Nod shifts uncomfortably in his seat, arms crossed in barely concealed irritation. Being crammed into a flying tin can with strangers was not what he envisioned for this mission. His species were conquerors, not passengers. He casts a sidelong glance at Kyp and groans.

  The man had the audacity to look excited. No, not just excited—positively thrilled, like a hatchling about to experience its first hunt. He is nodding along attentively as the inferior human servant explains how to buckle their primitive restraints. Even worse, he practices the motion as if it is some great scientific breakthrough.

  Nod has had enough. “I fail to see why we cannot go on foot,” he grumbles, swatting ineffectively at Kyp’s hands as he reaches over to tighten his seatbelt.

  “Because walking across an entire continent is absurd?” Kyp quips.

  “Or better yet,” Nod continues, ignoring him, “fly in our own ship like dignified beings.”

  Kyp clicks Nod’s seatbelt into place with a satisfying snap, leaning back with a self-satisfied smirk. “You were the one who insisted we blend in.”

  “No, I was the one who suggested we rip through the planet’s defenses, declare an invasion, and demand the Crystal be handed over.” Nod pouts, sinking lower in his seat. “You voted we ‘blend in.’”

  “Sometimes,” Kyp says patiently, retrieving the pamphlets from the seat pocket in front of him, “a mission requires a little subtlety.”

  Nod snatches one of the pamphlets from his hands, scowling at its bright illustrations. “How is being trapped in a flying metal coffin considered ‘subtle’?”

  Kyp sighs. “Let me guess. You would prefer to be in our ‘flying metal coffin’ instead?”

  “Our ship is better,” Nod retorts without hesitation. “It is superior technology.”

  “It is a vessel that floats through the air,” Kyp says, unfazed. “So is this.” He unfolds his pamphlet and crosses his legs, signaling the conversation is over.

  That is when the plane starts moving.

  Nod, ever the dramatist, mutters curses under his breath as the engines hum to life. Kyp, well-practiced in ignoring him, calmly flips through the emergency instructions. But Nelzux—silent, composed, and notoriously unshakable Nelzux—grips his armrest with the kind of intensity one usually reserves for battle.

  The plane starts to take off, rumbling lowly as Nod responds to Kyp, who in turn combats, thus continuing their verbal back and forth. Nelzux’s fingers dig into the plastic with enough force to leave dents. His breath comes out in uneven bursts. He squeezes his eyes shut, silently praying for the wretched contraption to move faster.

  When the plane finally levels out, he exhales sharply, his grip loosening as he reopens his eyes.

  “Nelzux!” Kyp reports, like a child to its parent. “You would never believe what—”

  He is cut off by Nelzux's off-kilter look.

  Kyp starts, in the cautious tone of someone approaching an injured predator, “Are you… alright?”

  Nelzux straightens, adjusting his posture with forced dignity. “Of course I am.”

  “Of course, he is alright,” Nod says, waving a hand dismissively. “He is Nelzux. He is always alright. Now, back to our discussion—”

  Kyp, however, is not so easily distracted. His eyes narrow as he studies Nelzux, piecing something together.

  And then, like a child discovering a delightful new toy, he beams. “Wait a minute,” he whispers in realization. “Are you afraid of flying?”

  Nelzux stiffens. His expression remains carefully neutral, but the way he tightens his jaw speaks volumes.

  Aliens do not blush. But if they did, Nelzux would put a boiled lobster to shame.

  “I said quiet,” he grits out, the intended menace in his voice utterly failing to land.

  Kyp presses his lips together, fighting a grin.

  Nod, on the other hand, has no such restraint.

  “By the gods,” he howls, smacking a heavy hand across Nelzux’s chest. “You ARE!”

  Nelzux’s eye twitches.

  Several passengers turn to look at them. Nelzux shrinks lower in his seat. If he has to choose between enduring this humiliation and tearing the roof off the plane, he is dangerously close to picking the latter.

  “How is this possible?” Kyp continues, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You can fly.”

  “I am not discussing this,” Nelzux declares.

  In a last-ditch effort to preserve his dignity, he grabs the human ear contraptions the flight attendant handed him earlier and slides them over his head, mimicking the elderly man he saw in the row ahead. Blessed silence follows as the soft hum of in-flight music drowns out the conversation.

