I stopped at their table and let the silence stretch just long enough for the lantern above us hissed and popped, spitting a spark that died before it hit the wood. The elf's pale eyes flicked up first, slow and sharp, like a hawk deciding if the mouse is worth the dive. The cat-girl's ears swiveled forward, amber slits narrowing, coin freezing mid-roll between her fingers. Both of them sized me up the way cool kids on the bleachers judge the new transfer: red eyes, bed-mussed black hair, barefoot in one flapping slipper, linen shirt hanging open just enough to look accidental. The air smelled of their shared ale (dark, malty, with a bite of clove) and the faint cedar-oil the elf used on her bowstring.
I didn't speak yet. Just hooked a thumb in a pocket I didn't have, cocked my hip, and let the half-smirk I'd practiced in the river do the talking.
The elf's lips curved, slow, approving. The cat-girl's tail gave one lazy flick, then settled. The coin vanished into her palm with a soft clink of final verdict.
They looked at each other. No words. Just a tiny nod passed between them like contraband.
The elf kicked out the bench opposite her with a scarred boot. Wood scraped loud over the guild roar. "Sit, Red-Eyes."
I dropped into the seat like I'd been invited to the cool table since kindergarten. The bench was still warm from the cat-girl's thighs. Ale foam clung to the rim of their shared tankard, shining like liquid gold in the lantern light.
"Cool," I said, tasting the word, letting it roll out lazy and low.
"Cool," the cat-girl echoed, voice smoky, amused. She slid the tankard across so the handle faced me—an offering, a test.
The elf leaned forward, elbows on the table, braid feathers brushing the scarred wood. "Name's Lioren. This walking disaster is Rill."
Rill lifted two fingers in a sarcastic salute, claws glinting. "Sup, disaster's taken."
I took the tankard, drank without wiping the rim (clove and malt and the faint ghost of Rill's lip balm, something minty and sharp), then slid it back exactly halfway between them.
"Kael Veyron," I said, letting the name settle like smoke.
Lioren's smile sharpened, pleased. Rill's tail curled, satisfied.
Around us the guild kept roaring, but right here the air felt quieter, warmer, like we'd drawn an invisible circle nothing else could cross.
I leaned back, stretched my arms along the bench back, and grinned at both of them.
"So," I said, tasting cinnamon and future chaos on my tongue, "we starting a party or what?"
Lioren spun the tankard lazily, clove-scented foam sloshing against the rim, and tilted her head so the lantern light slid along the silver rings in her ear. "By the way, Red-Eyes, what skill did the crystal give you?"
Before I could answer, Rill leaned in, tail curling like a question mark, voice a teasing purr. "Let me guess… Fireball? Classic starter spell. Thing is, those crystals run a thousand gold in the capital shops. Your family must be loaded."
The word family hit like a cold coin dropped down my spine.
Inner me was already there, dry as ever: *Relax, I cooked the backstory while you were busy posing in the river.*
I let out a soft laugh, scraped a thumb across the scarred table, feeling the old knife grooves under my skin. "Family's nothing much. Orphan, actually. Grew up in a little orphanage outside the eastern marshes. The director—old Sister Mara—she had this way of making nettle soup taste like hope. Saved every copper for years, then handed me that crystal the day I turned seventeen. Said, 'Go burn the world down, kid, but try to warm a few hearts while you're at it.'"
I shrugged, the motion slow, like the memory weighed something real. The guild noise felt suddenly far away; I could hear the faint crackle of the lantern wick and the soft clink when Lioren set the tankard down too hard.
Rill's ears flattened. The cocky smirk slipped off her face like melted wax. Lioren's pale eyes softened, the sharp edges going gentle and smoky. Even the feathers in her braid seemed to droop.
"Ah, shit," Rill muttered, voice small. She reached across the table, claws retracted, and brushed the back of my knuckles with warm fingertips that smelled faintly of mint and leather. "We're sorry. That was… really damn insensitive."
