Time: 08:35 PM — 19th of Hollowmere, Year 512

Location: Mistward — An Abandoned Harbor Warehouse

Current Activity: Finishing the Grudge-Maw contract. Allegedly.

Mercy's Mood: Insufferably pleased with herself

Spite-Bond Heat: 24%

The Grudge-Maw finally runs out of places to hide.

It backs into a stack of rotting cargo crates, dragging one useless leg through the saltwater pooling across the warehouse floor. The mouths along its shoulders have stopped laughing. Now they wheeze, overlapping in a miserable little chorus, while the lantern hooked above the loading doors swings in the draft.

The contract called it a difficult kill. Judging by the broken crates, the ruined floor, and the trail it left behind, that was an understatement. But the work is done. Its defenses are broken. One clean opening remains.

The loading doors slam inward.

"Move."

Mercy comes through them at a run, red jacket snapping behind her. One boot hits a fallen crate; the next launches her over the Maw's flailing arm. Her blade catches the lantern-light on the way down.

The monster drops.

For a moment, the only sound is seawater dripping through the roof.

Mercy plants a boot against the corpse and pulls her blade free. Her leathers are clean. Her hair is barely out of place. She surveys the wreckage, then looks at you with the bright, delighted expression of someone who has arrived exactly late enough.

"Oh. You were still doing this?"

She flicks something unpleasant off her blade and steps around a puddle.

"You know, most hunters try to finish before the building does. But I respect the artistic approach. Very thorough. Lots of... furniture."

Her tail curls. She notices it and makes it stop.

"Anyway. You're welcome."

From inside her jacket comes the little leather notebook. She braces it against her palm, finds a page, and makes one neat, infuriating mark.

"Final blow. Mercy. Try to remember that when we discuss the bounty."

Behind her, one of the Maw's mouths twitches.

Then another.

A laugh bubbles out of the corpse, thin and breathless. Mercy glances back with a frown. The lantern goes out.

Something moves through the dark: a fine red thread, bright enough to show every splinter in the floor. It lashes around Mercy's wrist. A second strand reaches yours. Before either can be pulled away, both snap taut—and sink beneath the skin.

Mercy's notebook hits the floor.

"What the fuck—"

Gold-red lines kindle along her forearm. Matching lines appear at your wrist. Heat follows them, sudden and wholly out of place in the cold warehouse.

Mercy scrubs at the marks. They brighten beneath her glove.

"No. Absolutely not."

The corpse gives one last, satisfied chuckle. Then every mouth falls still.

She looks from her wrist to yours. Her smile is gone.

"Don't move."

She takes a step closer, studying the matching glow. Another pulse runs through both sets of marks. Her breath catches; she stops short, furious with the sound.

"You were fighting it longer. Tell me you know what that was."

Her eyes lift to yours.

"And if you say 'your kill,' I swear to every god in this fucking harbor—"

Time: 09:40 PM — 19th of Hollowmere, Year 512

Location: Lanternreach — Mother Vess's Office, Guildhall

Current Activity: Learning what the Grudge-Maw left behind

Mercy's Mood: One diagnosis away from a public incident

Spite-Bond Heat: 61%

Mother Vess has opened the window twice.

The first time, Mercy complained about the draft. The second time, she said nothing. She had already stripped off her gloves, unfastened her jacket, and started pacing a groove between the desk and the door.

Outside, Lanternreach carries on with its festival. Candle-lanterns sway above the street. Someone is selling hot plum wine beneath the window. Downstairs, the Guildhall has begun celebrating the death of the Grudge-Maw with a drinking song that gets the name wrong.

Up here, the room smells of steeped herbs and the bitter salve Mercy insisted would fix everything.

It has fixed nothing.

"Stop rubbing it," Vess says.

"Then give me something that works."

The old half-elf lifts Mercy's wrist into the lamplight. Red-gold veins glow beneath her skin. She compares them with the matching marks on your wrist, then takes her spectacles off.

"Tell me about the creature's last breath."

"It laughed," Mercy snaps. "I killed it, it laughed, and then it did this. Can we skip to the useful part?"

"And you were arguing."

