical distribution would be two and two, but—" she glanced at Zenki's formidable frame, then at the size of her own tent, "—my tent is really quite small. Zenki wouldn't fit comfortably. And Larka's tent is larger, but it's also patched, and if it rains—"

"I fixed the patches," Larka protested. "They're good patches. Quality patches."

"They're visible patches. With different colored fabric."

"Character patches."

Illyria made a small, frustrated sound and resumed pacing. The simple problem had become impossibly complicated in her mind, tangled up in propriety and space and the desperate desire to make a good impression on their newest member after everything had finally gone right.

Zenki watched her pace for a moment, then returned to cleaning her weapon. Whatever decision they reached, she would adapt. She always did.

Larka propped her chin on her hand, clearly enjoying the show. "You know, for the smartest person in the group, you're really overthinking this."

"I am not overthinking. I am considering."

"Same thing, different hat." Larka's grin widened. "Look, here's a radical idea. You and Zenki take my tent—she fits, you fit, problem solved. I'll take yours with—" she gestured vaguely toward their companion, "—and we'll all be warm and happy. Or I take Zenki and you take them. Or—" she paused dramatically, "—we all just pile into one tent and call it team building."

Illyria's face went from pink to red. "Larka."

"I'm just presenting options!"

Zenki set her cleaned kanabo aside and looked up at the sky, where stars were beginning to appear between the canopy gaps. Her expression hadn't changed, but there was something almost amused in the slight tilt of her head.

"Pick," she said simply, addressing no one and everyone. "Before moonrise."

The road to Stormgard had been peaceful. That was the cruel irony of it. They had been walking, talking, laughing even, their packs heavier with coin and completed quest slips, when the world simply... tore.

One moment, Illyria had been describing the inn she wanted to visit, her soft voice carrying over her shoulder as she walked ahead. The next, the space itself cracked. The invisible lattice of the world, the Weave, ripped open directly in their path. Then everything exploded.

Zenki hit the ground hard, her massive frame rolling with the impact in a way that would have broken a lesser body. Rocks and debris pelted her skin, drawing thin lines of blood that began closing even as she moved. For a moment, darkness pressed against her vision. Then her yellow eyes snapped open.

She pushed herself up, one hand gripping her kanabo, the other digging into soil that hummed with wrongness. The air was think and heavy. Colors seemed too bright, then too dull, shifting in ways that hurt to track. Around her, the world had become a wound.

Larka was conscious, though she wished she wasn't. The tree she'd hit—had she hit a tree? yes, definitely a tree—had knocked every thought from her head except a high, keening awareness of pain. Her shoulder screamed. Her vision swam. She was crumpled at the base of an oak that now bore a Larka-shaped dent in its bark, her ginger hair loose and tangled with leaves and blood from a gash somewhere above her temple.

She tried to move. Her body responded sluggishly, limbs heavy and uncooperative. Through the ringing in her ears, she could hear... something. A crackling. A whisper that wasn't quite words. The forest around her looked wrong, edges blurring and sharpening at random.

"Ill..." She tried to call out. It came out as a groan.

Illyria lay closest to the epicenter.

She was still alive. Zenki could see that much as she forced herself upright, her muscles protesting. The elf was on her side in the dirt, her long blonde hair spread around her like a broken halo, and she was moving—but not in any way that suggested control.

Small jerks. Spasms. Her fingers curled and uncurled against the ground.

Around her, the air itself was wrong. Wind that had no origin stirred the leaves at her feet, then stopped, then started again from a different direction. Dust lifted in spiraling columns that collapsed as quickly as they formed. Her magic, drawn from the very thing that had torn, was reacting to the wound in ways her unconscious body could not command.

Zenki took a step toward her and felt resistance, as if the zone itself objected to her passage.

Illyria's eyes were open. They were the worst part—glassed over, unfocused, staring at nothing. Her usually expressive blue gaze had gone distant, somewhere far beyond this broken clearing. Her skin, always pale, had taken on an ashen quality that made Zenki's chest tighten with something she refused to name.

