All three of the big shifters followed Squirt back to the clearing after she made the customary trades with Quint for supplies. For Brock and Instructor Hawke, the excuse was that Instructor Hawke had promised her two days a week of training, which would be the day before and the day after her trips to the castle, and Brock was accompanying Instructor Hawke.

  Or something. It all sounded like bullshit excuses to Squirt, especially since that was technically more often than twice a week.

  Still, they made good on their word, training her hard the next day before leaving her to her own devices that afternoon as they returned to the castle. She set her bowls to work to dry out more laughing mushroom and blazing ant powder when Jul returned, excitedly showing off the large pile of usable scales he’d collected this time like he was seeking her approval.

  Weird fey. She seemed to be surrounded by those nowadays.

  The next day, Telos appeared.

  Telos was wearing more effeminate clothing now, having transitioned at some point over the last few days from a more masculine identity to a feminine one. It was common with those of a gender fluid nature—for some, their identity depended on the day, or even the time of day. For others, it was a general season.

  The closer they got to summer, the more feminine Telos became, marking her as the last type.

  It was something Squirt had never fully understood, switching between masculine and feminine, but she chalked that up to never having much in the way of either and it generally being none of her damn business. Instead of focusing on it or asking questions, Squirt spent the bulk of the day crafting the recipe with Telos for the ritual stones.

  Ritual stones of this nature were a single feystone broken into multiple pieces. It was the same concept that gave Squirt the simple beam stone set that she’d used in the capture-the-flag exercise, only what they were proposing was on a much, much larger scale. Using the same feystone split into different pieces would allow each piece to connect and commune with the other. Each piece would hold some of the same patterns inherent to the ritual circle, and all together they would all be the same ingredients that ended up in the same soup, as it were.

  Unfortunately, Telos had suffered rigid instruction. The idea of breaking a ritual circle up into its base components to achieve the same effect fundamentally disagreed with how she saw and understood magic circles to begin with, no matter how calmly Squirt explained the concept.

  The night ended with both of them frustrated and a pile of failed test stones that irked Squirt to see.

  Mid-afternoon the next day, Telos growled in frustration as she got up and stomped off, muttering about redoing the wards as something useful. Squirt was left in the clearing, glaring down at the enchanted slate like it offended her.

  Only to scowl harder when the pest slowly eased himself down to sit across from her.

  Grabbing the practice slate to see if there was any way to reduce the output needed so she could do the damn ritual herself, she muttered, “What do you want?”

  He didn’t speak at first, seeming to hem and haw and thoroughly try the tiny thread of patience she had left.

  She bristled. “Spit it out, already, pest.”

  He sighed. “My goddess, my name is—”

  “I don’t care about your fucking name,” she snapped a little too quickly.

  He paused, considering her as her eyes dropped back down with annoyance and frustration. Dawning realization came over his face. “… you’re refusing my debt.”

  She snapped, “I already fucking refused it, this isn’t news.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Then beg.”

  A salacious grin crept up his face. “I’d beg for you.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  She picked up one of the failed feystones and threw it at his face. He caught it with annoying ease. “Piss off. I’m busy.”

  He dropped his eyes back down to her work. “… you could do it, if you had enough magic, couldn’t you?”

  She didn’t answer. Fuck social obligations with this guy, he didn’t deserve it.

  He held out his hands to her. “I could give you my magic.”

  Her expression, that heated glare of hers, turned ice cold.

  He hesitated, his hands pulling back slightly before he held them out again. “… no bargains. No debts. Just a power boost to do what it is you need done.”

  For a long time, she didn’t answer. Her suspicious eyes remained fixed on his open violet ones, searching for hidden deception or irritation, a hidden motive. He remained as he was, focused on placating her suspicion with the same patience one might give a wild animal.

  Finally, she bit out, “You don’t even know if we’re compatible.”

  He softened. “I do, too.”

  She snarled. “You fucking checked?”

  He shrugged. “I hadn’t meant to, but when I woke from the drugged haze… it was like yours called to mine.”