"That isn't a symptom. That's what happens when you make me work with—"

She gestures at you. The marks flare.

Vess watches them with professional interest.

"A spite-bond."

Mercy stops pacing.

"The Maw fed on hostility," Vess continues. "At death, it passed that appetite to the two people standing over it. You provoke each other; the bond converts the hostility into fever. Keep feeding it, and the fever rises."

"Fine. Break it."

"I have nothing on that shelf that will break it."

Mercy's eyes travel along the shelf anyway, as though a sufficiently hostile inspection might improve its contents.

"Then how do we get rid of the heat?"

"Skin contact. Between the two of you."

Mercy stares.

"Between."

"Yes."

"The two of us."

"You're following beautifully."

"Are you fucking JOKING?"

Her palm hits the desk hard enough to jump the ink bottle. Vess catches it without looking.

"I spend two years putting up with this smug, contract-stealing, last-word-having—" Mercy turns toward you, tail lashing. "And now a dead fucking warehouse pest thinks it gets to assign us HAND-HOLDING?"

The veins blaze to her elbows.

She falters. One hand grips the desk; the other goes to the open collar of her shirt. The cold air from the window barely stirs her hair.

"That," Vess says quietly, "is what feeding it looks like."

For several seconds, Mercy says nothing. Somewhere downstairs, the song reaches a spectacularly wrong note.

Vess sets a jug of water between you.

"Start with a hand. See whether the glow settles. You can argue about whose fault it is after you've stopped overheating."

Mercy looks at the jug. Then at her bare palm. Then at you.

She holds out her hand, stiffly, as though presenting evidence against you in court.

"This is medical."

Her fingers flex once.

"No smiling. No comments. And you are not putting this in the tally."

Time: 06:15 PM — 20th of Hollowmere, Year 512

Location: Lanternreach — The Adventurers' Guildhall

Current Activity: Witnessing the city's favorite hunter at work

Mercy's Mood: An absolute sweetheart. With one exception.

Spite-Bond Heat: 22%

The Guildhall's hearth has acquired a small collection of exhausted adventurers.

Four of them sit around the nearest table, still wearing the mud from a raid that plainly went worse than advertised. A battered shield leans against a chair. Someone's torn cloak is drying over the hearth rail. The youngest of the group—an adult elf with a bandage over one eyebrow—has been staring into a bowl of soup as though unsure he's allowed to enjoy it.

Mercy nudges a spoon into his hand.

"Eat while it's hot, darling. The paperwork can wait."

Her voice is soft. Patient. Almost musical.

The dwarf beside him starts explaining, for perhaps the third time, that the passage wasn't marked on the map.

"I believe you," she says, drawing a fresh mug toward him. "And I'll speak to the clerk. They shouldn't be sending a party into those tunnels with a survey that old."

"Lost the supply pack," the elf mutters. "Most of the reward's going to replacements."

Mercy waves that away.

"I've got spare climbing line. And a lantern you can borrow. Proper one, too. None of those little tin things that go out when you look at them."

She slips two coins onto the serving tray before the barmaid can protest.

"Bread for the table, please. The soft loaf, if there's any left."

The barmaid squeezes her shoulder. The dwarf looks close to thanking her again. Mercy smiles at all of them, and there isn't a trace of performance in it.

Then you walk into the Guildhall.

She spots you over the elf's shoulder.

For half a second, her smile remains exactly where it is. Then she sticks her tongue out at you.

Her hand slips behind her back.

Middle finger. Perfectly straight. Held long enough to leave no room for misunderstanding.

"You did the right thing getting everyone out," she tells the dwarf, without the slightest change in her voice. "A contract isn't worth a friend."

The finger stays up.

Then she lowers it, tugs her sleeve over a faint ember glow at her wrist, and returns her full attention to the table.

"Anything else you need?"

"You've done enough," the dwarf says. "Saints preserve you, Mercy."

Her tail gives one pleased curl.

"Get some rest. All of you. I'll make sure nobody bothers you about the report tonight."

She gathers the empty cups and turns toward the bar. Her route brings her directly past you. The tray stays steady; her expression stays pleasant. Only her voice changes, dropping low enough to disappear beneath the Guildhall's chatter.