  Kyp watches, impressed. “That was a graceful tactic.”

  Nod is less inclined to let the moment go. He turns his attention to the seat behind them, where a wide-eyed human child—no older than eight Earth cycles—openly gapes at them.

  Kyp follows Nod’s gaze and immediately panics. “Oh no.”

  The boy leans forward, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Can the both of you fly too?” he whispers, as if he has just uncovered a state secret.

  “No,” Nod answers, far too enthusiastically. “Kyp can multiply himself, while I can release beastly tendons from my body.”

  Kyp’s soul leaves his body. “Be quiet Nod!”

  The child gasps in awe. “That. Is. So. Cool.”

  Nod frowns, as if personally offended. “It is not ‘cool.’” He scoffs. “The ability to crush your enemies in mere seconds without batting an eyelash? That is sublime.” He sighs wistfully, as though recalling a cherished childhood memory.

  The child’s jaw drops further.

  Before he can absorb the full impact of this information, Kyp hurriedly interjects, “Are you absolutely certain the little one can stomach your war stories?”

  “Of course he can. He is a man!” Nod considers this for a moment before addressing the boy again. “You are a man, aren’t you?”

  The boy nods rapidly, puffing out his chest.

  “See?” Nod says triumphantly.

  Then, with the eager enthusiasm of a bard launching into a legendary saga, he declares, “Let me tell you of the time I beheaded an entire planet of dwarves all in time for breakfast.”

  Kyp brightens at the announcement. He remembers this story. If the boy is prepared to hear it, far be it from him to deny the child a decent prose.

  “Oh yes,” Kyp agrees, leaning back in his seat. “This is a good one.”

  Sometime in 1788: First Impressions …

  A whip cracks down on a boy, and the child screams in agony. Alex watches from her seat in the corner of the diner, wincing as the taskmaster spits expletives in sync with each strike.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  The boy writhes on the ground, sweat and blood matting dark hair to his face. The man grabs him by the hair with a cruel grip, yanking him upright. Alex gets a clear look at the kid—Asian, about thirteen, with the kind of eyes that have seen more than someone his age should have.

  “You thieving piece of shit!” the man roars, raising the whip again. The sharp crack that follows sends another piercing scream through the air. It’s getting harder to ignore. Alex exhales sharply, mutters a curse under her breath, and then wrenches the whip from the man’s grasp.

  “I think he’s had enough,” she says, rolling the whip up and tossing it out of reach.

  The man spins on her—she had yanked it mid-swing—his scrutinizing glare pinning her in place.

  “Now, who the fuck do you think you are?” His glare burns so fiercely, Alex half-expects something behind her to catch fire.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear you calling him a thief,” she says, keeping her tone even, “and I thought I might offer my expertise, seeing as I run a reformatory.” The man hesitates, thrown off by her accent. His glare wrinkles into confusion, mouth parting in a little ‘o’ that reveals stained teeth.

  “What?” he replies, eloquent as ever.

  Alex exhales slowly, forcing down the scathing remark bubbling in her throat. “A prison house for children,” she simplifies, just a bit nettled.

  “Oh.” His posture relaxes slightly. “As tempting as that sounds, I paid good money for him.” He punctuates the statement with a lazy kick to the boy’s curled-up form.

  Alex suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Best to hurry this up. She reaches into her coat, pulls out a sizable bag of coins, and tosses it his way.

  “Will this suffice?”

  The man's eyes widen in surprise.

  Nod storms through the airport arrival area, his movements sharp and unyielding, shoving aside anyone unfortunate enough to be in his way. Kyp matches his pace, the child caught between them, while Nelzux staggers nauseously behind, palms digging into his eyes in a futile attempt to clear the lingering haze from his vision.

  “You see, child,” Nod declares, voice cutting through the murmur of the bustling terminal, “the key to conquering this new father who steps into your domain is to show no fear in the face of adversity.”

  The boy frowns, shaking his head. “I don’t want to conquer him. I just want him to like me.”

  Nod opens his mouth, no doubt prepared to launch into a detailed battle strategy, but Kyp steps in, smoothly pulling the child closer with a firm yet reassuring grip.

  “Child,” he says, his voice a low hum of certainty, “he should be the one trying to please you. He is the anomaly in your family, not you.”