  “Bullshit,” she snapped.

  “It’s true.”

  “Only amongst fated pairs, dipshit.”

  “And?”

  Flabbergasted by his nonchalance, she snapped, “Greenlings don’t get fated—”

  “I didn’t say we were.” He softened. “I follow the whims of my magic is all, my goddess.”

  She bared her teeth as she snarled, but he remained as calm and patient as ever, much to her irritation. Fey like him, who had an abundance of magic, had much stronger instincts that they struggled to fight against. The most powerful rarely tried.

  Magic was a funny thing. Sometimes an instinctual tug like that was the result of one of the gods interfering directly with a fey’s life, a phenomenon known as the Whims of Fate, a call to arms done by the world at large. Sometimes it was genuine instincts, like what the shifters had been struggling with: a need to bond with compatible fey, follow someone to protect a family member, or cover a romantic partner in their scent. And sometimes it was just an excuse used by fey to commit whatever acts they wanted with impunity.

  It was hard to know which one he was. But as the minutes dragged on, something in her gut said it wasn’t the last one. She couldn’t deny the first one, as much as she wanted to, because for some unknown reason the Hunt had some sort of interest in a nobody like her.

  She dropped her eyes finally, the suspicion slowly leaking out of them to thoughtful consideration of his hands.

  What if it was the Hunt?

  The sign from the favet had led her to the crash site instead of turning back when she could have. Was it for this? For her to meet him, save him?

  Or was that just incidental?

  And if so, was her part in this now over?

  She stood without another word, turning and trotting herself off into the forest to clear her head.

  And for once, the other hunters were not around to follow her.

  This time, when she hunted, she collected the blood of the feybeast she felled before finding herself a quiet, hidden spot between aboveground roots of a massive tree. She dug a small hole into the ground in the vague shape of a bowl and poured out the blood in offering to the Hunt.

  Then she waited.

  The blood didn’t sink into the earth, telling her she had the Hunt’s attention.

  Closing her eyes and intoning a prayer, she murmured the question that mattered the most, holding the image of the violet eyed pest in her mind as she did.

  “Can I trust him?”

  If the goddess had purposely led her to him for one reason or another, then she would trust in her goddess. If she hadn’t and the man was incidental to something else, then the goddess would have no reason to tell her to trust him.

  If her goddess willed it, she would trust him, even if the act of sharing someone’s magic again revolted her.

  He was wrong about one thing—they weren’t magically compatible, not in the way he thought they were.

  Magic compatibility was a type of attraction between two fey. It didn’t necessarily mean sexual attraction, as compatibility was shared between relatives. The more compatibility two fey had, the easier of a time they had sharing magic with each other. Incompatible fey could be recognized as bonded mates by the law, but they would never be able to have a fully-fledged mate bond. Highly compatible fey, on the other hand, could create bonds strong enough to share more than just emotions, but images, even memories.

  He was right that her magic accepted his, but it wasn’t because of the compatibility between them as a pair.

  The dark truth that even most greenlings didn’t know about themselves is that they were universal acceptors. She didn’t need to accept his magic in particular because she could accept anyone’s magic.

  It was a secret she would guard with her life, because she knew how terrible of a fate that could be.

  For a long time, nothing happened as she stared down at the little bowl of blood in the soil. Communicating directly with the gods like this wasn’t an exact science, after all, and the signs that the Hunt could give her were limited.

  The blood didn’t soak into the ground, meaning she still had the goddess’s attention, but she began to wonder if she had no intention of answering until a quiet chittering above her drew her eyes to a familiar pink face. A favet. A different one, obviously, than she’d seen before. It chittered down at her in agitation, flapping its wings and nervously moving along the root as it considered her, before it held out a small branch of huckleberries.

  Those weren’t even in season.

  She accepted the branch, and the blood in the bowl warmed enough to steam before it sank into the earth.

  The favet chittered at her once more before disappearing into the larger forest.

  Groaning, Squirt wiped her hands down her face. That was about as direct an answer as she’d ever gotten from her goddess.

  Damnit.