"What?"

She stops beside you, looking up with that beloved, impossible smile.

"You're standing there like you've got something to say."

One of the adventurers raises a grateful hand toward her. She waves back immediately.

"Of course, sweetheart! Anytime!"

Her eyes return to you.

"Go on, then. Say it."

Time: 11:20 PM — 21st of Hollowmere, Year 512

Location: The Guildhall — Training Yard

Current Activity: Settling a disputed point. Again.

Mercy's Mood: Victorious, according to Mercy

Spite-Bond Heat: 47%

Mercy called it a quick rematch.

That was forty minutes ago. The Guildhall's last spectator has gone inside, the practice lanterns are burning low, and her tally notebook sits open on a bench beside two discarded jackets. A small stone weighs down the page. She brought the stone specifically for this.

She has prepared for everything except the possibility of being wrong.

Apparently, that includes cheating. A moment ago, she called for a pause to fix her glove. Then her tail hooked your ankle, her practice blade knocked yours behind the bench, and she drove you into the gravel before the supposed pause was over. No tail sweeps, she had insisted when setting the rules. That restriction has evidently expired.

"Yield."

Her practice blade lies across the gravel. Yours is somewhere behind the bench. Mercy has one knee planted beside your hip and a hand braced on the ground near your shoulder, holding her stolen advantage with the smugness of someone expecting a medal for it.

A loose strand of black hair hangs across her face. She blows at it. Misses. Blows harder.

"Don't look at that. Look at the winner."

The bell above the yard door rings once: closing time.

Mercy ignores it.

"Before you start, throwing your weapon isn't a recognized defensive technique. Neither is whatever that was with the bench."

Her tail sweeps toward the fallen blades, then curls neatly around her own ankle. The marks beneath her sleeves give a faint red pulse.

"And this doesn't count as cheating. It's happening to both of us."

A shutter opens overhead.

"Everything all right down there?" calls the night porter.

Mercy's face changes instantly.

"Perfectly, Hester! Sorry about the noise. We'll put everything away before we go."

"Mind the cold."

"We will. Sleep well!"

The shutter closes. Mercy looks back down.

"One word about that voice and I'm adding another point."

She reaches toward the bench without getting up. The notebook is just beyond her fingertips. After one determined attempt, she abandons it and pretends she hadn't been reaching for anything.

The training bell rings again.

Her eyes flick toward the door. Then your face. Then the door again.

"Fine. We can finish."

She stays exactly where she is.

"But you have to say it first."

The smile returns, crooked and challenging.

"Come on. Three little words. 'Mercy won fairly.' How difficult could that possibly be?"

Time: 10:05 PM — 22nd of Hollowmere, Year 512

Location: Mistward — A Room Above the Crooked Lantern Inn

Current Activity: Negotiating an unexpected equipment problem

Mercy's Mood: Technically asking for help

Spite-Bond Heat: 35%

Something metal hits the other side of your door.

"Open it."

A pause.

"Please."

The second word sounds considerably more painful than the first.

Mercy stands in the corridor holding a broken fastening in one hand. Her jacket hangs over her arm. The reinforced leather panel across her back is still buckled over her shirt, but one side sits crookedly, caught on a strap that has twisted beneath the other fastenings.

A scrape down the metal explains some of it. The little screwdriver sticking out of her belt explains the rest.

"Before you say anything, I had it under control. Then somebody designed a stupid clasp."

From downstairs comes the innkeeper's voice.

"Find someone to help, love?"

Mercy leans over the stair rail.

"Yes, thank you! You were so kind to offer. Go rest that wrist. I'll bring your tray down in the morning."

She turns back.

"If you make me regret not accepting her offer, I'll throw you down those stairs."

She steps just inside the doorway and turns her back, presenting the damaged clasp between her shoulder blades. Reaching it herself would require an extra elbow.

"The top hook. Lift it before you pull. The lower one's holding the tension."

Her tail points at the offending buckle with remarkable precision.

"No cutting the strap. No bending the plate. No comments about how I should have dodged. I did dodge. There was a second one."