  The boy’s brows relax, the line between them smoothing out.

  “Exactly!” Nod seconds, as if the idea had been his all along.

  Their swift march continues, unchecked and unbothered, until Nod slams into a passerby, sending a suitcase toppling to the floor.

  “Excuse me?” comes the exasperated voice of the owner—a woman, around twenty-four earth cycles, dark skin, short hair that sticks out like a sea urchin from Earth’s waters.

  Nod turns with the same sharpness he carries in his steps, scrutinizing her with an air of immediate disapproval before sniffing and waving a dismissive hand.

  “You are excused,” he says simply, before turning on his heel and continuing forward without another thought.

  Kyp and the boy follow, Nelzux trudging begrudgingly behind them.

  Alex glares at their retreating backs, inhaling deeply through her nose to steady herself. There’s a strong urge, a natural pull in her veins, to send the rude one flying through the nearest window. The only thing stopping her is the distant voice of Chris echoing in her mind, reminding her, once again, that spontaneous acts of aggression weren’t exactly productive.

  She groans instead, bending to right her overturned trolley.

  “Asshole,” she mutters, loud enough that she doesn’t particularly care who hears her, before shaking her head and moving on.

  Meanwhile, Nelzux’s discomfort had been growing by the second. Kyp and Nod’s fixation on the child was starting to gnaw at his already strained patience. When they had disembarked, he had expected some guardian to arrive, ready to whisk the halfling away. But, to his dismay, he had overheard a terminal employee referring to the boy as an ‘Unaccompanied Minor.’ Which meant there was no immediate adult presence responsible for him.

  Kyp and Nod had taken this information disturbingly well, adopting the role of guardians with an ease that felt unnatural—answering his inane little questions, indulging in his incessant curiosity. Like now, as the conversation once again circles back to the boy’s new father who enjoyed stepping.

  “You were here first,” Kyp tells him, crouching slightly to meet his gaze. “You are the man of the house. You must stand firm. Do not let yourself feel threatened.”

  The child listens intently, nodding with the kind of seriousness that only children can have. Then his gaze shifts, brightening as he spots someone beyond the crowd.

  “That’s my mum! I gotta go.”

  Nelzux nearly sags in relief. If dancing a victory jig weren’t so painfully beneath him, he might have considered it.

  “Never forget, little comrade,” Nod declares, voice dripping with unearned wisdom. “Fear has no place in a warrior’s heart.”

  The boy absorbs this, nodding rapidly before darting in for a quick hug. Kyp returns it warmly; Nod stares in bewilderment, arms stiff at his sides.

  Then the boy is gone, sprinting toward his waiting mother.

  Nod remains rooted, mouth slightly agape. Nelzux, with no small amount of satisfaction, reaches over and snaps it shut before the flies find their way in. Regretting profusely that it does not catch his loose tongue.

  “What happened to not mingling with the humans?” Nelzux sneers, stepping past them both without waiting for an answer. He doesn’t look back as he stalks toward the exit, knowing full well that he has made his point.

  (Continuation) ...

  Alex steps out of the diner, the boy trailing close behind, his movements jittery and uncertain. From the corner of her eye, she catches the way his hands twist together, fingers knotting themselves so tightly it must hurt. She exhales, already regretting this.

  “I don’t actually run a correctional facility.” The words fall abrupt and unprompted, but she figures the sooner this is out in the open, the better.

  The boy’s head snaps up. “What?”

  “I’m not putting you in a prison house,” she clarifies, picking up her pace. He scrambles to keep up. “Because I don’t run one. I doubt there even is one on this side of the world, anyway.”

  “But you told—”

  Alex sighs, stopping short. He nearly collides with her. “I know what I said. I’m telling you now that it isn’t true.” She gestures vaguely to the street ahead, to the buildings lining the dirt road, to anywhere that isn’t her. “You’re free to go.”

  The boy stays rooted where he stands. He frowns down at the cobbled street, then lifts his gaze to hers. “Go where?”

  Alex resists the urge to rub at her temples. “I don’t know. Wherever you want?”

  “I don’t know anywhere.” His voice is quieter this time, gaze dropping again. “I’ve lived with him since I got here.” He doesn’t say the man’s name, just lets the last word drip with enough venom to make his feelings clear.

