He was silent as we continued to walk, following close behind Octavia.
After a mont, his brows drew together in mild anger.
"Damnit, Lira! She definitely didn’t listen to !"
I frowned. "Listen to you..."
Before I could press further, Octavia gasped.
"Ah! Found it! Willowswept!!"
Tristan and I stopped in our tracks. We looked at the shop facing us, and sure enough — there it was. The signboard above the entrance read Willowswept in elegant script, and a variety of flower species crowded the storefront in carefully arranged displays of color.
Octavia had been searching for sothing specific, which ant we’d spent the better part of an hour wandering through the town’s winding streets. Eventually, we’d ended up here.
’Willowswept. A strange na for a place. I suppose it had to be a floral shop.’
We naturally turned toward the entrance and pushed through the wooden doors. A soft bell chid as we stepped inside.
Different fragrances rushed to ambush our noses — so soft and tender, others harsh and almost ruthless. One scent in particular struck as genuinely offensive, sharp and chemical beneath the floral sweetness.
’There has to be poison sowhere in here.’
A woman erged from behind a display of blue-petaled flowers, her smile professionally warm.
"Hello, dear clients. Welco to Willowswept. We offer different services — from ornantal flowers to beauty-in-disguise and charm flowers." Her eyes swept across our little group. "Are you perhaps lovers looking to fall in love forcefully with each other?"
’Eh?’
Her gaze drifted pointedly to Tristan.
"Oh? Is it perhaps an open relationship?" She tilted her head with practiced curiosity. "We can make it work flowerfully for you three."
’Hell no.’
"Actually..." Octavia stepped forward, her voice turning shy. "I’m — I’m searching for Uncle Isonka."
"Ha! The owner!" The sales lady took a closer look at us, her scrutiny lingering especially on Octavia. "And w—whoooo might you be?"
Octavia jolted slightly, clearly uncomfortable beneath the woman’s piercing gaze. She fidgeted, her fingers tightening around the brown envelope in her hands.
"Uhm, he’s my uncle... my father sent to spend a few days with him."
"Oh?" The lady leaned back, standing politely with her hands crossed in front of her. "He is... the owner does speak of many family relations." She paused, seeming to consider sothing. "Unfortunately, the owner is not around presently. He made a short journey to Faeren Heights to procure so... delicate species of flowers. He’s been searching for them for ages and recently heard of their availability. These things are first co, first serve — he had to be quick about it."
"Oh..." Octavia’s voice carried clear disappointnt.
The lady gestured further inside the shop. "You’re welco to wait for him here, if you’d like?"
Octavia’s hand pressed tighter on the brown envelope. I gently touched her shoulder, making her look up at .
’Let your big brother take care of this.’
My eyes fixed on the lady. "It’s alright. We’ll just go to Faeren Heights."
She looked surprised.
"You will?" Her gaze darted between , Octavia, and Tristan. "It’s a dangerous road, though. Are you sure?"
I offered her a polite smile — the kind backed with a silent ’shut the fuck up and bid us farewell’ — and let my eyes close briefly in feigned pleasantness.
"Yes. We’ll be alright."
The lady humd thoughtfully, looking us up and down with renewed interest.
"Well, then." I turned to leave, guiding Octavia toward the door. "We’ll be on our way. Thank you for your help."
She spoke just as we reached the threshold.
"You guys are rcenaries, aren’t you?!"
Tristan laughed, the sound genuine and warm. "Right on the nose, dear miss. You do have a sharp wit." He complinted her with a smile that stayed easy on his face.
I caught the lady visibly blush and try to hide it before she recovered.
"Well — if you’re rcenaries, there’s a caravan preparing to leave for Faeren Heights on the morrow. As early as dawn, in fact." She straightened, suddenly businesslike. "Would you be willing to join? The rchant is desperate for actual experienced rcenaries!"
Tristan’s smile shifted into sothing more deliberate. He stepped closer to the lady, took her hand in his, and offered her what I could only describe as a ’the goated Tristan’ smile — the kind that probably worked on nine out of ten won. Tested and trusted.
"Dear Miss, you’re in great luck. Not only are we veterans — but actually a party of three summoners." He let that sink in for a mont. "Is there room for five?"
Her eyes went wide.
"What? Summoners! That’s a lie!"
Tristan, smug grin firmly in place, produced a card from his coat and offered it to her. She read it for a long mont, then looked at him with sudden interest and respect.
If she’d been skeptical about sothing a few seconds ago, she looked like she’d just found all the answers she needed.
"Please! There’s room for more!" Her voice pitched higher with excitent. "I’m sure the rchant will be ready to evict so trash to fill in your party. I’ll talk to him. Just be there! Don’t forget — before dawn!"
Tristan gently held her shoulder, his hands and gestures moving with practiced tenderness.
"Thank you, miss. We owe you this one." He lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to it, then released her with one final wink.
’Smooth bastard.’
The mont we stepped outside, his expression straightened completely. Like he’d simply finished doing... business.
"What was that for?" I asked. "Didn’t we have a plan before?"
Tristan’s face remained impassive.
"No. Not quite." He kept walking, voice dropping lower. "The plan before was for you and Nisha to rest in Mishard for about two days while we let the Church paladins scramble around. As far as things went, we knew they wouldn’t be able to attack Mishard directly. But do you know who’s actually chasing you?"
"Templar Light?"
He nodded softly, then suddenly sidestepped a child who carelessly ran past him before pausing mid-stride.
"White Lion." Tristan’s voice hardened. "No one really knows anything about him. He’s silent. Rarely says anything about anything. He simply has one reputation amongst the Inquisitors and Crusaders." Tristan looked at grimly. "He always gets the job done."
We continued walking, the afternoon crowd flowing around us.
"He was sworn in about ten years ago. Beca an Initiate Paladin when he was fifteen — his talent was unmatched amongst his peers. But his resolve to destroy Heretics was even more terrifying. For that guy, it’s as personal for him as it is for the church. If not more personal. His success rate in the past six years since becoming an Inquisitor is near top twenty amongst all Inquisitors worldwide." He t my eyes. "Do you understand what that ans?"
’Of course I don’t.’
I shook my head in response.
’But it sounds serious.’
Tristan exhaled slowly, taking the ti to break it down.
"The average Inquisitor in this era probably has thirty-five years of service with a success rate of fifty-seven percent. The White Lion? He’s only spent ten years and has a success rate of eighty-seven percent." Tristan let that hang in the air. "The least of the top twenty strongest Inquisitors has a success rate of eighty-nine percent — in fifty years. Do you see how truly dangerous this man is?"
The numbers settled into my mind, rearranging themselves into sothing I could actually grasp.
’Ten years. Eighty-seven percent. Top twenty in a fraction of the ti.’
Indeed. I was beginning to understand.
Pretty boy was a hotshot. A talented bastard with prodigy stamped all over him. The kind of person who didn’t just do their job — they excelled at it with terrifying consistency.
And he was hunting .
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