He only wanted a drink. Something warm, mildly bitter, and strong enough to make him forget that he lived in a world where raccoons wore his towel and smelled like his soap.
But the scent hit Lucien the moment he stepped into the tavern—mint, chamomile, and the betrayal of shared shampoo. The smell of his bathroom. And just beneath it, the scent of mushrooms. Wet soil. And oranges.
He paused. Blinked. Prayed to the Cauldron. Then sighed, long and low.
Emila.
Sitting at the far end of the tavern with two sleeping cats curled at her boots, a suspicious sack of something on the bench beside her, and a man across the table who looked like he lost a fight with a broom and then married it.
He took his usual spot. The human did not seem to notice him as she's busy scribbling again. What a surprise.
"Ten coppers," the man said, his grin wide, oily. Beady eyes glittered.
Emila looked up, tilted her head, lips twitching. "Ten coppers… That's like, one loaf of bread and five sheets of parchment."
"You like parchment, huh, sweetling?" the man crooned. "I've got some in my cart. Scented ones."
She perked up instantly, eyes sparkling. How predictable. "Scented? Like floral? Citrus? Maybe apple?"
The man leaned forward, hand creeping toward hers. "Exactly. With apples too. Want a peek?" He's already standing, his odor made Lucien want to gag—lust, hunger, the kind that made his fingers twitch for his dagger. "We won't take long, sweetling. But it still depends…"
This rotten piece of troll shit.
Lucien didn't blink. Didn't speak.
He moved.
The stool scraped the floor. The air dropped ten degrees. In a single stride, he slid into the empty seat beside her.
"Lucien—"
"Twenty silvers," he said flatly, his sharp eyes flicking between her and the toad in a tunic.
The trader paled when Lucien casually pulled his hood off his head. His eyes assessed him quickly and lingered on his ears, then his left eye.
"H-Huh?"
Lucien leaned forward and flicked the toad's hand away from hers. "That's at least what it's worth. Good truffles. From my yard. No mold. No squirrel bites."
Emila gave him a wry smile. "They might have squirrel nibbles. Just a little."
The man, trembling and could not look him in the eyes, dumped a handful of coins on the table and practically ran after grabbing the bag of truffles.
Lucien turned to her, incredulous. "You were going to sell them for ten coppers ?"
"I thought it was a lot," she said.
"You are an idiot."
Emila looked up from where she was counting the silver on the table. "I'm rich, actually."
"You were one 'scented parchment' away from being dragged into some stranger's cart."
She blinked up at him, unfazed. "I like scented parchment. That's not a crime."
"You cannot follow every man who waves food and stationery at you. You can't just trust people because they offer citrus paper."
"I followed you," she pointed out with a shrug. "And I'm still alive."
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "Yes. A terrible idea, truth be told. I threatened to kill you."
"But you didn't." She grinned and held up a finger for each item. "You gave me bread. A blanket. Let me use your soap. Your shampoo. Your towel. Oh, and you didn't stab me with that dagger you keep sharpening."
"I did not let you use those things," Lucien muttered. "You just helped yourself."
Emila crossed her arms, smug. "Exactly. So I made good decisions. You told me once to wash my face."
He stared at her for a long beat. Then exhaled sharply, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered what sounded like an ancient prayer.
"It's useless," he said to no one in particular. "Utterly pointless. Arguing with a girl whose brain has been marinated in mushrooms and truffle fumes."
The parchment obsessed raccoon was now counting her coins one by one. One, two, three until she reached ten. That's when she paused.
"…What comes after ten again, Lucien?"
Lucien closed his eyes. "Why is this my life?"
But he counted them with her. Out loud. Slowly. Because she could count like a dazed chicken, and somehow she still had more money than when he walked in.
She slid one of the silver towards him. "Here. For your drink. Or new soap."
Lucien accepted it with a sigh so deep it might've reached the Cauldron. "Maura," he called to the tavern maid. The raccoon's friend—possibly reluctant, possibly forced. "Food. For her. And the cats. And give me another drink, something stronger."
--------------------
Lucien sat beside Em, grumbling and muttering like a disgruntled cat who hasn't been fed on time. And she? She had twenty silvers. That's more than ten so that's a lot! She can now buy bread, parchments, a new quill that does not spit and sputter and some ingredients for the cat food. She shoved the coins into her pouch and grinned.
"I submitted the report to the guild this morning," Em informed him, rummaging through her decrepit satchel. As soon as she left Lucien's cottage, she headed to the guild's office, her footsteps light, her belly full, her heart racing fast. She was so proud of her report. And she can now smell the sweet scent of those gold coins. And if she passed the test…she stilled for a moment. What would happen if she turned into a full pledged spy? Would the guild send her to bigger missions, somewhere far from Gladeport? What about her cats? She can bring them along, right? "It's under review. They told me to come back tomorrow." She pulled out the angry quill, scowling as it sputtered ink onto the parchment. "Lucien, can I have my new quill back, please? The one you tossed up the tree?"
"You have twenty silvers. Buy yourself a new one," Lucien said, not even looking at her. "I saw a squirrel using that quill as a toothpick yesterday."
Emila groaned. "Someone's having fun with my beloved quill now? That cost five silvers! It has feathers and an ink tube inside."
Lucien sighed, his expression turning even more brooding. Like the weight of the world sat on his shoulders. "You're lucky it's still alive."
Em started scribbling again: Target Report, Day 2: Left his cottage this morning. Used his toothpaste: minty, reffreshing. His hair was tied up this morning when I left. Looked good on him. Better if he put some maepal leaves in it. Sitting now with me, helped me sell my truffels—his truffels but mine now. I'm twenty silvers rich! Gave him one silver, he looked like a fox who lost his bersis again...
"You know I can read your so-called report, right?" Lucien remarked, casting a side-eye at the parchment. "Fox who lost his berries…" He shook his head, visibly restraining the urge to strangle something. Or someone. Most likely her.
Em wasn't entirely sure why he even bothered to intervene, he acted like her mere existence gave him hives. And yet here he was, hovering inches away, brooding like it was his full-time job. Probably questioning his life choices again. Or wondering if the gods were punishing him for a crime he couldn't remember committing.
The thought made her smile. She shouldn't. The poor fae looked one snark away from an existential crisis.
Still, she appreciated the gesture. Reluctant, grumpy, absolutely filled with regret, but a helping hand nonetheless.
Maura appeared with food—roasted fowl, pumpkin soup, and sliced oranges. Her eyes flicked between her and Lucien, her expression a mix of suspicion and amusement, as if she couldn't quite figure out whether they were mortal enemies or partners in crime.
"Caught something in your claws again, did you, Emila?" Maura asked solemnly. She then turned to Lucien and gave a dramatic bow. "My condolences, my fellow victim."
Lucien, clearly not amused, took a swig of his drink. "Thanks, I needed that."
Emila grinned and pulled the food closer, offering bits of roasted fowl to Beans and Goldie under the table.
"I'll doodle you both later," she promised with a smirk.
"Gods, not again!" they both groaned in unison, clearly traumatized by past art projects.
Emila laughed, already envisioning them with wings, oversized eyelashes, and daggers in hand.