  Alex exhales through her nose. She knew this was going to happen, knew that buying him out of servitude would come with strings attached. Still, she was hoping to avoid those strings being wrapped around her own neck.

  “Do you at least have a place to sleep?” She asks, stalling for time, even though she already knew the answer.

  The boy shakes his head. “No.”

  She makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, throwing her hands up. “So what exactly was your plan?” she demands. “After you took out your meal ticket, what was next?”

  His head jerks up at that, eyes wide with something bordering on panic. “What?”

  “Don’t play daft,” she scoffs. “I saw you twirling angry magick between your fingers.”

  The boy stills, muscles coiled tight like a cornered animal. “I-I didn’t—”

  “Relax,” she waves off his stammered denial. “If I was going to say anything, I would have said it in there.”

  Slowly, some of the tension eases from his shoulders. He straightens, schooling his face into something unreadable. Then, after a beat, he sticks out his hand. “I’m Akio.”

  Alex stares at his outstretched palm, then at him. She doesn’t take it. “Alexandria.”

  Awkwardly, Akio lets his hand drop. “Are you… like me?”

  Alex’s expression twists into something close to offense. “No,” she says flatly. “No offense.”

  He frowns, quick to follow when she starts walking again. “Then how do you know about Warlocks?”

  “I’ve seen my fair share of things.”

  He hums, considering this. “Are they popular in Britain?”

  Alex blinks. “Britain?”

  “That’s where you’re from, right?”

  She squints at him, thrown. “I’m not—what?”

  Akio shrugs. “It’s your accent.”

  “I’m not British.” Macedonian actually, but that wasn't a story she was looking forward to telling.

  “But the accent—”

  “I’m not British.” Her tone is final. That topic is closed.

  Akio raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. So… you don’t care that I’m a Warlock?”

  Alex flicks him a look. “I just bought you, didn’t I?”

  Akio hesitates, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’ve lived through a lot of ugly moments,” he says carefully. “I just want to make sure this isn’t another Salem waiting to happen.”

  Alex stops walking. Turns to look at him properly. “What do you know about Salem?”

  Akio shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Lost my mother to the stake.”

  Something uncomfortable tugs at Alex’s chest. She shifts on her feet. “Sorry,” she mutters, like the word tastes foreign.

  Akio shrugs again. “It’s fine.”

  She doesn’t think it is. But grief is an ugly thing, and she doesn’t know him well enough to touch it. Instead, she pivots. “So, how old does that make you?”

  Akio perks up a little at that. “I was born in 1650.”

  Alex angles her head, giving him a long once-over. “Pretty impressive for a 138-year-old man.”

  Akio straightens, puffing up a little.

  Then Alex’s expression twists into incredulity. “And yet you let that unwashed brute beat on you?”

  Akio’s shoulders slump. “Like you said, he was my meal ticket.”

  Alex hums, then glances up. She realizes they’ve arrived at her doorstep. Akio, too caught up in the conversation, only now registers where they are. His eyes widen as he takes in the large stone house before them.

  “Is this yours?” he asks, gaze not leaving the building.

  “Yes.” Alex pulls out a thick ring of keys. “Bought it off a trader looking to relocate.”

  Akio watches as she thumbs through the keys, an air of curiosity about him. He hesitates, shifting from foot to foot before speaking again. “How are you… here? By yourself?” Akio wrings his fingers so tightly, he's certain he cuts off blood circulation for a second. Alex raises a questioning brow, still busy with the keys. She doesn't seem affronted, so Akio takes it as a sign to continue.

  “I mean, you own a house.” he waves a hand at the building.

  Alex's second brow shoots up, and Akio can make out the faint outlines of a smirk fighting to spill. She was finding his anxiety amusing. Wonderful.

  “And?” she asks, drawing out the monosyllabic word in a very obvious bait.

  “Y-y ... You own your own house.” Akio stomps head on into the trap.

  “I do.”

  “And you're ... um.” He swallows hard, gesticulating in her general direction wildly.

  “… Black? A woman?” she finishes.

  “Well. Yes. To both.” Akio blanches.

  Alex exhales a quiet chuckle. “Like you, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  She finds the right key effortlessly, despite her earlier display of searching, and unlocks the door. Then, tilting her head toward the entrance, she gestures for Akio to follow.