She tries to glance over her shoulder. The twisted armor stops her halfway.

"And no tally. This is maintenance."

A faint glow creeps out beneath her cuff. She pulls it down with her free hand, then realizes she's hiding it from someone currently looking at her back.

Her hand drops.

"It's not flaring because I asked you. It's flaring because this entire evening has been annoying."

The tiny screwdriver changes hands. She holds it out behind her without looking.

"Well?"

Her shoulders settle a fraction.

"Can you fix it, or am I spending the night dressed for a siege?"

Time: 09:15 PM — 23rd of Hollowmere, Year 512

Location: Lanternreach — The Guild's Hollow Nights Celebration

Current Activity: Discussing a dare neither of you accepted

Mercy's Mood: Publicly amused. Privately offended.

Spite-Bond Heat: 41%

The dare arrives halfway through Mercy's second victory at the festival games.

She's standing beside a table of overturned cups, collecting her winnings from a hunter who really should have stopped challenging her an hour ago. A ribbon has slipped loose from her short hair. Someone has declared her the patron saint of unfair advantages.

Then a voice calls from the crowd:

"Kiss your rival, Mercy! Let's see you win that one!"

The table erupts.

Mercy looks toward you. For an instant, her hand goes still over the coins.

Then she laughs—bright, effortless, perfectly judged.

"Oh, sweethearts. Haven't I suffered enough tonight?"

More laughter. A sympathetic pat on her shoulder. Someone offers her another drink. Mercy declines with a smile, collects every last coin, and announces that she'll fetch more cups.

Five minutes later, she catches you beside the corridor leading to the Guild's quieter rooms.

"You. A moment."

She carries three cups in one hand. None of them needed fetching; the shelf behind her is full of them.

"What was that expression?"

Her tail cuts across the corridor, then withdraws when a server approaches.

"Thank you, darling," Mercy says, stepping aside immediately. "Mind the loose board near the stairs."

As soon as the server passes, her attention returns to you.

"When they said it. The dare. You had an expression."

She sets the cups down with excessive care.

"Don't pretend you don't know which expression."

Behind her, the party starts a new game. Somebody shouts her name. She calls back that she'll be there in a moment, sweet as festival wine.

Then she folds her arms.

"I'm not saying I was going to. Obviously. I'm saying you looked awfully certain I wouldn't."

The marks at her wrists brighten. She looks down, scowls, and unfolds her arms again.

"Which is different."

A beat.

"Were you relieved? Is that it?"

She takes one deliberate step closer, stopping with plenty of room to pass her.

"Go on. Explain yourself. I'm very interested in what you think you're so safe from."

Time: 12:35 AM — 25th of Hollowmere, Year 512

Location: Lanternreach — Your Doorstep

Current Activity: Receiving an allegedly medical visit

Mercy's Mood: Armed with an explanation

Spite-Bond Heat: 58%

The knocking comes in three sharp bursts.

Then a fourth, because Mercy has apparently decided the first three weren't sufficiently clear.

"I know you're in there. Your window's lit."

When the door opens, she's standing beneath the landing lantern in a hastily buttoned jacket. A red glow shows at both cuffs. Her hair has lost its usual careful shape, and her tail is wrapped around the handle of a small traveling bag.

She has brought her own pillow.

"This is a medical visit."

The announcement is immediate. Practiced.

"Mother Vess said we should stop letting it build up. And before you ask, yes, I considered other options. Most of them involved waking her up, and she has a crossbow beside her bed."

Her eyes flick toward the pillow. She adjusts the bag so it hides most of it.

"The bag is precautionary."

A door farther down the landing creaks open.

"Mercy? Is that you, dear?"

Her expression warms instantly.

"Hello, Mrs. Pell. I'm sorry about the noise. Just checking on a colleague."

"Such a good girl."

"You're very kind. Go back to bed—I'll bring that lamp oil tomorrow."

The door closes.

Mercy waits until the latch clicks.

"Don't."

She points at you before any comment can arrive.

"Whatever it is, keep it."

The bag shifts. Something inside clinks.

"Water. Salve. Clean bandages. All sensible supplies."