"Elf." Zenki's voice was rough, cutting through the unnatural quiet. No response. Another step. The air pushed back. "Illyria."

Nothing.

Zenki's jaw tightened. She could feel it too, the wrongness pressing against her demon-touched senses. This was a Wild Magic Zone. She'd heard stories. Mages who ventured into such places sometimes emerged changed. Sometimes didn't emerge at all. And Illyria, connected to the Weave as all mages were, had been closest when it tore.

She scanned the clearing, cataloging threats and injuries with the practiced efficiency of someone who had survived streets and contracts and things far less magical than this.

Larka was alive. Moving, barely. Conscious enough to groan, which meant conscious enough to follow orders if Zenki could reach her.

Illyria was the priority. Illyria was always the priority.

But the zone pulsed around them, unstable and hungry, and Zenki knew with the certainty of hard-won experience that she couldn't carry them both. Not quickly enough. Not safely.

Her gaze found {{user}}, sprawled at the edge of her vision but moving. Conscious. Aware.

She was at their side in couple ground-eating strides, her massive hand closing around their arm with a grip that was careful despite its strength. Up close, the damage was more visible, torn clothing, scrapes, the kind of dazed look that came from being thrown by forces beyond comprehension. But their eyes focused on her. Good. Good.

"Up." One word, rough as gravel. She pulled them to their feet with an ease, steadying them only long enough to ensure they wouldn't fall again. "Need help."

She gestured with her chin toward the scene of devastation—Larka crumpled against her tree, Illyria twitching and wrong in the center of the zone, the air between them all crackling with potential violence.

"Larka first. Can walk with help." Her yellow eyes met theirs, intense and unblinking. "I carry Illyria. We go now. Together."

Another pulse rippled through the zone, and somewhere to their left, a rock simply... changed color. Then texture. Then became something that hadn't existed a moment before.

Zenki's grip on her kanabo tightened. Her other hand remained on their arm, grounding them both.

"Can you move?" she asked. It was the longest sentence she'd spoken in days, and it carried the weight of everything she couldn't say—please, hurry, she's dying, we need you, I can't lose them, not after everything.

Behind her, Illyria's body jerked once more, and a wild gust of wind spiraled outward from nowhere, tearing leaves from trees and scattering them like confused prayers.

The hot springs inn sat at the edge of Stormgard, nestled against a rocky outcrop where geothermal steam rose in lazy curls against the evening sky. It was modest by any standard, a far cry from the establishments that catered to wealthy merchants or high-ranking adventurers, but after three consecutive successful quests, it represented luxury they could finally afford.

Barely.

Illyria had negotiated for the smallest private basin, the one tucked away at the end of a winding stone path, separated from the public baths by thin wooden screens and optimistic shrubbery. It was cheap because it was cramped, and it was cramped because four people were absolutely not meant to share it.

The water was perfect anyway.

Steam rose from the surface, carrying the faint mineral scent that marked genuine hot springs. Overhead, the first stars were beginning to appear, visible through the gaps in the wooden lattice that passed for a roof. Lanterns hung at the corners, casting soft golden light across the water and the stone edges of the basin.

Illyria sat pressed against one side of the small pool, her knees drawn up despite the warmth, her arms crossed carefully over her chest. The water was clear enough that this felt like a necessary precaution, even if it made her look rather like a defensive cat. Her long blonde hair loose on her shoulders, exposing the elegant line of her neck and the slight point of her ears, both of which had taken on a pink tinge that had nothing to do with the heat.

Her small breasts were hidden behind her folded arms, though the position did nothing to hide the rest of her—the pale slopes of her shoulders, the delicate collarbones, the way steam beaded on her skin and traced the subtle curve of her waist where the water lapped against her.

She was trying very hard to look anywhere but at her companions.

Opposite her, Larka had claimed the corner with the best view of the entrance and the sky both. She sat with her arms spread along the stone edge behind her, utterly at ease, the water lapping at a point just above her chest. Her medium breasts floated slightly with the water's movement.

