Yarrow jerked awake, smacking his head hard against the low rock ceiling."Damn it—" He winced, rubbing the throbbing bump. But then he froze.
A large, beige-furred creature blinked at him with black, bead-like eyes.
"Squeak."
The oversized hamster squeaked once and turned to dash off into the shadows.
"Where the hell did that come from?"
"Looks like someone's familiar," came Zen's voice, smoky and unimpressed. She sat a few feet away, one leg crossed over the other, her body glistening faintly in the dim light.
Yarrow let out a slow breath. "Great. I wake up to a rodent rave and a headache."
But something else tugged at his attention. Zen's arm—slick with sweat—gleamed under the faint glow. He reached for it instinctively, brushing his fingers along her skin.
"Don't even—"
But it was too late. He leaned in, lips parting, and ran his tongue slowly across the soft skin of her upper arm. Her taste—salt, heat, and something strangely intoxicating—hit him instantly.
"You horny bastard!" she snapped, flushing crimson as she punched him square in the nose.
Yarrow reeled back. "Ow! Dragon Mother, give a guy some warning!"
He paused mid-complaint, blinking as he realized something—he felt… amazing.The ache in his limbs vanished. His magic surged. His body felt light, buzzing, aroused in more ways than one.
"What the…" He stood up straighter, flexing his hands. "Zen… your sweat—it's like a goddamn elixir. I feel invincible."
Zen crossed her arms beneath her chest, glaring. "So you decided to lick me instead of just asking?"
"Well," he said, grinning, "if your sweat turns me into a magical powerhouse, can you blame me? I mean, you're basically a walking high-tier potion."
"Try that again without permission," she hissed, "and I'll shove your tongue somewhere you won't enjoy."
"But what if I do enjoy it?" he shot back.
Her eyes narrowed. "Pervert."
At that moment, the large hamster reappeared, this time with a rope trailing from its mouth.
Yarrow grabbed it, watching as the creature turned and dashed ahead."Looks like we've got a way out."
"You go first," he offered.
Zen raised a brow. "Why so generous?"
Then she caught him glancing down—and realized. Her outfit, a battle-dress cut high on the thighs and clinging damply to her curves, left little to the imagination.
"Absolutely not," she growled. "You go first. I'm not flashing you my ass."
"Too late," he muttered under his breath as he started crawling into the tunnel. The space was narrow, the air thick with humidity, their bodies brushing stone and occasionally—each other.
Zen followed close behind. Very close.
Her fingers occasionally grazed the backs of his legs. Her breath, hot and shallow, fanned over the back of his neck. One sharp bend forced her chest flush against his back, and he nearly moaned when he felt the full, firm press of her against him.
"Careful back there," he teased, voice low. "This tunnel's tight enough without your breasts squeezing me forward."
"You're lucky I don't claw your back open," Zen muttered, but her breath hitched.
Yarrow smirked.
After what felt like an eternity of crawling, a sliver of daylight appeared above. Yarrow reached the end and grasped the outstretched hand waiting for him.
"Owen," he grunted as he was hauled out into the open. He turned, offering his own hand to Zen. Their fingers locked, and she emerged with flushed cheeks and wild hair, glaring at him.
But she didn't let go right away.
Cheers erupted around them. Teammates circled, shouting and laughing.
"You guys… actually came through," Yarrow said, surprised.
One of them laughed. "We were worried. The familiar helped us find your path, and those of us with earth magic cleared the rock."
"I owe you," he said honestly. Then added with a crooked grin, "I didn't think you had it in you."
"You say that like a thank-you and an insult at the same time," someone muttered.
As the group celebrated, the sun crested the trees, casting golden light over the forest floor.
Yarrow turned to Owen. "You heading back into goblin territory?"
"No," Owen said. "I'm going to lead a tribe. Try to fix it from the inside. Why not?"
Yarrow clasped his hand with a solid shake. "Madman. But I respect it."
As Owen disappeared into the trees, Zen came to stand beside Yarrow, arms folded, lips pursed.
"You planning to keep licking me every time you stub your toe now?"
Yarrow looked her over—dirt-streaked skin, flushed cheeks, the sheen of sweat on her collarbone—and let his gaze linger.
