“I’ve got something,” John muttered, flicking away the last shred of his cigarette and tapping at his Terminal. The tiny screen glowed in the surrounding haze, painting soft blue shadows across his cheekbones.

  Ziraya stepped closer, close enough for her cloak to brush against his arm. Their shoulders met for just an instant—but the jolt that ran through her body felt like raw electricity sparking under her skin. She stiffened, breath hitching as if she'd stepped too close to a sleeping bear.

  John swallowed hard and coughed, clearly just as thrown.

  She didn’t respond. Just leaned in to glance at the screen, pretending not to notice the way her heartbeat pounded in her throat. Her voice, when it came, was blessedly steady. “Let me see.”

  “The Court of the Blooming Mask,” John said, squinting. “Sounds like a perfume line.”

  Ziraya raised a brow. “You found this on a forum?”

  “Yeah. Most of it’s garbage—people whining about taxes and permits. But this thread had some gold buried in it.”

  Her eyes skimmed over the angry post, lip twitching. “The Blooming Mask… I’ve heard of them. Only in passing. Back when I was still in the family.” Her tone faltered at the word family, but she pushed through it with a shrug. “Fae courts love long names. A few decades ago, it was all the rage to outdo each other. Titles, slogans, entire poetic epithets—some could take up half a scroll.”

  “And I bet if you miss one comma, they curse your bloodline,” John said, snorting.

  Ziraya smiled faintly. “Pretty much. They take protocol and appearances to ritualistic levels. I remember one story—someone nearly started a war because they showed up in the wrong shade of green.”

  John chuckled, scrolling down. “That actually explains this post. Listen to this guy—”

  Their damn masks are thick with Glamour, so you can’t tell who you’re speaking with. Sometimes they switch masks mid-conversation and pretend nothing happened. Took me two hours to get my permit signed—had to start over three times.

  “That’s diabolical,” John muttered. “And confusing as hell.”

  “They do it on purpose,” Ziraya said, amused. “Masks aren’t just decoration for them. It’s politics, identity, power. They hide behind them so they can lie freely without ever being caught in a contradiction.”

  They made me wait an hour because they didn’t like the color of my coat. Then slapped me with a tax for ‘offensive tailoring.’

  John glanced down at his dusty, scuffed boots and plain jacket. “Are we gonna get laughed out of the city?”

  Ziraya tugged her cloak tighter around her. “If we’re lucky.”

  He laughed, short and dry. “Charming people.”

  One of them asked me to pay in rumors. I didn’t have anything juicy, so they threw me out. Lost a fortune on the spot.

  “Rumors as currency?” John asked, eyebrows raised.

  “It’s more common than you’d think. Information holds power here. And secrets are worth more than Credits.”

  “You’re smiling.” John narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

  Ziraya looked away too quickly. “I just think it’s funny how utterly unprepared you are.”

  “I wasn’t briefed for ‘mask-wearing bureaucrats with mood taxes.’”

  “Welcome to Faerie.”

  John let out a slow breath, tapping the edge of his Terminal. “So… we know they’re obsessed with appearances, lie like it’s breathing, and tax you if they feel like it. Fantastic.”

  “Not like we have a choice,” Ziraya said, her voice softening. “We need them if we want to learn anything about the Ash Vigil.”

  John studied her. The calm she wore was paper-thin, like a veil pulled too tight across the heat underneath. “You sure you’re okay doing this?” he asked.

  Ziraya hesitated—then gave him a look, guarded but searching. “You’re the one looking lost,” she said, deflecting. “You tell me.”

  “I’m fine,” John said. It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. But being this close to her… watching her fight to stay composed while their fingers nearly brushed every time he shifted the Terminal… that was another battle entirely.

  Ziraya’s posture shifted the moment she finished reading. Her fingers tightened around the edge of John’s Terminal, her gaze sharper than before. “This tells us more than you might think.”

  John raised an eyebrow, his hand drifting casually toward hers. The back of their fingers brushed again. He didn’t flinch this time. Neither did she. But a flicker of heat passed between them, a silent current neither of them dared acknowledge. “How so?” he asked, voice low. “That the Court of... Blooming Masks? It really sounds like a perfume line.” He grimaced and tilted his head. “So far, it just sounds like they do whatever the hell they want.”