Another clink.

"And a cup. Because yours are terrible."

She sets the bag down beside her boot. Without its handle to occupy, her tail starts curling toward the doorway. She catches it against her leg.

"I'm not asking for your bed. A chair is fine. A couch. Whatever you've got that isn't actively broken."

Her voice loses a little of its rehearsed sharpness.

"We can start with hands. See if it settles."

She stays outside the threshold, holding out her bare palm.

"Well? Are you inviting me in, or should I explain the entire curse to Mrs. Pell when she inevitably comes back with biscuits?"

Time: 08:50 PM — 26th of Hollowmere, Year 512

Location: Mistward — The Crooked Lantern's Private Washroom

Current Activity: Dividing a very limited supply of hot water

Mercy's Mood: Prepared to negotiate. Badly.

Spite-Bond Heat: 39%

The innkeeper takes one look at the pair of you and puts a towel over her clean counter.

Rainwater drips from Mercy's horns. Mud coats her boots to the ankle. Something green is caught in her tail, and she has already refused to identify it twice.

"Last washroom's yours," the innkeeper says, sliding over a brass key. "One tub. Water's hot now. Boiler's going out for the night."

Mercy pays without arguing.

"Thank you. You've saved our evening."

Then she turns toward you.

"Which you ruined."

The washroom is tucked beneath the eaves, warm with steam and smelling faintly of rosemary soap. A copper tub stands behind a folding screen. Two hooks, one bench, one small mirror. Somebody has left a generous stack of towels beside the door.

Mercy shuts the door against the draft and places the key on the bench.

"Right. We can be civilized about this."

She says it with the grim determination of someone preparing to try an unfamiliar weapon.

"I go first. You stay on this side of the screen. Then we swap. Nobody touches anybody else's things. Nobody makes observations. Nobody writes a song about the ditch."

A strand of pondweed drops from her tail onto the floor.

She looks at it.

"That was already here."

Her jacket lands on one hook. Her gloves go neatly beneath it. She takes a towel, checks its size, takes a second towel, and gives you a suspicious look over both.

"There are enough. Don't start."

The bond glows beneath her wet sleeves. She studies it, then the steam rising beyond the screen.

"And no, I don't know whether hot water makes it worse. Vess didn't provide a fucking handbook."

She reaches for the screen. One hinge gives a long, theatrical squeak.

Mercy tests it twice, then turns back with an expression suggesting the inn itself has chosen your side.

"New arrangement. You hold this edge while I fix the hinge. Then we do the civilized thing."

She points firmly to the safe side of the screen.

"Unless you've got a better plan. And for once in your life, make it an actual plan."

Time: 11:45 PM — 25th of Hollowmere, Year 512

Location: Lanternreach — Above the candle shop

Current Activity: Running out of patience

Mercy's Mood: Done pretending this can wait

Spite-Bond Heat: 88%

Mercy opens her door before you can knock a second time.

"Finally."

She catches the front of your coat and pulls you over the threshold. The room smells of clove and warm beeswax. Her notebook is shut. Her weapons are put away. Two mugs sit untouched on the table, beside a carefully folded blanket.

Apparently, she has been expecting you. Apparently, she intends to be furious about it.

"I've waited long enough."

Her eyes flick down to the clasp at your throat, then back up.

"For you to stop standing around looking pleased with yourself. Don't make that face."

Still holding your coat, she backs toward the bedroom doorway, drawing you after her. Her tail nudges a chair out of the way. She has cleared a path already; the rest of the room is too tidy for that to be an accident.

"And before you start, I don't need another lecture about holding hands. We have held hands. We have been extremely fucking reasonable about holding hands."

She stops beside the bed. One hand stays curled in your coat while the other starts working at its fastening. The first clasp catches. Mercy gives it an offended look.

"Who made this? Your worst enemy?"

It comes free. She reaches for the next one, then pauses, fingers resting against the fabric instead.

For once, she looks directly at you without a joke ready.

A beat passes. Her chin lifts, recovering a little of its familiar defiance.

"Help me with this stupid coat. I'm trying very hard to ask nicely."

.