The tavern had settled into a hush, its pulse slowed to a whisper.
Mira's gentle snores drifted from the corner loft, a soft counterpoint to the hearth's lazy crackle, its embers glowing faintly in the dim.
Outside, wind stirred the trees, their rustle like distant voices, but inside the Trail's End, the world felt still, wrapped in the scent of polished wood and lingering ale.
Lira perched in the rafters, knees drawn up, her slender frame tucked into the shadows.
She hadn't meant to climb so high—seeking air, distance, a moment to clear the fog of the shard's weight.
But clarity hadn't come.
Instead, she crouched above the main room, her emerald eyes fixed on the bar below, her breath shallow, her heart a quiet storm.
Kio stood alone, drying a set of silver tools—not knives, but slender probes, flattened tongs, clamps with a purpose both precise and intimate.
He worked with steady hands, polishing each with a cloth, his movements unhurried, reverent.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with fine hair.
His collar hung open, a rare glimpse of vulnerability.
He looked tired—not weary, but worn, like a man who rested only when others found peace.
Lira bit her lip, her thighs pressing tighter together, the heat between them betraying her.
She hadn't meant to linger, to watch so long, but her gaze was caught—trapped by the quiet power in his hands, the control in every motion, the way he seemed to command the air without a word.
Kio paused, his fingers stilling on a clamp.
He reached for a small vial on the shelf behind the bar, its contents catching the lanternlight with a faint amber sheen.
Then, without turning, his voice cut through the silence, low and steady. "If you're going to touch yourself, try to be quiet."
Lira froze, her breath snagging in her throat.
She hadn't made a sound—she was sure of it.
Her stealth was her pride, her rogue's craft honed to silence.
But her hand, halfway beneath her shortcloth, betrayed her, trembling against her thigh.
She jerked it back, her cheeks burning, her heart pounding louder than any step she'd ever taken.
"You haven't asked," Kio said, still facing the bar, his tone calm but heavy with knowing.
Lira's lips parted, but no words came.
Her snark, her shield, faltered under his gaze, even unseen.
"You will," he added, his voice a promise that sent a shiver down her spine.
He set the vial down, its faint clink echoing in the quiet.
He finished polishing the tools, blew out the nearby lanterns, their light fading to a soft glow.
Then he moved toward the stairs, his steps unhurried, each one a quiet claim on the space.
Halfway up, he paused.
His left hand reached out, unlatching the bedroom window with a soft click, pushing it open to let the night air slip in.
He didn't glance at the rafters, didn't acknowledge her, but the gesture was unmistakable—a door left ajar, an invitation unspoken.
Kio vanished into his room, the door closing with a faint thud.
Lira remained frozen, her heart a wild rhythm, her hand still pressed to her thigh, fingers trembling with the urge to slip lower.
She didn't follow—not yet—but the heat pooling between her legs held her captive, the tavern's silence amplifying her unspoken need.