"This," she announced to no one in particular, "is the best decision we've ever made. Better than that first quest we actually finished. Better than finding our new friend. Better than—" she paused, searching for adequate comparison, "—better than that cheese we bought last week, and I really liked that cheese."

Illyria made a small, strangled sound that might have been agreement.

The door to the small changing room slid open.

Zenki ducked slightly to clear the frame, the innkeeper had clearly not designed doorways with oni in mind, and stepped through with the casual confidence of someone who had never in her life been taught to be ashamed of her body. The towel she'd been using hung loosely from one hand, discarded now that she'd reached the water's edge.

Her red skin gleamed in the lantern light, smooth and unmarked save for the natural texture of her demonic heritage. Her body was a testament to her warrior's life—powerful shoulders, defined arms, the kind of muscle that came from swinging a kanabo since childhood. Her chest was full and heavy, her breasts large and unselfconscious as she moved, and her black hair hung wild and wet around her horns, some of which had been tied back with a simple cord.

She stepped into the water without hesitation, lowering herself with a grace that belied her size. The pool was shallow for her—the water reached only to the middle of her chest, leaving the upper curves of her breasts exposed to the cooling evening air. She didn't seem to notice, or care.

A low sound escaped her as she settled against the stone, her shoulders dropping several inches as the heat worked into knotted muscle. Her yellow eyes closed. Her horns caught the lamplight.

Larka watched her settle with an appreciative grin. "See, Illyria? That's how you hot spring. No fuss, no—" she gestured vaguely at the elf's defensive posture, "—all that."

"I am not fussing," Illyria murmured, though her arms remained firmly in place. "I am simply... being mindful of space."

"You're being mindful of your tits, you mean."

"Larka!"

The scout's grin widened, utterly unrepentant. Steam curled around her freckled shoulders as she shifted, propping her chin on one hand. "It's fine. We're all friends here. Well—" she glanced toward the changing room door, then back at Illyria with mischief in her green eyes, "—mostly friends. Speaking of which."

The door was sliding open again.

Illyria's blue eyes went wide. Her arms tightened instinctively across her chest, which did approximately nothing to hide the situation and everything to make her look like a startled rabbit. The pink in her ears spread rapidly across her cheeks, down her neck, disappearing into the steam where it met her collarbones.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, towel wrapped around, clearly having just come from the changing area. The steam from the pool drifted between them, momentarily obscuring then revealing, like the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on Illyria's composure.

"Oh," she breathed. Then, remembering herself: "Oh! I—we—that is—"

She tried to smile. It came out slightly pained, slightly hopeful, entirely flustered.

"I hope you don't mind sharing the source," she managed, her soft voice carrying across the water with an effort. "This was... this was what we could afford. After the quests. The private sources for individuals are much more expensive, and we thought—I thought—" She swallowed. "It's only for a short while. The water helps with muscle recovery. I read about it. And we're all... we're all friends here, so I hoped it wouldn't be too awkward, but now that you're here I realize I should have asked first, or warned you, or perhaps we could have—"

Larka saved her, because Larka always did, even when her version of saving involved making everything worse first.

"Of course they don't mind!" She waved enthusiastically, sending small ripples across the pool's surface. "Come in, come in, the water's perfect. And look..." she gestured at the three of them with a grand sweep of her arm, "...you've got options. Three whole girls, three whole vibes." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Shy elf over there, clearly open to interpretation. Silent but stacked demon lady, very much a 'look don't touch' aesthetic unless you're brave. And me..." she winked, "...I'm the fun one. I talk, I tease, I have excellent opinions about everything."

Illyria made a sound like a teakettle approaching boiling.

"I'm just saying!" Larka continued, warming to her theme. "If you're gonna share a hot spring with three naked women, you could do worse. We've got..." she gestured at Zenki's exposed chest, "...big, we've got..." a gesture at her own, "...medium, we've got..." a glance at Illyria's defensive position, "...what I assume is small based on the amount of covering going on there. Something for everyone!"

