The giant moved without warning. One moment the tavern hummed with noise and the stench of stale ale — the next, a fist the size of a cartwheel tore through the air toward my skull. I didn't think. I didn't have time to think. My body dropped before my mind caught up, muscle memory carved from a thousand grueling drills in Vildora's courtyard snapping through me like a bowstring pulled too tight and finally released. The blow screamed past my ear — and drove straight into the centaur standing behind me. The crack of impact was sickening. The centaur lurched sideways, his beady black eyes going dark with fury. He let out a sound somewhere between a bellow and a scream — and that was all it took. The tavern ignited. It happened the way fire always does: one spark, then everything at once. A creature shoved another. A chair splintered against the wall. Someone roared, and then everyone roared, and within the span of three heartbeats the entire room had dissolved into a heaving, crashing, snarling brawl. Centaurs, trolls, lizard-men, things I didn't have names for — every creature in the tavern tangled together in one furious, writhing mass of fists and fury. I pressed my back against the nearest pillar, dagger drawn, knuckles white around the hilt. The blade felt small. Everything felt small. A glass shattered against the wall inches from my head. I ducked, spun, narrowly avoided a centaur's thrashing hind leg. A troll careened into me from the side, sending me skidding into a table — I caught the edge and shoved off hard, weaving through the storm of bodies. None of these blows were aimed at me. That almost made it worse. At least a deliberate attack came with warning. I caught a glimpse of Mousikí across the room. Of course he looked calm — ducking a wild swing with the lazy, unbothered grace of someone who had started more than a few tavern brawls in his time. I opened my mouth to shout at him — and then a body crashed between us, and he was gone. Keep moving. Don't stop. Don't get swallowed. I rolled beneath a table as two giants collided overhead, the sheer force of it rattling my teeth and shaking dust from the rafters. The floor shook. Splinters rained. I came up on the other side breathless, heart hammering, dagger raised — and found a wall at my back and a precious foot of open space around me. For one suspended second, the whole tavern seemed to roar at once. Then I spotted Mousikí again, grinning as he ducked a flying tankard and fought his way toward me through the wreckage. "Having fun?" he called over the noise. I stared at him. "We need to leave. Now." I grabbed his arm, then stopped. "Did you get the flute?" He reached into his coat and produced it — the flute, gleaming and intact — with a flourish that was almost insulting given the chaos around us. "What do you take me for?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "A fool?" Before I could answer, he seized my hand and hauled me out from behind the table, pulling me through the brawl at a near-sprint. I ducked a wild punch, stumbled over a fallen stool, and somehow kept moving. Behind us, above the roar of the fight, a voice cut through the noise like a blade. "You dolts! You're letting them get away!" The barkeep. I risked a glance back — he was standing on the bar, red-faced and furious, jabbing a finger in our direction. Mousikí slowed just enough to turn. He swept his teal beret from his head and tipped it toward the barkeep with an exaggerated bow, that infuriating grin spread wide across his face. "What a pleasure it always is!" he called back, voice bright and cheerful over the din. "And thank you ever so much for the flute!" The barkeep's gaze snapped to the counter where the flute had been. The color drained from his face, then flooded back twice as red. "You good-for-nothing son of a—!" The door slammed behind us. And then we were running — really running, breathless and stumbling and half-laughing — through the narrow streets outside, the roar of the brawl fading behind us with every step. The cool air hit me like a wave, sharp and clean after the smoke and sweat of the tavern, and I gulped it down greedily. Mousikí let out a whoop of triumph. He spun to face me, and before I could protest, he swept me off my feet in a full, spinning hug, his laughter ringing out bright and unrestrained into the morning air.
"We did it!" he crowed, setting me down and gripping my shoulders, his mismatched eyes — one emerald, one storm-gray — blazing with delight. "You were incredible in there! I can't believe you — that dodge, with the giant — how did you even—?" He laughed again, shaking his head. "You're an extraordinary fighter, Laelynn. I mean it." I was still catching my breath, cheeks flushed, heart pounding from more than just the run. For a moment I just looked at him — this strange, reckless former god with his crooked grin and his stolen flute — and felt something loosen in my chest. Something that had been wound tight since the moment Forá threw me through that portal. I let out a shaky breath that turned, against my will, into a laugh. "Don't ever do that to me again," I managed. Mousikí's grin softened into something almost sincere. "No promises," he said — and held up the flute between us, letting it catch the light. We had what we came for. Now we just had to survive long enough to use it. A hint of heat crept up my neck before I could stop it, blooming across my cheeks in a way I was sure he could see. I cleared my throat, keeping my voice as steady as I could manage. "W-Would you like to set me down now?" Mousikí blinked, as if only just realizing he was still holding me. His mismatched eyes widened — that rare, unguarded look that made him seem less like a former god and more like an ordinary boy who had just made an ordinary mistake. Slowly, almost sheepishly, he set me down, his hands lingering at my waist for a half-second longer than necessary before dropping to his sides. He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze sliding away from mine. "Sorry," he said, and for once, the teasing lilt was gone from his voice. "I didn't think — I just — " He exhaled through his nose, a short, self-conscious sound. "You're not a hugger. I'll keep that in mind." The words landed somewhere tender. I opened my mouth before I could think better of it. "N-No, that's not — " I stopped. Started again. "I just didn't expect it. That's all." My voice came out quieter than I intended, the words shrinking as they left me. I stared at some point past his shoulder, acutely aware of how warm my face had become, how my heart was still beating faster than the run could account for. "I don't mind it," I finished, barely above a whisper. The silence that followed felt fragile, like the moment just before a held breath is let go. I risked a glance at him. Mousikí wasn't grinning. He was watching me with that same open, unguarded expression — soft at the edges, uncertain in a way I hadn't seen from him before. Like he wasn't sure what to do with what I'd just said, and for once didn't have a quick, clever answer to reach for. Then the corner of his mouth curved — not the wide, performative grin he wore like armor, but something smaller. Quieter. Real. "Noted," he said softly. He turned away before I could read anything more into it, holding up the flute and spinning it once between his fingers as if to remind us both why we were standing in an alley outside a wrecked tavern instead of, say, having a normal conversation like normal people. "Now then," he said, his voice slipping back into its usual brightness — though something around the edges of it had shifted, just slightly. "Shall we get out of here before the barkeep finds a second wind?" I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, grateful for the out. "Yes," I said. "Absolutely yes."
