“I know my friend has a habit of hitting on other people’s women, but I assure you, he didn’t mean it. It’s an impulse. Uncontrollable,” a familiar voice said.

Twain peeked eye open.

Spar towered over him, one hand gripping the demon's wrist. Arm pinned in the air above Twain, the demon strained against Spar, scimitar glittering in the sun.

Instantly, Twain’s mood brightened. He cheered silently for Spar, eyes glittering. Ha, take that, you fools! It was I who had backup!

The demon struggled harder, muscles bulging. Spar waited, casually, no visible effort in his grip. After a few moments of fruitless struggle, he released the demon. Retracting his scimitar, the demon jumped back toward the alley, long jacket whirling around him.

“Your friend had better learn to keep his nose out of other people’s business,” the demon growled, sheathing his weapons. “And not to walk alone at night. We remember. And we will get revenge.”

Remembering that he wore Kyda’s face, a twinge of guilt burst through Twain at that. Oh well, Kyda seemed a competent fighter. He’ll be fine, probably.

Spar snorted. “I’d keep your own damn eyes out. Fuck with my friends, and you fuck with every horse in town.”

The demon’s face contorted, passing through several familiar emotions: confusion, disgust, worry, confusion again, bewilderment. At last, he settled on anger. “And you had best fear the Oen clan.”

Spar flipped him the bird casually, no real emotion behind it. Picking up Twain, he tucked him under an arm for safekeeping and marched back into the Arena.

Grabbing his human friend, the demon vanished into the shadow.

Inside the Arena, Spar glanced at Twain. “You sure make friends fast.”

“I was investigating…” Twain sighed. With a short gesture, he dismissed the illusion. “How’d you know it was me?”

“I followed you out. Lost you for a moment passing outside, but when I saw the way you fought, I knew.”

Twain struggled against his grip. “Let me down, your armpit stinks.”

“It’s punishment for a dumbass princess who thinks he can run around town like it’s his forest back home. Things are different in the human capitol. You have to mind the clans and the gangs, or you’ll find a cold knife in your gut one night, and no clue who wedged it there.”

“I’ll be fine. I feel bad for Kyda, though.”

Spar shrugged. “Kyda was raised by wolves. He’d probably thank you for the free fighting practice.”

Twain glanced up at Spar. “What about you? They saw your face.”

A malicious grin split Spar’s face. “I wasn’t joking about the horses. Anyone messes with me, and they find themselves at odds with every horse in town. They usually don’t last long.”

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“Really?” Twain asked, skeptical.

Spar tossed his mohawk haughtily. “One of the perks of being the king of horses.”

“You’re the King of…?” Twain furrowed his brows.

“Lower case king. Like how the lion’s the king of beasts, except, you know, we horses are herd animals, so we stick together instead of eating each other.”

Twain wriggled again, stronger this time, concerting his whole body into one great thrash. Spar tightened his grip, but not enough. Twain rolled onto the floor and jumped upright, dusting himself off. “Pretty sure lions don’t eat each other.”

“Have you ever seen a lion?” Spar returned.

“No. Have you?”

“There we go. I know as much as you do, so there,” Spar said smugly.

Twain sighed. There’s no arguing with an idiot.

“The girls showed me where our room is. Shall we? Or would you rather get yourself in more trouble tonight?”

“Let’s go. I need to make a salve, anyways.” He pressed a hand to his back, and it came away bloody.

“Are you okay?” Spar asked, concerned.

Twain shrugged. “It’s only a little cut. It’ll be fine once I take a moment.”

“If you’re sure.”

“More importantly, we’re getting closer to the blight. I sensed it on that man earlier--that’s why I followed him. There is blight in this Arena, Spar. I knew it.”

Spar blinked. “That's why we’re here?”

--

Back in their room, Twain ground the last of the herbs and poured it into a bottle. It joined the rest of the thick paste. He shook the bottle, mixing the herbs one last time, then poured some onto his hand. Reaching over his shoulder, he patted around, but couldn’t find the wound. “Spar, can you help?”

“Huh? Oh, sure.” Fluffing the mohawk one last time, Spar slipped the comb back into his pocket and crossed to Twain.

Twain stripped his shirt off. Twisting his neck, he peered over his shoulder. “Can you see it?”

Spar hissed in a breath. “Lay down. I want to check on something.”

“What? What’s wrong? It’s only a little cut.”

Spar pushed him toward the lower bunk. “Cooperate with me for a moment.”

Scared, Twain twisted harder. “What’s wrong? I want to see.”

Strong hands pinned his shoulders to the bed. He twisted harder, and Spar straddled him, leaning his full weight on Twain. “Lie still, dammit! The light’s bad, I can’t see—”

The door slammed open. “Hey boys! We’re—”

Jamie stopped dead.

Kat bumped into her, rubbed her forehead, and peered around Jamie. Her eyes went wide. Quietly, she murmured, “Oh.”

“Excuse us! Haha, we saw nothing. C’mon, Kat, let’s eat out tonight, huh?” Jamie backed out of the room.

Twain reached out. “No, it’s not—come back, it’s fine—”

The door shut.

Sighing heavily, Twain fell back onto the bed. “Dammit.”

“I know, right? They got it all backward.” Spar shook his head mournfully.

Twain kicked from the knee, annoyed. “Now tell me what’s wrong, or get the hell off.”

Spar traced a finger over Twain’s back, snow white skin contrasting Twain’s gray. “There’s traces of blight in the wound.”

“Bad?”

“No. Mild. If your skin tone wasn’t so flawless, I wouldn’t have noticed.”

Twain grunted. “That’s fine, then. Put the salve on it and bandage it.”

“Are you sure? Mild blight can get worse fast…”

“I’m investigating blight, Spar. I’m going to get blighted. I was planning to purify myself at the end of this, anyways, don’t worry. Besides, we moon elves are resistant against blight.”

“Why not purify yourself now?”

Twain shrugged. “Depending on how far some of the people here are blighted, they might be able to sense a purification. If they can sense it, it’ll give away that I’m here, investigating. Better to play it quiet, especially if it’s a mild case.”

“Quiet, like stabbing a guy in an alley,” Spar said, quirking an eyebrow.

Cool sensation seeped into Twain’s back, chased by a fiery pain. He shivered as the salve went to work, biting at the wound. The numbing agent kicked in, and the pain quickly faded to a low-level buzz.

Twain kicked Spar again. “If you’re done, get off me.”

Spar obliged.

Twain rolled over and climbed up, reaching for the bandages. As he wrapped them around himself, he sighed. “Injured before my first real bout. That’s not a good start.”

“I recommend you don’t follow strange men into dark alleys. That might help,” Spar advised.

Twain rolled his eyes and deadpanned, “Thanks.”

Spar saluted. “You’re welcome. Happy to do my duty.”