I met my disasters on the day the world tried to kill them—which, in hindsight, should have been my first warning.
I was nine years old, barefoot, and perched on the sun-warmed tiles of Old Man Harkin's granary roof, enjoying the spoils of my latest crime (a half-eaten meat pie, stolen right off his windowsill) when the commotion below caught my attention.
First, there was the sound—a sharp crack of fist meeting bone, followed by a laugh that was more teeth than joy.
Then, the sight:
Therion Duskbane, a scrawny, wild-haired boy with eyes like a cornered fox, was getting the absolute shit kicked out of him by three older boys. The ringleader, Joric—son of the village butcher and built like a small, angry bull—had Therion by the collar, fist raised for another blow.
Therion spat blood onto Joric's boots.
"That all you got?" he sneered.
Joric punched him again.
Therion hit the dirt, rolled, and came up grinning.
That was the thing about Therion—even when he was losing, he made it look like part of the plan.
And then there was Ardyn.
Oh, Ardyn.
Pale as a ghost, clutching a leather-bound book to his chest like it could shield him from the violence unfolding. He wasn't part of the fight—no, Ardyn was the kind of boy who flinched at raised voices, let alone fists—but he wasn't running either.
He was just… standing there. Watching.
Like he wanted to help but didn't know how.
Like he knew he should leave but couldn't make his feet move.
Pathetic, I thought.
Mine, I realized.
The Dead Fish Gambit
Now, some people might've intervened with words. A stern shout. A noble plea for mercy.
I was not some people.
I reached into the sack beside me—the one I'd borrowed from the fishmonger's stall earlier—and pulled out my weapon of choice: a very dead, very slimy river carp.
I took aim.
And I dropped it.
The fish hit Joric square on the head with a wet thwap.
Silence.
Then—
"WHAT THE HELL?"
Chaos erupted.
Joric slipped on fish guts, went down hard. His friends scrambled back, gagging. Therion, still on the ground, blinked up at the sky like the fish had fallen straight from heaven.
And Ardyn?
Ardyn made a noise like a deflating bellows and fainted.
The Aftermath (Or: How to Claim Your Strays)
I swung down from the roof, landing light as a thief's fingers in a noble's purse.
Therion was the first to recover. He wiped blood from his lip, squinted at me. "The hell was that for?"
"Entertainment," I said, nudging the fish with my toe.
He scowled. "I had it handled."
"You were losing."
"I was buying time."
"For what? A miracle?"
Ardyn groaned from the ground. "...m'not dead?"
I crouched beside him, pried the book from his death-grip. "Aetherian Theory and Practical Applications."
"Boring," I declared, tossing it to Therion.
Therion caught it, flipped a page, and immediately looked pained. "Why are there so many words?"
Ardyn made a wounded noise and tried to snatch it back.
I grinned. "Congratulations. You've been adopted."
Therion's glare could've melted steel. "Like hell—"
I shoved a stolen sugar candy into his mouth. "Shut up. You're mine now."
He chewed.
First mistake.
LYRIA'S FIELD NOTES ON HER NEW IDIOTS:
Therion Duskbane
Skills: Getting punched, lying through his teeth, looking dramatic while bleeding
Weaknesses: Sugar candies, being called "cute," my knife at his throat
Verdict: Feral. Keep.
Ardyn Vale
Skills: Fainting, apologizing, reading books thicker than his skull
Weaknesses: Eye contact, loud noises, realizing he's been adopted
Verdict: Pathetic. Keep.
Lyria Lancaster was:
Silver-haired, a trait from her exiled stormcaller mother
Knife-smart, having picked her first lock at age six
The only person who could make Therion blush (a skill she honed with military precision)
Her pockets always contained:
Stolen maps ("Borrowed indefinitely," she corrected)
Pressed nightbloom flowers (which only grew in execution yards)
Sugar candies (always shared, though Therion inevitably bit her fingers)