  “Exactly.” Her tone turned thoughtful, almost impressed. “And that means a lot of people must hate them for it.”

  He blinked. “Hate them?”

  Ziraya gestured toward the thread still glowing on the Terminal. “Nytheris is barely connected to the Five Worlds. That means anyone who does bother coming here—traders, smugglers, guild reps—they’re banking on high profits from isolation. And if those people get slapped with ‘arbitrary taxes’ and ‘a surcharge for unfashionable pants’...” She smirked. “Then they’re probably itching for payback.”

  John’s lips curled. “Spite and lost profits. You’re saying we have allies.”

  “Exactly. We find someone pissed off enough to talk.”

  John let out a dry chuckle. “So we wander around asking every silk-robed merchant if he wants to help us screw over the Court?” He paused, then added with a frown, “Also, I searched for the Ash Vigil on the HiddenNet. Nothing. Not even rumors.”

  Ziraya’s features darkened, shadows gathering in her eyes. “I’m not surprised. The Ash Vigil’s existence is a secret. A stain the Scalebound would rather scrub out of memory.”

  “How did the Wolfheart know about them, then?” John’s voice dropped. Sharp. Calculating.

  “Moles. Or traitors.” She said the word with a hiss, too fast to be measured. Too bitter to be casual. She caught herself a second later. She wasn’t Scalebound anymore. She didn’t owe them anything. And yet the idea of someone betraying them made her jaw clench. “Hypocrite,” she muttered under her breath, then glanced sideways at him.

  John didn’t comment. He just looked at her—really looked. There was a quiet understanding behind his eyes. “Makes sense,” he said, and his fingers brushed hers again.

  Still, neither of them moved.

  “What about your father?” he asked softly. His gaze wandered across the busy square, scanning the shimmering cloaks of passing fae. “If the Wolfheart found them, then the Scalebound probably did, too.”

  Ziraya exhaled. “My father wouldn’t care. To him, the Ash Vigil are obsolete. Corpses in armor. Their stronghold is so far from Scalebound lands it’s barely on his map, and the fae courts don’t answer to anyone outside their games. Least of all outsiders like my father.”

  She leaned closer, close enough for her breath to brush his skin. “But the Wolfhearts might be watching.”

  The words were barely a whisper against his ear, but they hit like a jolt. John stiffened, his eyes darting around the plaza, searching for threats behind every passersby.

  “They wouldn’t risk a public attack,” Ziraya added. “But once we leave the safety of the city…”

  “I’ll be ready.” John’s hand slid down toward his holster, fingers ghosting over the grip of his P50. “I just hope my shields hold up.” He forced a crooked smile and glanced at the ring on his finger. A quiet charm, humming faintly with stored energy.

  “Let me see,” Ziraya said, her voice barely above a murmur. She took his hand before she could think better of it. Her touch lingered—gentler than necessary—as she turned the ring, inspecting it even though she didn’t understand the enchantment.

  She didn’t need to. Something about checking it—checking him—felt right. Then she realized what she was doing. She froze, eyes wide, and quickly let go. Her cheeks flared crimson as she looked away, pretending to focus on the crowd.

  John looked anywhere but at her, his heart thudding like it wanted to escape his chest. “Should we—” he started, then stopped himself. “Now’s not the time,” he muttered. He cleared his throat. “So… we find a disgruntled merchant?”

  “That’s the idea.” Ziraya forced her voice back to normal. “Maybe check a bar...”

  John scanned the streets, brows lifting. “Do the fae even have bars? This place doesn’t scream ‘drunken revelry’ to me. More like interpretive dance and passive-aggressive tea ceremonies.”

  Ziraya faltered. “I… honestly have no idea. I never stayed in a fae city long enough to find out.”

  John smiled, watching her flounder. “Wow. You don’t know something?”

  “Laugh it up,” she said, but the smile she gave him was real. “Maybe they just call it something weird. ‘Palace of Liquid Forgetting’ or ‘Gossamer Lounge of Regret’ or—”

  “Okay, now you’re making stuff up.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged with a grin. “Unless you have a better idea?”

  John rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe we scout the portals. Fewer portals means higher traffic at the ones that exist. And where there’s traffic, there are traders.”

