Next steps

The market district buzzed just beyond the alley's edge—a living, breathing beast of noise and scent and movement. Merchants hawked wares in voices rough from years of shouting, their stalls adorned with brightly colored fabrics and clattering wind chimes. The air hung thick with the aroma of spiced meat sizzling on open grills, mingling with the sweeter tang of candied fruits and fresh bread. Somewhere nearby, a lute played a lively tune, its strings slightly out of tune but cheerful all the same.

Kyra followed close behind Arman, her ears twitching beneath the hood of her borrowed cloak. She walked lightly—not just with the natural grace of her kind, but with the cautious precision of someone who had spent too long expecting a blade between her ribs at any moment.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He noticed the way her fingers flexed every time someone brushed too close. The way her tail stiffened at the clatter of steel from a blacksmith's stall. The way her breathing hitched whenever a stranger's gaze lingered a second too long.

"You don't have to sneak anymore," he muttered over his shoulder, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"I'm not sneaking," she replied, her tone defensive. "I'm… walking quietly."

"Right."

He didn't push it.

Instead, he led her toward a clothing stall built into the crooked brick wall of an old apothecary, its faded canvas awning fluttering in the breeze. The merchant—a wiry man with ink-stained fingers—glanced up from his ledger, blinked twice at the tuft of Kyra's tail peeking out from beneath her cloak, and opened his mouth, no doubt to make some comment about exotic pets or black-market pelts.

Arman cut him off before the first syllable left his lips.

"We're shopping, Not selling."

His voice was flat. Final.

A beat of silence. The merchant's gaze flicked between them, reassessing. Then, with a practiced smile, he nodded. "Of course, sir. Quality materials here—half-price for couples."

Kyra choked on air.

Arman ignored it. "Something durable. She'll need boots, travel leathers, maybe a dagger belt."

"I can hear you," Kyra muttered from behind him, her voice dripping with annoyance. "I'm not luggage."

He raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You haven't stopped tailing me since the forest."

She gave him a dry glare. "I saved your life."

"I softened him up first."

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched—almost a smile.

They didn't speak again until after the merchant started measuring, his tape looping around Kyra's arms and waist with brisk efficiency. She flinched when the cold metal touched her bare wrist, her fingers curling instinctively.

Arman watched her silently.

She was calmer now than she had been in the days after the forest. The hollow look in her eyes had faded, replaced by something sharper—something alive. But the scars on her wrists were still fresh. And he didn't miss the way her shoulders tensed every time someone looked at her for too long. Or how her claws pricked against her palms whenever metal clinked nearby.

Old habits. Old fears.

He knew them well.

After a while, as the merchant bundled their purchases into satchels, Kyra spoke again, her voice softer this time.

"Where are we going next?"

Arman glanced at her. "Not the academy yet. I've got two things left to find. One's in a ruin—they called it the Ember Crypt."

She blinked. "That sounds horrible."

"It is."

"And the other?"

"Some kind of relic. Something that helps you heal. Passive regeneration."

She tilted her head, her golden eyes narrowing. "Are you breaking apart that often?"

"I've died more times than you've seen seasons," he said.

She didn't laugh.

A pause stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of the market. Then, quietly, she asked, "Will I be coming with you?"

He opened his mouth to answer. Closed it.

Did he want her to?

Yes.

Should he let her?

That was the harder question.

"If you want," he said at last.

Her tail flicked beneath her cloak. "I do."

"But it'll be dangerous. Worse than the last place."

She nodded. "I know."

He studied her—the set of her jaw, the stubborn glint in her eyes. "You sure you want to keep risking your life for someone like me?"

"Someone like you?" she repeated, her voice sharpening. "You mean the guy who bled out in a forest clearing saving people he didn't know?"

He didn't reply.

Kyra folded her arms. "I already died once, Arman. The day they took my family. I'm not risking anything now—I'm deciding what kind of life I want from here on out."

He looked away, his throat tight.

What kind of person was he, really?

A transmigrator. A fraud. A man wearing a dead villain's skin, trying—and failing—to outrun the shadow of a past that wasn't even his.

"I still don't know what kind of person I am," he admitted.

Kyra smiled. It was small. Faint. But real.

"Then let me help you find out."

They left the shop with two satchels of gear and a new dagger strapped to Kyra's thigh. She walked straighter now—hood still up, but her eyes bright, alert. She matched Arman's pace easily, her steps falling in sync with his.

Like she'd always walked beside him.

As they crossed into the quieter part of the city, where the crowds thinned and the noise faded, Kyra hesitated.

"There's just one problem," she said.

He raised a brow.

"You said we're not going to the academy yet. But when we do…"

Arman nodded. "You can't exactly stroll into a noble-dominated fortress of elitism with fox ears and a tail."

"Exactly."

They stopped outside an empty courtyard, its cobblestones cracked with age. Kyra's gaze flicked around once, checking for observers, then she slipped behind a crumbling wall, gesturing for him to follow.

"I didn't think I could do this anymore," she murmured.

He watched as her silhouette shimmered—light bending, her body twisting in a way that made his eyes ache. Within seconds, the girl was gone.

And in her place sat a small fox.

Dusky black fur. Gold eyes.

Still unmistakably her.

Arman stared.

She sat on her haunches and huffed. "Well? Say something."

He blinked. "You're… very fluffy."

"Wrong answer," she growled—and in another shimmer of light, she was human again.

She swayed slightly after, pressing a hand to her temple. "Takes effort. But I remember how now. My bloodline always could… if we were clear-headed enough."

Arman nodded, his mind already turning over the possibilities. "That'll help. You can pose as a pet."

Kyra frowned. "Not loving the phrasing."

"Disguised companion, then."

She sighed. "Better."

He turned toward the inn, where the glow of lanterns was just beginning to pierce the evening gloom. "Tomorrow, we head south. The ruin's beyond the old blightlands."

She nodded once.

But as they walked, Arman's hand brushed against hers—brief, deliberate.

Not by accident.

But,Kyra didn't pull away.