The Informant

The rain gave way at dawn, as if it suddenly remembered the sky was there too. At the mouth of the cave, the forest dripped from its leaves, drops sliding over black stones. Inside, the air held the scent of gentle smoke and damp wool.

Blair crouched by the dying fire, blowing patiently. Her hood was up, white strands of hair slipping free and glimmering faintly in the half-light. The flower-gem in her hair pulsed with the smallest glow, like a thought refusing to vanish. The embers flickered back at her breath—short, stubborn sparks—enough to hold on to a little warmth.

Asori opened his eyes slowly, with that feeling of returning from a heavy, sweet dream. The first thing he saw was Blair’s silhouette: the curve of her shoulders, her hands coaxing warmth out of the faint embers. The second, his own cloak folded as a pillow. The third, the lingering warmth on his lips, like a shy memory. He lay still, staring at her for a silence that lasted too long.

Blair spoke without turning, as if she had counted each of his heartbeats.

—If you’re awake, at least pretend you’re not staring at me —she said, her voice thick with morning.

Asori cleared his throat, turned his face dramatically toward the cave ceiling.

—I was… studying the stalactites. Very inspiring.

—Uh-huh. —Blair pulled two twigs closer, blew, snapped her fingers softly, and a flame obeyed, as though it had been waiting all along—. Now you can be inspired by something hot.

Asori sat up slowly, settling across from her. The Sweet Kiss tugged lightly: he caught her weariness, her lingering blush, and that awkward mix of pride for dragging him out alive and the urge to punch him for yesterday’s joke about the kiss.

—About last night… —he began.

—Last night —Blair cut in, stabbing a twig into the fire— …means today you walk on your own, and we don’t talk. Can you manage?

Asori gave his body a quick check.
—I can.

—Good. —She stood with a motion that hid the ache in her own muscles—. We’ve got forest, mud, and a Capital that won’t come to us on its own.

Asori lifted his hands in surrender, grabbed the pack, and together they smothered what was left of the fire until the cave smelled of wet stone.

The freshly washed forest smelled of resin and soil. The leaves gleamed, and birds argued over the news among the high branches. Blair and Asori followed a narrow path, hoods drawn, boots sucking at puddles with the sound of soup being stirred.

Asori walked half a step behind, careful with roots and silences. Three times he opened his mouth. Three times he shut it. On the fourth, he tried:

—I’m alive because of you —he said, plain.

Blair didn’t stop.
—Also thanks to my human shield, yes.

—I see you’ve grown fond of the concept.

—It’s useful —she replied, curt, though the bond betrayed her with another blush.

A few steps later, he tried again:

—What I said in the castle… it was a really bad joke.

—It was a joke —Blair allowed, cold—. And a very bad one.

—I’m not good with… —he searched for the word— …“kiss protocols.”

Blair paused just long enough to glance at him sideways.
—Then don’t improvise on them.

Asori raised his hands in defeat.
—I’ll try.

They walked on. Sunlight filtered down in clear bars across the trail. A pair of squirrels followed them by leaps, as if the forest itself were choosing sides in who kept quieter.

—For what it’s worth —Asori said at last—, if you’d needed… you know… logistics, I wouldn’t have complained. —He grimaced—. That came out wrong too, didn’t it?

Blair clenched her jaw to stop a smile, failed halfway.

—Idiot —she muttered, though with less bite.

The forest opened into a wide clearing where a village lingered like a memory. Low wooden houses badly patched, leaning posts, laundry too afraid to dry. In the square, what was left of a market: empty fruit stalls, a cart with a broken wheel, crates cracked like ribs.

Blair lowered her hood just enough to look without being seen. Asori, instinctively, mirrored her. The Sweet Kiss swallowed a mouthful of bitterness that wasn’t his: Blair felt these sights like an old thorn.

—Raids —she said, flat—. “Extraordinary” tax collections. And sometimes, Megalos “accidentally” released nearby so people pay for protection. Old recipe, new cooks.

A child peeked half his face from a cracked door. His eyes were huge, the kind of eyes that had seen too many long nights. Asori met them for a heartbeat. The boy vanished at the crunch of boots.

In one corner, an old man pushed alone against a fallen roof beam. Asori stepped forward without thinking, shouldered the weight, lifted it into place. The elder tried to thank him with a nod; fear stole his voice. Asori answered with a simple smile, the kind that needs no language.

—We can’t stay —Blair murmured, as if the words hurt her teeth—. Any help we give now could bring them worse blows when we leave.

—I know —said Asori, tightening the pack strap. He knew… and still the act burned in his hands.

They passed a crooked-doored tavern with a half-fallen sign: The Broken Bowl. From inside drifted the smell of barley and bone broth.

—Here —said Blair—. Our contact.

Inside was dim and warm. Six tables, three customers, a woman behind the counter with strong arms and sharp eyes. The floor creaked with each step, remembering better dances. Blair pointed Asori to a table near a low window with a view of the square unseen. They sat. A jug of water arrived unasked.

It didn’t take long. A merchant appeared with a frayed cloak, a bundle of fabrics, and a smile on permanent sale. His hat was too big for his head—or his head too small for that hat. He sat without asking, spilling routine.

—Fine day to sell nothing —he said cheerfully—. Today people buy fear and save their coins.

Blair’s face didn’t change.
—Words cost less than cloth. Speak.

The merchant smiled wider, though his eyes stayed serious.

—The city spreads the news like a bard on a payroll. The tournament is confirmed. Two moons and a crumb more. Posters ready, stands rising, poets rehearsing rhymes.

