Adventure Awaits

Chapter 2 - Toast

I crouch beside one of the bandits and upend his purse, then another, and another, dumping the coins into my satchel with a practiced hand.

“Consider this a lesson fee,” I say pleasantly. “I'm a good teacher.”

I straighten and immediately hiss.

My face throbs. One eye is already darkening, a vicious bruise blooming where I’d been backhanded hard enough to make stars dance. My stomach aches too, deep and sharp, the kind of pain that will linger. I press a hand to it and breath steady, refusing to show weakness.

“Still worth it,” I mutter.

Nearby, the Leonin leans against a tree, inspecting shallow cuts along his arms where blades had slipped past fur and muscle. Blood darkens the gold of his coat, but his stance is solid. Tired. Bruised. Alive.

We regard each other for a long moment, the crackle of dying embers between us.

“Well,” I say finally, forcing brightness back into my voice. “That was invigorating. Try not to get jumped again, alright?”

I hitch my satchel higher and turned toward the road.

“Wait.”

His voice stops me—not loud, not commanding, just… earnest.

I turn back.

The Leonin puIls himself upright and steps closer, towering over me but careful not to loom. His mane is tangled, his expression uncertain in a way that doesn’t fit his size or strength.

“Take me with you,” he says.

I blink. “…That’s a bold ask after approximately 5 minutes of acquaintance.”

He lets out a huff that might be a laugh. “I am a good fighter. You saw that.” He hesitates, claws flexing. “But I… wait too long. I doubt. You stepped in when you did not have to. You moved. You gave me courage I did not find on my own.”

My flames dim slightly, listening.

“I will be useful,” he continues quickly. “I can guard you. Fight for you. Carry things. I do not steal from allies.” A pause. “And you make the world feel… less heavy.”

I study him, really study him. The honest posture. The lack of bluster. The way he hadn’t tried to take credit for the fight.

Then I smile, slow and warm, despite the bruise pulling at my cheek.

“Well,” I say, “I am excellent at inspiring poor life choices.”

I extend a hand. “Name’s Toast. Bard. Occasional arsonist. Loyal to a fault.”

He takes my hand carefully, claws retracted. His grip is solid, grounding.

“I am Khepri,” he says. “Of the southern plains. And I swear I will not regret this.”

I grin wider. “Oh, you absolutely will. But it’ll be fun.”

I turn back to the road, flames in my hair flaring brighter as if approving, and start walking—this time with heavier footsteps beside me.

Night falls gently, like a cloak laid over the land.

We find a hollow just off the road, sheltered by old olive trees. I set about camp with practiced ease despite the ache in my ribs, coaxing flame from my palm to start the fire. It burns clean and steady, warm rather than wild.

The rabbits, taken from the bandits’ ill-gotten stores, are cleaned, seasoned with herbs I’d tucked away in my pack, and roasted just right. Khepri watches in quiet fascination as I work, tail flicking lazily behind him.

“You cook like you fight,” he observes.

I smirk. “With flair and a strong sense of spite.”

We eat well. Meat crackling, fat dripping into the fire, the simple pleasure of a full belly settling into tired bones. Even the bruises seem less insistent afterward.

When the last scraps are gone and the fire burns low, I reach for my lute.

I don’t announce the song. I never do.

My fingers find the strings, and the night leans in.

The melody is soft at first, a wandering thing. My voice follows, warm and clear, carrying the ache of leaving home and the thrill of not knowing what waits ahead. The flames of my hair dim to a steady glow, swaying in time.

The world listens.

Crickets fell silent. Leaves still mid-rustle. Somewhere in the dark, an owl pauses with wings half-spread. Even the fire seems to burn quieter, as if afraid to interrupt.

Khepri sits very still, eyes fixed on me, breath slow and even. He has heard songs before—battle chants, drinking tunes, hymns to distant gods, but this is different. This is a song that speaks of strength carried alone for too long, of waiting for permission that never comes.

When the last note fades, it hangs in the air, reluctant to leave.

Then the night exhales, and the world remembers how to move again.

I smile to myself, setting the lute aside. A yawn steals over me, wide and unashamed, pulling a soft laugh from my throat.

“That’s my cue,” I say, rubbing my good eye. “Long day.”

“I will take first watch,” Khepri says at once, rising smoothly to his feet. His voice is calm and steady. “Sleep. I will wake you if anything stirs.”

I blink up at him, surprised and pleased.

“Well look at that,” I say warmly. “Already growing.”

I settle near the fire, wrapping myself in my cloak, flames dimming to embers as exhaustion finally claims me. As I drift off, I hear Khepri pacing the perimeter, silent and vigilant.