Lioren swallowed, throat clicking. "Yeah. Sorry, Kael. Truly."
The air between us turned thick, not awkward, just heavy with something honest. I could smell the faint salt of their guilt mixing with the ale.
I let the silence sit a second, then flashed the crooked half-grin that worked in the river reflection. "Hey. Sister Mara also used to say apologies are free, but the next round isn't. Someone buying, or do I start crying for dramatic effect?"
Rill barked a surprised laugh, tension snapping like a cut bowstring. Lioren's smile came back softer, warmer, real.
"On it," Rill said, already flagging down a barmaid with one lazy tail-wave.
And just like that, the circle felt a little tighter, the lantern a little brighter, and the clove ale tasted like it might actually be the start of something good.
Rill dug into her belt pouch and pulled out a crumpled quest sheet, the parchment still smelling of fresh ink and the guild's wax seal. She slapped it on the table with a little too proudly, tail swishing.
"Behold: three hundred level-zero goblins squatting in the old silver mine. Reward: three hundred coppers. One goblin, one exp. Split three ways, we each walk away level one before supper."
Lioren's ears perked; the hawk feathers in her braid shivered. I did the math in my head and felt my grin go sharp.
"Done. Let's go kill some tutorial mobs."
We left the guild into the late-morning sun. The main street was a living river: dwarves rolling barrels that sweated cold ale, halfling kids darting underfoot with sticky honey-cakes, a centaur arguing with a fruit vendor while his hooves clicked sparks on the cobblestones. Smells layered thick: hot iron from the smithy, cardamom buns, sun-warmed linen, and the faint green bite of healing herbs drying on strings overhead.
I walked in the middle, Rill on my left flicking her tail against my calf every third step like a metronome, Lioren on my right moving with that silent elf glide that made no sound even on gravel.
I started talking, low and lazy, letting the rizz drip like honey. Told them about the time I supposedly "accidentally" set a tax collector's hat on fire with a misfired spark cantrip; told it with just enough smirk that they couldn't tell truth from performance. Rill cackled so hard she had to lean on my shoulder, claws pricking through the linen. Lioren's laugh was quieter, but every time it escaped it sounded surprised, like laughter was a rare bird she'd forgotten she owned.
Then Lioren stretched, cloak falling back to show the pale column of her throat catching sunlight. "I've got ten siblings," she said, casual. "Elves, you know—long lives, big families. Half of them I wouldn't recognize if they walked up and kissed me. We only gather every eleven years for the Lúmenveil Festival. Trees strung with starlight lanterns, wine that tastes like memories, dancing till dawn turns silver." She glanced sideways, almost shy. "It's next year, Kael. You should come."
Rill snorted, ears flicking. "Ten? Cute. I lost count of mine after the third litter. We beastkin throw the Moonhowl Convergence every year—bonfires tall as houses, drums you feel in your bones, and enough roasted boar to choke a dragon. One year from now. You're coming to that one too, Red-Eyes."
They turned on each other instantly, voices rising in playful snarls.
"Starlight lanterns are romantic!"
"Bonfires and boar are romantic, you leaf-kissing snob!"
I lifted both hands, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. The street noise dipped for a second as if the whole village leaned in to listen.
"Ladies, ladies, calm down. We're friends now, yeah?"
Twin nods, immediate and fierce.
"Then we do both. Lúmenveil with the elves, Moonhowl with the beastkin. I'll bring the fireworks—literally."
Rill whooped and punched my arm hard enough to bruise. Lioren's smile went soft and dangerous at the edges, like moonlight on a blade.
We kept walking, three shadows stretching long across the sunlit road, trading stories and insults and promises. The dust rising warm around our ankles, laughter bouncing off color-washed walls, the scent of pine resin and distant goblin smoke already teasing the wind ahead.
