The forest clearing smelled like pine and irritation.
"Again," Damian said flatly, arms crossed. The sleeves of his cloak were rolled up, revealing a tattoo of twisting script along his forearm—faintly glowing with violet runes.
Chris wiped sweat from his brow. "Is it just me or are you enjoying this a little too much?"
"I enjoy precision. Watching you flail like a drunk squirrel is… less than precise."
Chris scowled and adjusted his grip on the sword. "I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in combat theory."
"Oh yes," Damian replied dryly, "and here we are. Theory bleeding in the underbrush while reality kicks you in the ass."
They'd been hiding in the woods of Westmoor for three days now—on the run from bounty hunters, royal soldiers, and whatever other unlucky souls tried to kill them for sport or coin. Chris had insisted on setting up a temporary camp to "hone their strengths," which turned into a training montage Damian neither requested nor approved.
Chris lunged again, sword arcing down.
With a whisper of shadow, Damian vanished. Reappeared behind him. Flicked Chris's ear.
"—OW! Gods, you're impossible!"
"Try not swinging like you're chopping wood."
"I'm a knight!"
"You're a noise hazard with muscles."
The two squared off again, but this time, Chris managed a feint—Damian blinked in surprise as the sword tip landed lightly on his shoulder.
"Ha!" Chris grinned. "See that? I learn."
Damian stared at him, mildly impressed. "…Barely. Again."
The sparring continued, each round growing faster, sharper, less full of insults and more full of subtle smiles neither of them acknowledged. Chris started reading Damian's movement patterns. Damian, begrudgingly, stopped underestimating the knight's stamina.
That night, they sat around a low fire, nursing bruises and warming soup from stolen supplies.
"I still say your parry form is garbage," Damian muttered.
"And I still say your teleporting is cheating."
Damian glanced at him, shadows curling at his fingertips. "Oh? Want me to show you real cheating?"
Chris immediately raised his spoon like a shield. "No thank you."
Then they both burst into laughter.
And that—gods help them—felt far too natural.
---
Chapter 8: The Laughing Lake Curse
(A Water Spirit, a Kiss, and a Lot of Complaining)
"Remind me again," Damian muttered, "why I followed you into this soggy, cursed, mosquito-ridden excuse for a legend?"
Chris adjusted the map, which was dripping wet and very likely upside-down. "Because I saved your life, again, and I thought it might be useful to investigate the 'Laughing Lake.' And it had a funny name."
"'Useful,'" Damian echoed. "Right. Because water spirits are always so cooperative."
The Laughing Lake looked more like a flooded puddle surrounded by dead trees and mist. But sure enough, it chuckled. Not metaphorically—the lake literally giggled. The sound echoed over the surface, high-pitched and mildly unhinged.
Chris stepped to the edge, boots sinking in the mud. "I think the spirit's waiting for us."
As if on cue, the mist curled, and a humanoid shape emerged, hovering inches above the lake's surface. It had no real face—just a swirl of water and starlight—but it definitely smiled.
"Ohhhhhhh~," the spirit sang, voice melodic and teasing. "You two! You've come at last! The lovers foretold!"
Chris blinked. "I'm sorry?"
Damian groaned. "No, no, no."
The spirit twirled dramatically. "Bound by fate, tangled in tension, the knight and the shadow-boy! Only your kiss can lift the curse on my lake!"
Chris's ears turned bright red. "I—hold on—we're not—he's not—we're just—"
Damian looked like he wanted to teleport into a volcano. "There must be another way."
"Too bad," said the spirit, flicking water at them. "You've entered the trial. One kiss, true and honest, or you'll be stuck in here forever. Together. Listening to me sing."
They were silent.
The spirit started humming something off-key and haunting.
Chris winced. "Okay okay okay—fine! One kiss. Nothing serious."
Damian arched a brow. "You're oddly eager, Sir Knight."
"Look, I'm not exactly thrilled either, but unless you want to live in a lakeside musical…"
"Fair."
They stood awkwardly by the shore. Chris coughed. "So… uh… do we…?"
Damian rolled his eyes and stepped closer. "Close your mouth, Valemir. You'll ruin the aesthetic."
Before Chris could form a sarcastic comeback, Damian kissed him.
It was supposed to be brief. Quick. Obligatory.
But the second their lips touched, everything stilled.
The mist quieted. The lake held its breath. Even the trees seemed to lean in.
Chris's heart hammered in his chest like it wanted out. Damian's hand lingered too long at his collarbone. Their eyes opened at the same time—and quickly looked away.
The spirit clapped. "OH YOU'RE SO CUTE. Curse lifted! Now go! Get out of here and do more kissing!"
"Thanks," Chris muttered, face burning, as he dragged Damian away.
Once they reached dry ground, Damian finally spoke.
"…Well."
Chris shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yep."
"Just one of those… magic curse things."
"Right."
Pause.
"…You're a decent kisser," Damian said, far too casually.
Chris stared at him. "You're a menace."
"I try."
But neither of them could quite wipe the smiles from their faces.
---