Lor's stomach growled as he walked down the cobbled street, the midday sun warm on his shoulders, the ache in his limbs a lingering reminder of his morning with Vela and Maris.

An hour ago, he'd been balls-deep in two women, their bodies tangled in a frenzy of lust that had left him spent in the best way.

The effort had burned through his energy faster than any spell practice, and now his body demanded fuel, the hunger gnawing at him with an insistence that matched the satisfaction still humming in his veins.

But as he turned the corner, his mood soured, a sharp curse slipping from his lips. "Shit."

His academy satchel—loaded with notebooks, chalk, and that damn silver coin—wasn't on his shoulder.

He froze, patting his sides as if it might magically appear, then cursed again, spinning on his heel to head back toward the houses he'd just left.

When he reached the side window of Maris's home, he stopped, his breath catching.

Inside, Maris and Vela hadn't bothered to get dressed.

They were tangled together on the bed, their naked bodies pressed close, lips locked in a slow, hungry kiss.

Vela's strong hand cupped Maris's full breast, her thumb brushing the stiff nipple, drawing a soft moan from Maris's throat that carried faintly through the glass.

The sight sent a jolt through Lor's core, his cock twitching in his trousers, but he forced himself to stay still.

Quiet as a shadow, he slipped into the hallway through the unlocked back door, his boots silent on the tiles.

His satchel lay where he'd dropped it by the door, the leather strap curled like a sleeping snake.

He grabbed it, slinging it over his shoulder, then paused, his eyes catching on a glint of lace on the floor—Vela's dark green sports bra and Maris's delicate white one, discarded in the heat of their earlier frenzy.

With a quick, thief-like motion, he plucked them both up, tucking them into his satchel with a grin.

"For the collection," he whispered to himself, the weight of the fabric against his chest a quiet thrill.

Then he slipped out, closing the door softly behind him, leaving the women undisturbed in their intimate afterglow.

The sun was high now, bathing the town in golden light, the streets alive with the bustle of daily life.

Merchants shouted their wares, their voices mingling with the laughter of children darting between market stalls, the air heavy with the scents of grilled meats and fresh-baked bread.

Lor's stomach growled again, louder, insistent, pulling him toward a small tavern that doubled as a lunchhouse, its sign swaying gently in the breeze.

Inside, the air was warm with the aroma of roasted meat and herbs, the low hum of conversation wrapping around him like a blanket.

The waitress—a curvy brunette with a low-cut blouse that strained at the buttons—handed him a menu with a smile that lingered a little too long, her hazel eyes flicking over him with subtle interest.

Her hips swayed as she turned away, the motion deliberate, and Lor's eyes followed shamelessly, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"This town is too generous," he muttered, his voice low as he scanned the menu.

His food arrived quickly: roasted chicken, crisp greens, and a thick slice of fresh bread, still warm from the oven.

He ate slowly, savoring the warmth in his belly, letting the noise of the tavern wash over him—clinking mugs, laughter, the scrape of chairs.

For once, it was a relief to sit in the middle of a crowd where no one looked at him like he was dangerous, or like he was the loser of Class D.

Here, he was just another face, anonymous and free.

But as he glanced out the window, tearing off another bite of bread, something caught his eye.

Across the street, Ameth stood by her cart, her blonde hair tied back in a tight braid, her plain gray dress unremarkable but neat.

She didn't move like the other merchants, who barked prices and thrust produce into customers' faces with eager grins.

Ameth just… stood, still as ice, her vegetables laid out in precise rows—carrots, greens, radishes, each one pristine.

Her expression was blank, her icy blue eyes flat and unreadable, and yet, by the time Lor took another bite, he noticed her cart was emptying.

One customer after another approached, handing over coins, walking away with bundles of produce tucked under their arms.

Ameth took the coins, placed them in her pouch with mechanical precision, and waited for the next, her face never shifting—no smile, no greeting, no thank you.

Her cart was nearly empty by the time Lor finished his meal, her efficiency almost eerie in its silence.

When she sold the last of her stock, she closed the lid of the cart with a measured motion, the wood clicking shut like a final note.

Lor leaned his chin on his palm, a little grin tugging at his lips.

"So she did it," he murmured to himself. "She actually followed my guidance."

Pride swelled in his chest—not the cocky, swaggering kind, but something quieter, more grounded.

Ameth, the silent, unyielding girl who never showed an ounce of joy, had listened to him, applied his advice, and now she was selling out her cart, stacking silver coins instead of scraping by with spoiled produce.

For someone who carried herself like a statue, she was starting to change, even if she didn't know it herself.

But then, Lor blinked, his grin faltering.

Ameth returned the cart to its usual place by the shed at the edge of the street, her movements as precise as ever.

For a moment, he thought she was done for the day, retreating to her cottage to count her earnings.

But when she emerged, she wasn't carrying her pouch of coins.

She carried an axe.

The blade gleamed in the sunlight, its edge sharp and wicked, slung casually across her shoulder as if it were no heavier than a broom.

Without a word to anyone, she walked past the road, her steps steady and unhurried, heading toward the dark line of the forest that loomed at the edge of town.

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