Her lips tasted sweet. Electric. Projo had never felt anything like it.
A symphony of sensation washed over his entire body, an overwhelming, euphoric torrent of pure energy flooding throughout him. The tissue in his chest seethed with impossible vitality, the ragged edges of the wound pulling together. A dizzying, terrifying ecstasy washed over him, a feeling so good that it felt wrong.
Mira let out a sharp, muffled gasp against his lips—she was feeling it too. A faint, golden-green light began to emanate from where their lips touched, casting their faces in an ethereal glow.
And suddenly—
Mira broke away, gasping for air as if she had just surfaced from underwater.
The look on her face said it all.
Her eyes were wide, a mixture of shock, awe, and a flicker of fear. It had simply been too intense, experiencing the raw exposure to whatever this power was.
The wound on Projo's chest was no longer a gaping, oozing hole. It was still raw, an angry red line that would open again if he wasn't careful. But it wasn't bleeding—it wasn't life-threatening.
"Holy shit," he gasped. Then after a moment, "Thank you."
She shook her head slowly. "It wasn't me." Her voice was a little shaky but firm.
She touched her own arm where the deep gash had been, then her cheek where a bruise had already vanished. "I felt it too. It was like... like sunlight pouring into me. Warm."
Projo looked at his own hands, unsure how to process the situation. Then the setting around him pulled him back—the low, crackling fire, the dead bandits, nothing but trees around them.
"Come on," he said, returning his longsword to its scabbard. "Let's get you back to Greatbridge."
Mira looked around the grim clearing, and a shiver ran through her. "You're right," she nodded. "Let's go."
He led her back the way he came, toward where he left the farmhand's horse tied to a tree. "Your name is Mira, right?" he asked carefully, stepping over a branch. "I'm Projo."
"Mmhmm," she murmured. "How did you find me? How did you even know to come looking?"
She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as he explained the scene in Greatbridge, her expression hardening slightly at the mention of the guard captain.
"So the city guard wouldn't even step past the boundary," she said, a bitter edge to her tone. "Of course not."
"Yeah," Projo said quietly. "I've lived in Greatbridge most my life, I've known some of those guards for years. The older kids that liked to go on power trips, all 'grown up' now." He used his fingers to make air quotes.
He cast a glance at her as they walked. "At least your friend didn't give up on you."
A sad smile touched her lips. "Thomas. He's been sweet on me for a while now." She paused for a second, thinking, then added, "Don't um… maybe let's not mention to him what just happened."
Projo laughed lightly. It felt good, but caused the soreness in his chest to flare. "Will do."
They walked on in a comfortable silence for a minute, the only sounds the rustle of their feet on the leaf-strewn ground and the distant cry of a night bird. The dense, wild forest began to thin out, and a moment later, Projo caught the dark silhouette of the horse. The animal shifted its weight and let out a low nicker.
A soft gasp escaped Mira's lips. "Clover?" she breathed, as if she couldn't believe her eyes.
She hurried the last few steps, her hands reaching out to stroke the horse's neck. The animal immediately leaned into her touch, nuzzling against her shoulder with a soft sigh. A relieved smile broke through the tension on Mira's face.
"Oh, Clover, you're okay," she murmured into the horse's mane.
She turned back to Projo, her eyes shining with a new light in the gloom. "I can't believe Thomas let you take his best horse." Her voice was a mix of gratitude and gentle teasing. "He loves this old brute more than he loves most people."
She gave the horse one last reassuring pat and then looked at Projo, her expression turning more serious as she took in his weary posture and the dark patch on his tunic. "We need to get you up," she said. "Are you strong enough to ride?"
"Yeah," Projo said, the wound in his chest aching. "Here, you go up first."
Mira climbed into the saddle, then he climbed up behind her.
When he was all the way up, he let out a gasp. "Fuck."
"Are you alright?" Mira looked back over her shoulder.
He ran a hand tenderly over the wound. "Yeah. Sorry. Almost popped it back open."
He grabbed the reins, arms around her body, and nudged Clover to turn. Making a clicking sound with his mouth and tapping his heels into the horse's sides, they began to trot back toward Greatbridge.
The steady, rhythmic gait of the horse was a small comfort in the dark woods.
Clover was sure-footed, picking a careful path back toward the city. The warmth of Mira's back pressed against Projo's chest, a strange and complicated sensation that was entirely separate from the dull, throbbing pain of his wound. For a man who had spent a decade avoiding even the slightest brush of contact, the enforced intimacy was both a comfort and a quiet torment.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The sounds of the forest filled the silence as the night grew darker—crickets chirping, the rustle of a creature in the undergrowth somewhere. Mira sat perfectly still, her posture relaxed, as if she were trying not to aggravate his injury with any sudden movements.
Finally, as the orange glow of Greatbridge became visible in the distance, she spoke.
"Projo?" Her voice was quiet, barely a murmur. "Can I ask a question?"
He hesitated to respond, but finally said, "Sure, what is it?"
"What happened? Ten years ago. With the girl you mentioned."
He felt a sense of anxiety at the question. "I'm not really sure. She was just another street urchin, like me. We had just met and were playing in the streets, the back alleys. But she tripped and fell, so I tried to help her up. When she grabbed my hand…" his voice trailed off.
