A COURT OF CLAWS AND CHAOS (ENGLISH)

Emila stormed out of the guild's crooked little tower with puffed cheeks, a fierce scowl, and hair that looked like it lost a bar fight with the wind. Her braid had become a tangled mess thanks to her nervous habit of twisting it, untwisting it, and then twisting it again while waiting in the drafty receiving hall.

"Scarecrow-looking bastard," she muttered, clutching her satchel. "Moustache twitching turnip. Laughed at my doodles, my intel , as if it's a joke."

Inside the satchel: a crumpled report scrawled with red ink and cruelty. A big red word stretched across one page like a wound:

"Amateur."

Behind her, Goldie trotted cheerfully, trying to chew on Beans' ear. Beans didn't even flinch, just batted the orange menace with one paw, exasperated. Em's coin pouch jingled with a modest haul—coppers and a couple of silvers. At least she managed to sell the mushrooms, apples, and herbs. Enough for a new ink tube and a half-decent quill. Not as nice as the one Lucien chucked into the tree, but it'll do.

She took the long way back, following the river again like a sullen ghost with cats. The walk was supposed to clear her head. Instead, it just gave her more time to stew. She's not supposed to go back to Lucien's cottage but somehow, her feet take her there. And she needed to rant, to talk to anyone. She initially thought of Maura but her friend was busy. Em's also not ready to see Maura's haughty face while saying: "I told you so. 'Warned you, didn't I?"

She found Lucien sat on the porch, polishing a hunting knife that looked like it had kissed many throats in its time. He didn't look up as she approached, boots crunching faintly on the moss-laced path. It's as though he'd been expecting her return.

"You're back," he said flatly. "Still not done spying on me?"

Without asking, Em dropped herself on the bench beside him, plopping her satchel on the ground. 

"Lucien," she mumbled, eyes fixed on the dagger in his hand. "Are my doodles and scribbles really that bad? Do they look like a chicken dipped its feet in mud and scratched the parchment like a lunatic?"

He paused mid-polish. "Who said that?"

She sighed. Closed her eyes. Then the dam cracked.

"They rejected me," she said. "That damned guild. Said my intel was unprofessional. Asinine. What does that even mean? I worked on it for days ."

She yanked out the report and dropped it between them. Pages creased, red ink everywhere, a few comments, obviously were written with a personal grudge.

"Burn it," she muttered. "They don't want what I gave. They want you. Your location. Court deals. Secrets. I didn't even know you were an emissary. I thought you were just some sarcastic forest fae prince who spends his time talking to trees or… or stealing babies to sacrifice to your fae gods."

Lucien froze. Turned slowly, eyes narrowing in a way that said you did not just say that .

"I'm sorry— sacrifice babies? " He ran a hand through his hair, the face of a man trying not to combust. "And you're wondering why they rejected you? This—this is exactly why you should stop coming here. You don't even know what I am . You're horrible at reading people. You can't even spell my name right!"

"Gold, they said. In exchange for your location," she continued, ignoring Lucien's tirade.

"And you gave it to them?"

Em turned to him fully, her eyes almost bulging. "Do I look like one gold richer, Lucien? Of course I did not sell your location. I climbed trees and scraped both my hands just to find you," Em shot back. "Crossed a river. Almost got eaten by a river beast." A lie. " If they want your location, they can go climb the damn trees themselves."

Also, you gave us food, a bed to sleep in, and a warm bath. I can't betray you like that. 

She slammed a pathetic excuse of a dagger onto the bench beside the parchment.

"And that , Lucien, is what they gave me. As payment. I can't even chop carrots with it. It squeaks. Like a sad mouse." She glared at it as though it insulted her entire existence. "May their boots squeak forever."

She dropped her head into her folded arms with a dramatic groan. "I hate everything. I hate the guild. I hate that dagger. I hate that guy who kept sniffing like I stank. I bathed this morning , damn it. I used your fancy soap."

Lucien let out a sharp exhale. And then a chuckle. Low at first, then bubbling into full amusement.

"Did you at least sell the apples?"

"Two silvers. Ten coppers for the herbs."

He smirked. "Good. You're learning."

Then he stood, knife in hand. The door creaked open, and the cats immediately darted in like tiny, judgmental shadows.

"Get inside," he said.

She looked up. "You have food?"

"I'm sacrificing you and your cats to my fae gods," he replied.

She stood anyway. "As long as your gods offer warm baths and fancy soaps, I'll walk into the pyre myself. Just me, though. Don't touch the cats."

Lucien dropped a plate in front of her: two boiled eggs, a wedge of cheese, bread that still smelled faintly of rosemary. Under the table, bacon scraps for the whiskered chaos lords.