  Ziraya’s expression darkened at once. “There could be Enforcers at the portals. The gems we’re using—how much do we really trust them?”

  John’s expression stiffened. “Chase wouldn’t betray me.”

  “Maybe not on purpose,” she said, voice sharp. “But if the Wolfheart wanted us dead, bad gems would be the easiest trap.”

  John tapped the gemstone embedded in in pocket—the one that once belonged to the real Thomas Greenheart. “You really think they’re that devious?”

  “I think we should assume the worst,” Ziraya said, arms crossed.

  John didn’t argue. Not out loud. But his hand slipped to his side, fingers grazing the large revolver strapped to his thigh. The weight was familiar. Comforting. Even so, something cold slithered beneath his skin.

  The Improbability Factor ticked in the corner of his vision—just a fraction brighter. A quiet reminder.

  He remembered dying.

  Not in the abstract. Not in theory.

  He remembered the sound of bones snapping. The flicker of the blue window. The phantom pain that still made his fingers tremble when no one was looking.

  He gritted his teeth. “If it comes to that... we run. Right?”

  Ziraya’s brows knit together. She’d seen the shift in him. Barely there, but undeniable. “Right,” she said, her voice softer now. Almost careful.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  For a second, neither of them moved. Then she took a slow breath and nodded toward the alley. “Let’s try the scenic route. Maybe we’ll stumble into a fae tavern where someone’s mourning a lost fortune.”

  John cracked a grin. “Here’s hoping.”

  And together, they melted into the crowd, their shoulders brushing once again—but this time, neither of them pulled away. The streets of Nytheris spiraled around them like tangled ivy, grown rather than built—organic, twisting, and defiant of logic. Crystalline lanterns pulsed with soft bioluminescent hues above arched walkways, casting long shadows across crooked stone. Locals flitted by like dancers in some strange, silent ballet, their movements fluid and assured. But John and Ziraya were anything but graceful. They stuck out—hesitant, alert, a pair of predators lost in a garden of serpents.

  John checked the portal coordinates on his Terminal, blinking as the device struggled to orient itself in the shifting magical currents of the city.

  Then Ziraya’s hand shot out. She seized his wrist with startling force and yanked him sideways into a shadowed alcove just before they turned the corner. He stumbled hard into her—no warning, no balance—his face slamming into the armor-plated rise of her chest.

  Air left his lungs in a wheeze. His heart, however, decided to make a dramatic escape attempt through his ribs. “W-What?” he gasped, his voice muffled against her skin.

  “Mana,” Ziraya whispered, her voice low and sharp as a blade drawn in the dark. Her arms gripped him tight, her breathing heavy, chest rising and falling in time with his. “A powerful signature. Not fae.”

  He froze. The proximity should’ve been an afterthought—the danger too urgent—but instead, he was acutely aware of the warmth of her body, the sound of her heartbeat hammering against his own. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t even seem to notice how tightly he was pressed against her. John shifted his hand toward his holster, fingers brushing the plastic grip of his pistol. “Are they coming for us?”

  “I can’t tell.” Ziraya’s amber eyes flicked beyond the corner. “It’s massive. Feels… trained. Not wild. Disciplined. Like a soldier’s.” The air grew thick, as if the very mana around them recoiled from the presence she sensed. It pulsed, slow and suffocating—predatory. Ziraya closed her eyes, drawing on her sixth sense, her brows furrowed in concentration. “Enforcer?” she whispered the word like it burned.

  John’s grip tightened on his weapon. “If they’re here, we need—”

  Ziraya interrupted him with a sharp exhale, then slowly shook her head. “It’s moving. South, I think. Away from us… for now.” She let out a breath, long and tense.

  But neither of them moved.

  They were still too close—Ziraya’s back against the cool stone, John pressed flush against her. Her hands remained on his shoulders, not pushing him away, not loosening. And her tail—her damned, treacherous tail—had wrapped itself tightly around his leg, a possessive coil that refused to budge.

  Ziraya noticed it, but didn’t stop it.

  Couldn’t.

  “I should…” she started, then trailed off.

  John’s eyes met hers—deep molten amber, flecked with gold and caught in some inner turmoil. He could see her struggle, the way her jaw clenched, the way her breath hitched.

  “Ziraya…” he began, his voice quieter, softer.