"It wasn't the same," he added quickly. "Maybe because I was so young. Or because she let go so quickly, I don't know. I have no clue what it even is. But it scared the hell out of both of us. And I never saw her again."
Mira was silent for a long time, the only sound the steady clop-clop of Clover's hooves on the packed earth of the road. The orange glow of Greatbridge was brighter now, resolving into the distinct pinpricks of lanterns and torches lining the city's south wall. Projo could feel her processing his story, turning it over in her mind.
She shifted her weight slightly in the saddle, turning her head to look back at him. When she spoke, her voice lacked the fear he had expected. "She ran because she was a scared little girl who saw something impossible."
She faced forward again, tone firm. "That doesn't make you cursed."
Projo fell silent, his grip on the reins tightening. Mira's logic was simple and confident. But it contradicted a truth he had carried for half his life.
"There's a bookshop in the market," Projo said defensively. "The owner lets me rent books and read them as long as I'm careful and don't take them out of the shop."
He felt a flush of embarrassment, like a child being caught in a fairy tale. "I read about it. In a book about folklore and magic. Curses passed through touch, afflictions that lie dormant for years... it all fit."
Mira listened, eyes forward as the torchlight grew nearer. When he finished, she didn't mock him. She just nodded slowly, as if considering his research.
"Okay," she said finally. "But your books didn't see what I saw."
She shifted to look at him again. "Think about it, Projo. When I grabbed your hand, nothing happened. But when I touched your hair, there was a little spark. The kiss..." she trailed off for a half-second, "...that was like a lightning storm. Don't you see the pattern? It gets stronger the more…"
A small smile touched her lips and her eyes darted away. "The more intimate the touch is."
He seized on the flaw in her argument, his voice rising slightly. "Then why the first touch? When you just put your hand on my chest. That was the strongest of all. Why?"
They had reached the pool of light just outside the city gates. A guard holding a torch looked up, recognized Projo, and waved them through.
As Clover stepped carefully along the cobblestones, Mira turned fully in the saddle to face him, her expression serious and incredibly gentle. The flickering torchlight danced in her eyes.
"Ten years is a long time to go without touching anyone," she said softly, letting the truth of the statement hang in the air for a moment.
"Sounds like you were starved."
Projo stared at her, eyes wide, and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He suddenly became very aware of how good she smelled.
It felt impossible to speak.
But they came upon the stables a moment later, and Projo snapped from his stupor. They handed Clover over to the stableboy to feed and brush, Projo handing the last of his copper coins over in the process. Then they made their way into the Old Quarter.
The ambiance of the city at night closed in around them—a distant lute from a tavern, the smell of woodsmoke and stale ale, the sight of shuttered windows and dark alleys. The adrenaline was gone now, leaving Projo feeling weak, cold, and achingly vulnerable.
"I need to..." Projo began, his voice rough with exhaustion. "I need to go see Bram, my mentor. Let him know I'm not dead in a ditch." He gestured vaguely down the cobblestone street. "The smithy is just past the Old Quarter gates."
Mira nodded, her expression serious. "Okay. Do you know where Thomas might have gone? I need to find him, let him know I'm safe."
Projo shook his head. "Bram saw me talk to him, we can ask if he knows where he went." He gave her a tired but steady look. "Come on. The smithy's close."
The walk was short, the familiar, rhythmic clang... clang... clang of a hammer on steel growing louder with every step. Even at this hour, Bram was working. The smithy was an open-air building, its massive forge casting a warm, orange glow that spilled out onto the street.
Bram looked up as they approached, his massive, soot-stained form silhouetted against the fire. When he saw Projo, he froze mid-swing, hammer held high. His eyes took in the blood-soaked tunic and the pale, exhausted face of his apprentice. The hammer lowered slowly to the anvil with a heavy thud.
"Boy..." Bram's voice was deep as thunder, forged just like his steel in the heat of a forge. "You're alive."
Before Projo could answer, Mira stepped forward into the light. "He is," she said, her voice clear and strong. "He saved me, sir."
She let that hang in the air a moment, then added, "Would you happen to know where my friend Thomas went after Projo departed?"
Bram's hard gaze shifted to Mira, then back to Projo. He grunted, turning to grab a ladle of water. "Sent him to The Gilded Pig. Told him to get a drink and wait for the morning patrol."
He lifted his ladle to point past them. "It's the big tavern just across the market square. Loudest place in the city, you can't miss it."
Mira's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you," she said, then turned to Projo. "Thank you for everything."
The path to the tavern was well-lit and busy, even at this hour. There was no need for him to escort her. It was a clear point for them to part ways.
Projo just nodded, suddenly feeling the full weight of his exhaustion. "Be safe, Mira."
She gave him a small, meaningful smile, lingering for a long moment. Then, finally, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows.
Projo was left alone in the warm glow of the forge, facing his mentor. The silence stretched. Bram's eyes were fixed on the swordbelt on Projo's hip. Then they moved to the torn tunic, soaked with drying blood.
"You got a lotta nerve, boy," Bram growled. "You took a blade I'd barely just stamped my mark on. Risked my name on your foolishness."
He took a heavy step forward, his shadow engulfing Projo. He looked him dead in the eye.
"Was it worth it?"