Em stared at the plate for a second longer than she needed to.

"…Thanks," she muttered.

Lucien didn't respond. Just sat across from her and began slicing the bread.

Somewhere in the quiet, she looked up and whispered, "I really thought they'd take me."

Lucien snorted, slicing another piece of bread. "Then you're more delusional than I thought." He handed her the piece, then added, a little softer, "Someone will. One day. Just… not them."

And somehow, despite all the slammed doors and the laughter at her back, Em believed that.

That maybe, one day, somewhere… she'd belong.

 -------------------

The first light of dawn filtered in, soft and silvery, brushing against the curtain's edge, but not enough to chase Lucien from the warm cocoon of his blankets.

He didn't move. Didn't even twitch.

He lay on his stomach, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed, face half-buried in the pillow, breathing slow. He'd been awake for a while now and had immediately realized his stupid decision: he let the human girl and her cats sleep in his cottage again.

Yesterday, as they were about to leave, curiously, he asked the route they planned to take. It was a long one, even he wouldn't dare attempt it. Tedious. Tiring. Utterly unnecessary. But apparently, the raccoon had time and energy to waste.

He had no intention of letting them crash at his place again. But the sun was dipping low, she looked tired, defeated, and her boots looked like they were one wrong step away from disintegrating. Mismatched laces, soles thin and cracked, with suspicious bite and scratch marks scattered across them.

And sure, he hated having his peace disrupted. But unfortunately for him… he wasn't a monster.

Much to his disappointment.

"We overslept, Beans," he heard her mutter. The rustling of the blanket and her footsteps came next. Then, the faint scent of soap.

She was trying to be quiet. So painfully, obviously trying.

Water filled the tub in soft splashes. The scrape of bottles being nudged aside. Fabric. Breathing. A cough she tried to hide. He could hear her washing, and for some reason, the thought made him keep his eyes closed.

The sounds settled. Footsteps padded across the wooden floor, light and hesitant.

Her scent—clean skin, a whiff of chamomile, damp linen, crushed leaves—drifted closer. She'd bathed, and now she smelled like she belonged here. Or worse, like him .

"Let's go," she whispered. To the cat, probably. The bed dipped slightly, Goldie, being retrieved from her post on his back. "Don't get too comfortable. This is not permanent."

Lucien didn't open his eyes. Still face-down, voice still thick with sleep, he muttered, "Take some bread and cheese from the pantry."

A pause.

"For the cats obviously," he added, because apparently, that mattered.

Silence followed. Then: "Yes, for the cats," she said again, like she might actually believe him this time. "I'll pay—"

"No." Her voice was quiet, but sharp. "Keep your coins. And no more notes. Take some apples. Herbs. Whatever you like."

Another pause. Then the faintest, barely-there "Thanks."

He listened to her open the pantry, rearrange his supplies with the caution of someone who didn't want to be caught stealing even when she'd been told to take it. Then came the soft click of the door.

Gone.

Lucien stayed in bed a while longer, letting the quiet settle over him like a second blanket. The faint rustle of grass drifted in through the open window, followed by the soft crunch of footsteps retreating into the morning. Then…nothing. Stillness. Peace.

It didn't last.

As sunlight began to creep in, striping the cottage in slow-moving gold, Lucien let out a low groan and finally pushed himself upright, dragging the warmth of sleep with him like a reluctant shadow.

His hair was a mess. His back hurt. His knee cracked when he stretched.

Still not dead , he thought.

He shuffled outside with a cup of tea in hand, still yawning when he saw it.

An apple on the bench. Just sitting there like a little offering. Or a joke.

Beside it, no note, no coin. 

Just a pebble. Small, round, the smooth kind you'd find by the river. It shimmered faintly. Clean enough that someone had probably scrubbed it.

Lucien stared at it. He had no idea what it meant. Probably nothing. Or everything.

He bent down, picked it up. Thought about throwing it into the woods, the orchard, or maybe just at her next time she showed up. Instead, he pocketed it with a grunt.

He sat on the bench. Picked up the apple. Looked at it like it had wronged him. He bit into it anyway. He didn't even like apples.

Crunchy. Juicy. Sweet. Annoyingly perfect.

He chewed slowly, glaring at the tree line like she might come flying back through it at any second with cats, mushrooms, or crumpled parchments with red marks.

"She better not be bartering with toads again," he muttered, already resigned.

He took another bite. Still chewing. Still wondering where that stubborn, mushroom-hoarding menace was off to now.

And when she might come back. 

Not that he's waiting.