  She leaned in—just slightly, but enough to feel the shift of her weight against him. Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, but no words came.

  They kissed. There was no hesitation, no awkward fumbling. Just raw tension snapping like a cord pulled too tight. Her mouth met his with a hunger that surprised them both. Her tail tightened around his leg, anchoring him to her, unwilling to let him slip away. Her tongue—forked, slick, confident—claimed his like it belonged there.

  John gasped into the kiss. His hand slid up her back, curling around the nape of her neck, steadying himself against the dizzying rush in his veins. When they finally pulled apart, the world seemed off-kilter—like reality had bent slightly to make room for this moment. Ziraya was flushed, chest heaving. She looked away, but didn’t release him. “I-It was just for cover,” she lied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone could’ve seen us. Had to make it look real.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “Right. I’m sure you’d do that with anyone. Tactical tongue deployment.”

  She glared at him. “Don’t be insufferable.”

  “You’re still holding me.”

  Her eyes flicked to her arms—still wrapped around his shoulders. Her tail gave a twitch. “…Shut up.”

  He grinned. “You know, if this is how you usually deal with threats—”

  Her tail snapped around his waist now, locking him even closer. She hissed softly. “You keep running that mouth and I’ll use more than just my tongue next time.”

  John blinked. “…Noted.”

  They lingered like that—quiet, flustered, trying and failing to pretend nothing had changed—until reality reasserted itself. Ziraya’s expression hardened. “We need to move. That mana signature… it was dangerous. But it might not be after us.”

  John nodded, trying to reset his brain. “Lead the way.”

  She stepped out into the street, her movements sharp, purposeful. But even as they walked, her tail stayed curled around him, trailing like a living leash beneath her cloak, coiled around his waist like she was silently warning anyone who looked too long: Mine.

  John glanced down, then at her, but said nothing. She didn’t acknowledge it either. She just kept walking, one hand resting on the hilt of her blade, the other brushing against his from time to time. Accidental. Maybe. They approached a small tower—a squat, spiraling structure. The metal vines that held the building together looked worn, but the windows glowed with life, faint voices and distorted music echoing from within. The tower glistened beneath the strange glow of Faerie’s sky, its neck narrowing toward the top before flaring out in a bulbous dome that shimmered faintly. The surface was slick and glossy, like it had been blown from a single piece of multicolored glass, veins of metal weaving around it like ivy caught mid-growth. At the very top, an enormous cork-like ornament jutted out, sealed tight with glowing runes.

  “It kind of looks like a beer bottle, doesn’t it?” John said, squinting up at the strange structure looming over them.

  Ziraya paused outside the door. “I saw a few non-fae enter earlier,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Could be a bar. Could be something else. But if there’s information to find, it might be in there.”

  John exhaled slowly, then gestured with his head. “After you.”

  Ziraya’s tail curled tighter around John’s waist in a slow, almost possessive motion—subtle but unmistakable. Neither of them said it out loud, but something had changed—and neither was quite ready to let it go.

  He glanced down at the scaled coil clamped just above his hip. “Won’t people notice?”

  “Notice what?” Ziraya asked too quickly, looking off to the side, her cheeks flushing a dangerous shade of red even as her grip subtly increased.

  John snorted. “Never mind.”

  They reached the entrance—a gaping archway flanked by metal vines that looked more like limbs than ornamentation. As they approached, the vines stirred with a dry, whispering rustle and drew apart with a hiss, revealing the interior like a wound opening. The moment the doors parted, an overwhelming wave of scent slammed into them. Ziraya staggered back a step, her eyes watering. “What the hell is that?” she rasped. “It’s burning my nose!”

  John inhaled deep, nose twitching. “It’s alcohol,” he said, lips quirking into a crooked grin. “And from the smell of it, if I lit a match, this whole place would go up like a firework factory.”

