Lyn woke up in a strange bed; what was even stranger was that she had woken up with a man next to her—but not just any man. She flushed a bright red, covering her face while peeking through her hands. She and Mort were under the covers; he had his shirt off, and she could see his chest slowly rising and falling. The warm feeling around her shoulder turned out to be his arm. Mort’s face looked pained for a moment, and in his sleep, his arm pulled her tight to him. A warm breath spilled from his lips as a sudden peaceful expression fell upon him. I love him, I love him so much! she cried silently into her fingers, unable to stop the sudden outburst of emotion.

But how did Lyn get knocked out? Did Drake die? The silence of her sob broke into a sound that caused his eyes to snap open. His eyes were no longer roiling rainbows; now they housed something new—a coiling red color overshadowed the rainbow, nearly all-encompassing. Without uttering a word, he pulled her closer until she rested her head on his chest. The smell was beyond comforting—ink, old books, rusted metal? She opened her eyes. "Mort, why do you smell like blood?" Her question almost made him flinch; he had stopped himself just in time.

The truth was his real body was rotting away in that cave, along with his grimoire. "I—" he breathed out, biting the inside of his cheek. What could he say that would make sense? "Had to use it again," he said, brushing the surface of his lips against her forehead. He hoped this much would be enough to comfort her.

A knock was heard, but no reply was waited for. The door swung open, and a tan-skinned man with huge calluses on his hands entered the room. Terry spoke warmly to the couple in the bed. "Master Mort and Mistress Lyn, when you're ready, a bath is prepared for you." He stepped out, closing the door, leaving the two of them alone in the room. But really, it had been Mort who had told them a bath awaited.

"You can go first, Lyn," he said, with a gentle smile on his lips.

She bit her lip, and a flush spread across her cheeks. "No," she whispered, still under the covers with her face buried in his chest. "We are going together," she said defiantly, squeezing herself tighter to his chest. His heart felt like a fire had just burst from it. It was thunderous in his ears. What was that supposed to mean? His face turned red as a tomato, and the more he thought about it, the redder his face became.

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Throughout the village of silence, it was exactly that, save for the faint panting and huffing noises coming from one of the rooms inside the inn. Occasionally, a muffled yell escaped the room. The books Mort had read were doing wonders. Every individual in the settlement had stopped moving. The hive was unable to focus on anything other than Lyn—her quaking voice and the other sounds of pleasure escaping her lips.

Mort found himself standing in the middle of a large room with steam billowing off the large bath. It was the kind of bath that normally only nobles might have access to. The thing was—here, Mort was king, and more. But he would not exactly tell anyone that himself.

Lyn was lying on the ground, her face flushed with her hand over her eyes. Even now, she had been biting her lip, thinking about what had just happened. Did she really get to be with him? After everything they had been through together, did she finally deserve this?

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Mort tugged his robes on, glancing briefly at her exposed body. She had faint yellow and purple marks along her legs, thighs, neck, and many other unmentionable places. He had taken his time, just like the books described. "Lyn, I have to check on Drake and our supplies. See you out there?" he asked.

It was hard for her to speak between her panting and trying to calm her breathing. She was unable to move from the spot; all she could do was nod as one of her hands moved over the middle of her stomach. Mort had left the room to do what needed to be done. He had always been like this—he did everything for the party. "Does this mean... I am going to be a mother?" she asked no one but the rising mist from the bath.

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Lyn had left the bath not long ago, striding out into the crisp afternoon air. Each time a person passed her, they said, "Good morning, Lyn," with a huge grin on their face before continuing on, not waiting for her to reply. It was so strange; everyone here knew what her name was. She stopped at the blacksmith for arrow tips, and before she could ask, he set a large bag with arrowheads and shafts. All that was left were the fletchings. "Morning, Lyn," the rough voice said as he shuffled away from her back to work. It was so, so strange.

Everyone seemed to know her; no one charged her a single coin. They even pointed her to Mort and Drake without her asking them. Mort did not glance in her direction when she entered the guild hall. Drake was on the floor, with his shirt off. Sweat dripped from his body as he panted. "Get up." Along each of the boy's arms were long, thick scales; they seemed to have gotten stronger. But Drake did not stand up yet. "Lyn." He held his hand in her direction, his palm faced upward. She took it, and he pulled her close to him, pressing her to his side. "I hear you've been exploring the town." A slight smile touched the edge of his lips.

"No, Drake, focus it through your limbs, and spread it evenly. Keep it up constantly." Mort looked a little frustrated. She glanced at his face again and noticed something strange.

"Mort, your glasses? Can you still see without them?" she asked. There was really no way around it; this was a subject he could not lie about. "Yes. I can’t really explain why, but I can now." His eyes moved to her, and he could see it all around her. The thick swirl of essence fluctuated with her thoughts and told him so many secrets. He used to read her expression to know her thoughts and feelings, but this—was far easier.

He turned his gaze off somewhere in the distance beyond the walls of the guild hall. "Interesting." Mort walked out the front doors, he strode out into the open air, the sun warming his skin, and the faint smell of dew filled his nostrils. Lyn followed behind him, unsure of what he was doing, but she trusted him. "I knocked the two of you out so I could save you from the monster I sensed in the cave." Mort said aloud. His expression looked pained as he remembered his real body suffering a fatal blow.

She did not say anything yet; she just listened to his explanation. In a way, it made sense; Mort was always very sensitive to the energies around him, even when he could not see essence with his own eyes.

He turned toward her, the sun beating down on his shoulders. He looked at her; he could see the shine of her red hair glistening in the yellow light, her pale red lips, and those freckles of hers going from each cheek to meet at the center of her nose. "Lyn, I died," he said aloud. He was not smiling, because this was not a joke. Her brow tightened, and her expression pulled into a deep frown. He had to be joking. "I'm not," he said aloud, reading her aura of essence. "I’ll show you." He continued to lead her through the village until they stopped at the blacksmith's. The door opened, but the smith said nothing. He just pointed Lyn into the back room.

Inside the room was an unmoving Mort, with glassy silver eyes. Dead eyes. It was real—but how?