—Prizes? —Blair asked.

—First prize: enough gold to forget old hungers, and “recognition” to open doors that used to be walls. —He drew a flourish with his hand—. Second prize: the famous “living treasure.” Neither jewel nor horse. A slave.

Asori leaned forward, stomach tight.
—Name?

—Aisha —the merchant whispered—. They call her “the Light” in murmurs too cautious for trouble. I haven’t seen her, but they say she heals with her hands, and chains look wrong on someone with that gaze.

Blair didn’t blink. Her pulse tightened on the glass until it complained.

—Guards —the merchant went on—. Plenty. And not just locals. Zeknier’s eyes will be watching too. You’ll know them by the black crow pins on their cloaks. If you see them, you saw nothing.

—The Capital’s informant? —Blair asked.

The merchant smiled like a man holding a trick.
—He’ll find you. Someone you know, Princess. Just make sure you arrive.

He stood, and with the weary grace of a salesman, left a scrap of cheap cloth on the table, a rolled map hidden inside. Nobody noticed; the tavern-keeper kept drying cups as if dampness were her trade. The merchant slipped away, and a second later, he was gone.

—Are they always like that? —Asori whispered.

—No. Sometimes worse —Blair answered, tucking the map beneath her cloak—. Let’s go before someone decides to measure our shadows.

They stepped outside. The boy from the door looked again. Blair held his wide eyes a second, then left a coin on the sill as she passed, without looking. The boy didn’t move until they were gone.

The forest welcomed them back with its green cathedral. Mud yielded to light, and birds resumed unfinished conversations. Blair walked steady, calculating routes; Asori matched her pace, learning to listen not just to breaking twigs but to air currents still at rest.

—That merchant… —Asori began at last—. He said “Zeknier’s eyes.” Do you think…?

—Yes —Blair cut him off—. In the Capital, hands will buy and sell everything: bets, names, silences. If they see us weak, they’ll eat us alive. If they see us strong, they’ll eat us slow. I prefer the first. So when we arrive, we’ll have to disguise ourselves well enough not to draw suspicion.

—What optimism —he muttered.

—Realism —she corrected.

The Sweet Kiss pulsed lightly, reaching Asori like unintentional care. Blair gripped her cloak tighter.

—About that “logistics” line —he said, voice apologizing ahead of itself—. It was stupid.

—It was stupid —Blair echoed, this time sounding less like a knife, more like a shove.

Asori smirked sideways.
—Thanks for reminding me so consistently.

—I have a natural talent.

—I know.

For the first time since the bad joke, they smiled together.

The forest opened into a drier patch as the afternoon bent. They made camp under a tree with branches shaped like arms that knew how to hug. Asori insisted on lighting the fire with two stones. He tried with ritual solemnity, tongue out in focus, sparks leaping like timid stars and dying inches short.

Blair watched, arms crossed.
—Want me to…?

—No. I can do this —Asori said, proud.

He blew. Failed. Tried again. Sparks mocked politely.

—I can… —he insisted.

—Want me to…? —Blair repeated, holding back laughter.

—…Fine —he conceded, defeated—. A little.

Blair snapped her fingers so subtly it felt like a secret, and fire bloomed in a whisper. Asori dropped back with theatrical defeat.

—Without you I’d be dead three times.

—Four —she corrected, straight.

—Not going to argue —he said—. But if I’m still alive, at least I give you material to brag about.

Blair lowered her gaze, smiling with her mouth but not her eyes.
—You’re prime complaint material —she admitted.

They broke bread—the last piece bought in the city—and shared an apple that tasted of clean tree. They talked of small things: how Eryndor could stare at a leaf for ten minutes and call it “class,” how Tifa could read three maps at once and still catch a whisper. The bond pulsed beneath those laughs, not pushing, not pulling—just being.

—The Capital… —Blair said suddenly, serious, staring into the fire— …isn’t like this forest. There, eyes weigh more than swords. You can’t let them see you weak.

Asori held the fire’s gaze a moment.
—I won’t promise not to fall —he said—. I’ll promise to get up fast.

—That you do know how to do —Blair conceded, the words sounding like a short blessing.

Above, the sky lit its clumps of stars. The forest shifted language. They laid their cloaks on the grass, the fire sank to embers. Blair curled with knees to chest; Asori lay back, hands behind his head.

—Tie? —he tried, whispering the habit.

Blair turned her face, red eyes reflecting glow.
—Tie—she echoed, and the wind seemed to keep the word for when it might be needed.

They woke before the sky chose a color. Broke camp in silence, moving like people learning to be a team. The map hidden in cloth marked a detour to less-watched roads. The Capital wasn’t close… but it was coming. They could smell it in the thicker guard patrols at crossroads, in the hammering of boards for stands, in the hum of poets rehearsing rhymes with “glory.”

As they walked, Asori looked at his hands for a moment. He remembered the spout Eryndor taught him to open without breaking the jar. Remembered the village, the boy without laughter, the elder beneath the beam. The knot in his gut returned, not so small.

—My mission —he said, as if to persuade himself— is not to waste the fact you saved me.

—Your mission —Blair corrected softly— is to live long enough to choose other missions.

The Sweet Kiss pulsed, and that shared heartbeat no longer felt like intrusion. It was a tightrope, stretched sure between two shores that finally trusted enough to cross without looking down.

The path bent into a valley where mist lingered to play. Beyond, in the distance, like a promise not yet shaped, the Capital City began to exist.