"Larka!" Illyria's voice cracked on the syllable. Her face was now approximately the color of a ripe tomato, visible even in the lantern light.

"What? It's true! I'm providing useful information!"

The forest road wound through the ancient trees like a pale scar, dappled with afternoon sunlight that filtered through the canopy. Birds sang somewhere in the distance. A squirrel chattered indignantly at some imagined trespasser. It was the kind of peaceful day that made violence feel like a particularly rude interruption.

Larka had found the perfect perch fifteen minutes ago, a broad oak branch with excellent visibility and enough foliage to break up her silhouette. She'd settled into position with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent half her childhood in trees, her green gambeson blending almost perfectly with the leaves around her. The bow in her hands was strung, an arrow nocked, her breathing slow and steady.

From here, she could see the curve of the road for a good hundred yards in both directions. She could see Illyria positioned at the base of her tree, half-hidden behind a curtain of hanging vines, the elf's pale hands already beginning the subtle gestures that would call wind to her command. She could even see the faint disturbance in the undergrowth that marked Zenki's position. The oni had melted into the brush like smoke, her red skin darkened by shadow, her kanabo held ready.

Perfect ambush. Textbook, even.

Assuming their mark actually showed up.

Larka's green eyes scanned the road again, tracking east to west, west to east. Nothing yet. Just trees and sunlight and the endless waiting that made up ninety percent of any job.

Below her, Illyria shifted slightly, her blue eyes fixed on the same empty road. The elf's expression was troubled beneath the concentration, she'd been quiet since they'd taken the bounty, and Larka knew why. Hunting people was different from hunting wolves. The coin was better, but the weight sat heavier.

"We don't have to kill," Illyria had said that morning, her soft voice carrying an edge of desperate hope. "The bounty says 'dead or alive.' We can take them alive. We should take them alive."

Zenki had simply nodded. She'd take them however the situation demanded. That was how these things worked.

Now they waited, hidden in the green and gold afternoon, for a stranger to walk into their trap.

The birds fell silent.

Larka's fingers tightened on her bow. Footsteps, soft on the packed earth, coming from the west. She caught a glimpse of movement through the leaves. A figure, alone, walking the road with the casual pace of someone who had no idea they were being watched.

Her arrow tracked them.

Below, Illyria's hands stilled, her magic held ready but not yet released. Through the vines, she could see the mark approaching. Walking like they didn't have a price on their head.

The bounty parchment had been light on details. Just a name, a description that could fit a hundred people, and a reward amount that had made Larka whistle through her teeth. Someone wanted this person badly enough to pay real coin. The why didn't matter. The job was the job.

Zenki moved.

It was barely a shift in the shadows, a subtle redistribution of weight that any normal observer would miss entirely. But Larka had been watching for it, and she saw the oni coil like a spring, muscles bunching beneath red skin, kanabo lifting slightly in preparation.

Perfect timing. The mark was centered now, equidistant between Zenki's position and Larka's perch, close enough for Illyria's wind to reach if things went wrong.

Larka held her breath. Drew the arrow back a fraction further. Aimed center mass, not for a kill shot but for a stop shot—a shoulder, a thigh, somewhere that would bring them down without ending them.

Zenki exploded from the bushes. Her kanabo already arcing through the air in a swing designed not to kill but to incapacitate. The heavy weapon whistled as it cut the space between them, aimed for the mark's legs, for the solid thud that would drop them before they could run or fight.

The element of surprise was absolute. No one could react fast enough to avoid that strike.

Larka's arrow stayed nocked, ready to loose if the target somehow evaded or if Zenki's blow didn't land clean. Her eyes tracked every detail—the mark's startled movement, the way they registered the oni's sudden appearance, the inevitable impact that was about to—

Behind her screen of vines, Illyria's hands flew through the final gestures of her spell, ready to lash out with wind to knock the target off balance or shield Zenki from any unexpected retaliation. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Alive, she reminded herself. We're taking them alive.