  She growled, fanning the air in front of her face. Inside, the bar defied logic. The long counter wasn’t built, but alive—an undulating wave of semi-solid magic, cresting and rippling in slow motion beneath translucent drinking vessels. The barstools were oversized leaves, each one supported by a single stem that curved elegantly from the floor. They didn’t wobble, but swayed ever so slightly, responding to unseen pulses in the air like sea anemones in a current. Patrons lounged around a giant lotus leaf in the corner, their laughter ringing out like windchimes. At the bar, a mage absentmindedly stroked his fingers along the shimmering surface, which responded with a soft ripple of color under his touch. Even the drinks shimmered unnaturally—liquid galaxies trapped in glass, constantly swirling and shifting hue, as if the flavors themselves were alive. Behind the bar stood a fae barely taller than the counter, dressed in a black collared shirt that clashed hilariously with the rest of the dreamlike interior. A pencil-thin mustache, clearly fake and glued on, twitched with every rapid motion of his hands. He shook a silver cocktail shaker so fast it blurred into a sphere.

  Then, with no warning: “Your drinks are served,” the fae said in a voice as crisp as snapping twigs.

  Ziraya startled, her hand instinctively going to her blade. The vines behind them slithered back into place, forming a solid wall that pulsed once—like a heartbeat—then fell still.

  “We didn’t order anything,” John said.

  The bartender was already gone, sorting through a shelf of floating bottles that rotated slowly in midair, their contents glowing in unnatural hues. Two leaf-stools unfurled in front of the drinks, unfolding like time-lapse flowers.

  John glanced around. Mages filled most of the seats, the occasional dwarf adding contrast with their squat, stone-like forms. Not a single other fae in sight.

  “I don’t like this,” Ziraya muttered, eyes flicking from the drinks to the patrons.

  John reached out and tapped the wall of vines. It felt firm. Cold. Alive. “Do we have a choice?”

  “We always have a choice.” Ziraya’s voice had a razor’s edge to it now. “No one cages me.”

  “We need to lay low, remember?” he said calmly. “We’re here to get information, not start a bar fight.”

  Ziraya exhaled hard through her nose but nodded. They approached the seats with caution, lowering themselves onto the leaf-stools. Surprisingly, they held—bouncy at first, then firm, almost like sitting on tensed muscle. The wave beneath the bar looked ethereal, but when John leaned against it, it felt solid. Polished. Warm.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Ziraya said, eyeing her glass suspiciously. “It’s… alive.” She raised it to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes widened. The taste hit her all at once—cherries bursting, roses blooming, and a lift in her chest like gravity had forgotten her name. She blinked, stunned by the complexity. It wasn’t just a drink—it was an experience. Her gaze drifted—then locked. Across the room, a mage leaned on the bar, giving John a lingering, curious look.

  Ziraya’s expression turned glacial as she lowered the Glamour that surrounded her. Her tail, still wrapped around John’s midsection, clenched hard. He yelped, nearly toppling off the leaf. The mage flinched and quickly turned away, her eyes briefly flicking down to the tail wrapped tightly around John before she busied herself with her drink.

  “What was that about?” John asked.

  Ziraya sniffed, sipping again. “Nothing,” she said in a tone that suggested everything.

  He sighed and took a drink of his own. Smoky, smooth, just the right amount of burn—like a slow fire crawling down his throat. Perfect.

  Minutes passed. The ambient noise of laughter and rippling mana lulled them into a strange, uneasy calm. John traced a finger along Ziraya’s tail, drawing idle spirals where it curled over his lap.

  She visibly shivered. Her grip on the glass tightened.

  “So,” he said at last, voice soft. “Are we going to talk about this?”

  Ziraya gave a soft, breathless laugh. “Do we have to?” Her cheeks flushed a second time. She tossed back the rest of her drink like a warrior preparing for battle—and within seconds, the glass refilled itself, the bartender never once glancing their way.

  “I never planned this,” she admitted. Her voice was quiet, but steady. “But I have no regrets.” The tail tightened again, as if staking her claim. Her eyes darted to the mage from earlier, who caught the look—and immediately found somewhere else to be.

  John chuckled, resting a hand gently against her tail, stroking the smooth, scale-wrapped muscle. It twitched beneath his fingers like it had a will of its own. “Neither do I,” he said. “Though I swear, Chase is going to have a heart attack when he sees this.”

  Ziraya let out a soft snort, her lip curled in amusement. “How did you two even meet? The Wolfheart family isn’t exactly known for tea parties with mage Houses.”