Behind us the village bells rang noon, bright and careless, like they already knew we were about to ruin some goblins' whole afternoon
The old silver mine yawned at the edge of the pine forest like a rotten tooth. Afternoon heat shimmered off the broken cart tracks, and the air smelled of sap-cooked and resinous until we crested the last rise. Then the goblin stink hit: wet dog, spoiled meat, and something sour like milk left in the sun too long.
Three hundred of them had turned the mine entrance into a landfill. Broken barrels, gnawed bones, and shredded canvas lay everywhere. The little green bastards swarmed in packs, chittering in high, nasal voices that scraped the inside of my skull. Their eyes were yellow coins in the shade, teeth filed to needles. Most carried jagged knives or sharpened sticks; a few waved rusty pickaxes stolen from the miners long ago. The biggest ones (still no taller than my waist) wore necklaces of finger bones that clicked when they moved.
Lioren nocked an arrow without a sound, the fletching brushing her cheek like a lover's whisper. Rill dropped into a crouch, claws sliding out with a soft metallic *snk*. Her tail lashed once, excited.
I flexed my fingers. Heat pooled behind my sternum, familiar now, like swallowing a mouthful of coals.
First goblin spotted us and shrieked. The whole filthy tide turned, a green wave surging uphill, dust exploding under dozens of flat bare feet.
I stepped forward, smirked, and spoke the words the skill tree had burned into my brain.
"Ignis globus."
The fireball tore out of my palm the size of a pumpkin, roaring like a forge bellows. It hit the front rank dead center and blossomed into a flower of orange-white hell. Goblins became torches mid-scream; the shockingly loud, then abruptly silent as lungs cooked. The blast rolled over us: a furnace slap of heat, the greasy stink of burning hair, the wet pop of eyeballs bursting.
Ten down in one shot.
Lioren's bow sang twice. Two arrows (black-fletched, almost invisible) punched through skulls with wet thocks. Rill blurred past me in a streak of calico and claws, laughing like a mad bell. She carved a red smile across three throats before they even raised their spears; blood sprayed hot across my forearm, smelling of iron and sour wine.
I threw another fireball, then another, each one smaller but faster, lobbing them like grenades. Explosions chained across the hillside: dirt fountaining, limbs pinwheeling, the crack of brittle bones snapping under pressure waves. The grass caught and burned in patches, filling the air with sweet smoke and the stench of roasted goblin.
The survivors tried to swarm. They never got close.
Lioren danced along the ridge, shooting so fast the bowstring hummed one long note. Rill ricocheted between them, a whirlwind of claws and delighted snarls, painting the ground darker. I walked forward at normal speed, hands full of fire, turning anything that moved into screaming comets.
It took maybe six minutes.
When the last goblin tried to crawl into a burrow, Rill pounced, grabbed its ankle, and flung it overhead. I caught it mid-air with a point-blank fireball that lit the sky like a second sun. Ash drifted down warm and soft as gray snow.
Silence rushed in, broken only by the crackle of cooling fires and the wet drip of things that used to be alive.
The system chimed three times, bright and cheerful in my head:
**+100 EXP**
**+100 EXP**
**+100 EXP**
**Level Up! You are now Level 1.**
I exhaled, tasting smoke and victory, and wiped a streak of blood off my cheek with the back of my wrist. Around us the hillside looked like a battlefield painted by a lunatic: blackened craters, twisted weapons, the ground carpeted in green and red.
Lioren lowered her bow, chest rising and falling, a single bead of sweat sliding down her throat to vanish under her collar. Rill shook blood from her claws like a cat after rain, tail high, eyes glowing.
I grinned at both of them, teeth probably too white against the soot on my face.
"Three hundred coppers," I said, voice hoarse from the heat. "And three shiny new levels. Drinks are on me when we get back."
Rill whooped and tackled me in a hug that smelled of copper and catnip. Lioren just smiled (slow, proud, a little feral) and slung her bow across her back.
The sun was still high, the wind already carrying away the stink of burnt goblin, and the three of us started the walk home richer, stronger, and laughing like we'd invented joy.