"That depends," he said. "Are you planning to keep tasting like heaven every time I do?"
She rolled her eyes and walked past him, but not before he caught the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.
He followed, already plotting his next "healing session."
The old village chief's family was huddled atop a soft-cushioned carriage. Each of them wrapped in thick, wool-lined blankets, their frail hands cradling steaming mugs of herbal tea. The air was still tinged with smoke and damp earth, but around them was a hush of safety at last.
Yarrow approached, boots crunching softly on the gravel. He stood beside the carriage, his expression unreadable, but his voice held a rare hint of sincerity.
"Village Chief," he said. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."
Old Mike, weathered but upright, lowered his teacup. Despite the fatigue in his bones, he straightened, honoring the man who had saved his family.
"Ask, adventurer. Whatever it is, I owe you more than answers."
"That artifact," Yarrow said. "The black box—answers any question. Where did you find it?"
Old Mike's lips twitched in a wry smile, his eyes clouding with old memory.
"Ah. So you saw that old thing in action." He scratched his beard. "No need for secrecy, I suppose. I always knew my boy would use it one day."
He looked into the woods as he spoke, voice mellowing.
"I was on the road to the city—years ago. Just walking, nothing special. And out of nowhere... bonk!" He tapped his forehead. "The damn thing fell out of the sky and hit me right here."
Yarrow blinked. "Fell out of the sky?"
"Like a divine prank," the old man chuckled. "At first, I thought it was some fancy hand mirror—good craftsmanship, polished finish, even a strange shimmer to it. I figured I'd bring it home to the missus, maybe score some points."
Yarrow raised a brow. "That's one hell of a gift."
"Oh, it was, though not in the way I expected. One day it starts glowing, and this witch's voice comes echoing out, sleepy as sin, like she'd just woken from a hundred-year nap."
"And she just started... answering questions?"
"Yes—but only very particular ones." Mike sighed. "Couldn't get her to reveal treasure locations or scandalous village secrets. All she'd do was offer bland facts, weather forecasts, or commentary on stew recipes. If I asked anything juicy, she'd yawn and say, 'Inquire again when your heart's less horny.'"
Yarrow barked a laugh.
"I took it to a magic appraiser," Mike went on. "They told me it had no detectable power. Not enchanted, not cursed. Just... odd. They figured it was some great mage's vanity project—a toy with a personality."
Yarrow's shoulders dropped slightly. He'd hoped for a lead, a mystery, maybe a clue to something grander. But this? It was absurdly mundane.
Still, Mike's gaze turned sharp again, suddenly serious.
"You risked your life for my kin. That's not forgotten. That artifact's yours now, if you want it. And if there's anything else—anything—I can do for you, I will."
"You're too kind." Yarrow gave a polite nod, though his curiosity had dimmed.
He turned to go, but then paused. His head cocked slightly.
"One more thing, Chief. If it's not too personal... could you ask the artifact about your family's so-called great treasure?"
Old Mike hesitated, visibly uncomfortable.
"If it's inconvenient—"
"No, no..." The old man sighed heavily. "You saved us. The least I can give you is a bit of my shame."
He set his tea down, hands folding in his lap. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
"The family treasure... is my pacifier."
Yarrow blinked. "...I'm sorry?"
"My pacifier," Mike said firmly. "Jewel-studded. Custom made. I used it until I was six."
Yarrow stared at him. "You're joking."
"I never joke about nostalgia." The old man's face softened into something almost dreamy. "That pacifier was the last piece of my golden youth. My father spoiled me rotten—every room I entered, heads turned. The world bent to my tiny, noble whims."
He looked away, wistful.
"Now the family's fortune is dust. We sold off everything—paintings, heirlooms, even the manor's chandelier. But not that. Sometimes, when the night is especially cruel... I pull it out. Give it a gentle suck or two. Just to remember what it felt like—to be untouchable."
There was a long silence.
Yarrow didn't know whether to laugh, apologize, or exorcise the memory from his skull.
After a moment, he cleared his throat and said—earnestly, despite himself—"I… wish you good health."
... patreon Seasay