  John’s smile flickered. “I— It’s... complicated.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth. He looked at her, saw the way the low light caught the curve of her cheek, the glimmer in her eyes—and hated himself just a little. Lying to her now, after everything that passed between them, felt like scratching filth into something fragile and clean. “I can’t tell you. Not here,” he added quickly, his voice dipping as he glanced around the bar with meaning.

  Ziraya tilted her head, watching him closely. Then, with a teasing glint in her eyes, she leaned in. “Is that a promise?”

  He swallowed. Her proximity made it hard to think clearly, like his thoughts were being drowned in honey and smoke. “Of course it is.”

  She held his gaze a heartbeat longer than necessary, then leaned back, satisfied. “Good. I’ll hold you to it.”

  John exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “We need to finish the mission first,” he muttered. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can breathe.”

  Ziraya’s smile faded. A quiet shadow passed over her features as the name—Alice Wolfheart—settled unspoken between them like an uninvited ghost. Her fingers tightened around her drink. John could see the calculation behind her eyes; she was bracing for whatever storm might come.

  The moment snapped like glass underfoot.

  The bar’s great doors rustled with a strange metallic groan, and the atmosphere shifted—like the temperature dropped five degrees in a breath. A trio of fae stepped inside, cloaked in deep crimson that shimmered like dried blood. Their hoods hung low, their movements smooth and strange, too fluid to be human. John’s eyes burned the moment he looked at them. The Glamour clinging to them was thick and radiant, like light refracted through oil—distorted, unnatural. Still, he forced his eyes to track them, even as his temples throbbed.

  Ziraya’s gaze followed his… and then slipped past them. “What is it?” she whispered, frowning. “I can’t see anything—wait. Glamour.” Her pupils narrowed. “You can see through that?”

  John gave a small nod. His focus sharpened as the trio moved deeper into the bar. Each wore a mask more unsettling than the last.

  The first: a grinning fox, its copper muzzle cracked with age, the smile warped, unnatural.

  The second: a smooth and featureless porcelain face, blank save for inked vines curling like a bruise from chin to temple.

  And the third was just pale wood. Golden lines radiated from the eyeholes like the rays of a silent sun.

  John’s mouth went dry. “The Court of the Blooming Mask,” he murmured, barely audible. Ziraya stiffened. “They’re sitting down,” he added, watching as a low table—leafy and breathing—rose from the ground to meet them.

  Then he heard them.

  “The Vigil’s payment is late again,” rasped the fox-mask, voice sharp and thin like a blade being whetted. “If they think distance excuses them, they’re mistaken. The Blooming Mask expects tribute. On time.”

  “We warned them,” chimed the one with vines, her voice light and poisonous, like bells dipped in acid. “No one takes sanctuary from the Court without cost. If they don’t show at the Dance of Whispers…” A pause. “We’ll send the Hollow Dancers.”

  The third laughed softly, plucking his glass from the air. “They called themselves hunters once. Let’s see how well they run.”

  Ziraya’s brow furrowed as John quietly relayed what he could. “Hollow Dancers?” she echoed. “That’s… definitely not a friendly name.”

  John nodded. “Sounds like there’s bad blood between the Court and the Vigil. Might be leverage.”

  “Assuming we live long enough to use it,” she said, still watching with caution. “Do you know what the Dance of Whispers is?”

  “Never heard of it,” he said, squinting as the room’s din swallowed up the rest of the conversation. The trio still moved, but their words were ghosts now, drowned under laughter and clinking glass. Then John stiffened. “They’re getting up.”

  Ziraya hissed a breath. “Damn it. That was our only lead.”

  John slapped a Credit Gem onto the bar. The barkeep reappeared in a blur of movement, scooping it up for a fraction of a second before handing it back to John. Their empty glasses vanished in the blink of an eye.

  “We follow,” John said.

  Ziraya hesitated. “It’s risky.”

  He turned to her, eyes hard. “Do we have a choice?”

  Her tail squeezed around his waist in silent agreement, coiled with tension. Then it slipped away, slow and reluctant. She nodded. They slid off their stools in unison and moved toward the door.

  The trio of masked fae stepped into the city. The Glamour around them pulsed like a heartbeat, so bright it left afterimages in John’s vision.

  Ziraya glanced sideways at him. “You’re really going to tell me everything later, right?”

  “I swear,” he said quietly as he began his pursuit.