Chapter 20: The Garden GrowsThe walk through Vandi Markets should have been pleasant. The air was cooling as the sun dipped toward the horizon, turning the endless wheat fields into a sea of liquid copper. The streets were filled with the sounds of a city winding down—the ctter of empty wagons, the calls of bakeries selling off their st loaves, and the distant lowing of cattle.

  Miz’ri didn’t need to keep her dark goggles on, but decided to keep another barrier up. For her, every cheerful "good evening" from a passing human felt like a needle prick. She walked a few paces behind Baby and Talisa, her hood pulled low despite the fading light. She was retreating, pulling the shadows of her mind around her like a physical cloak. The conversation at the noodle shop had been too much. Too raw. Hearing Baby speak so clearly of her own liberation made Miz’ri feel like a skeleton in a gss case—visible, brittle, and dead.

  And then there was Talisa.

  The girl was practically glowing. Freed from the immediate terror of the mines and bolstered by a full stomach, she was chatting animatedly with Baby. She ughed at one of the sorceress’s jokes, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the evening air. Miz’ri watched the way the setting sun caught the gold in Talisa’s hair. She noticed the slight sway of the girl's hips, the newfound softness in her expression. The traitorous voice in the back of Miz’ri’s mind started to coo. She looks delicious like this, doesn't she? Not just a toy She’s a prize. Look at those curves. Imagine how she’d feel if you—

  Shut up, Miz’ri snarled internally, kicking a loose stone. I am a Niranath. I am a predator with a fascinating prey in my jaws and some vegetables from the garden as useful shields.These excuses felt thinner than a cobweb, but she clung to them with a desperate, white-knuckled grip.

  "Almost there!" Baby called out, gncing back with a knowing smirk that Miz’ri wanted to sp off her face. "I can hear Artie’s ego from here."

  Ahead of them, near the massive timber pilrs of the East Gate, sat the Golden Sheaf. The tavern was a sprawling, two-story affair that smelled of spilled ale and aggressive optimism. A roar of approval erupted from inside, shaking the leaded-gss windows. The interior of the trade road tavern was a chaotic tapestry of mercantile and agricultural life. Farmers in mud-caked boots rubbed elbows with traveling tradesmen and off-duty militia. But the center of attention was a cleared space near the hearth, where a makeshift gambling ring had formed.

  Artie was in the center of it. The elf looked entirely in his element. He had discarded his traveling cloak, revealing a vest that showed off the lean, corded muscle of his arms. He held three heavy, iron-tipped darts with the nonchance of a man holding toothpicks.

  "Double or nothing?" Artie’s voice rang out, cool and mocking. “I’ll even do it blind next time,”

  "You're cheating, your kind always cheats, dark elf!" a rge, bearded human spat, throwing a handful of silver onto the table. "No one hits three in a row from that distance."

  "You're right, nobody can do that," Artie said. He took a dark silk scarf from his pocket and tied it firmly over his eyes. “But I'm somebody.”

  The tavern went silent. Even the barmaids stopped mid-pour. Artie stood perfectly still for a heartbeat, his head tilted as if listening to the heartbeat of the building. Then, in one fluid, blurring motion, he snapped his wrist. Thwack. In a precise arc the little rod of sharp iron nded dead center in the bullseye.

  The room exploded. Half the crowd cheered in disbelief while the other half groaned at their lost coin. Artie pulled off the blindfold, a predatory grin on his face. “Thank you gentleman,” He swept the silver into a pouch and turned toward the rge booth where Gourdy was sitting, nursing a mug of ale the size of a bucket. “Hey you beautiful hunk, I got the next round.” Artie hopped onto the bench, grabbed the massive Half-Orc by the leather of his jerkin, and pulled him down into a deep, lingering, and thoroughly public kiss.

  The cheering died a sudden, strangled death. "Vile," someone muttered from a nearby table.

  "Freaks," another voice hissed. "Take that back to the holes you crawled out of."

  The air in the room curdled. The bigots didn't see the skill of the throw or the joy of the win; they only saw two men defying the "natural order" of their boring, binary world. A couple of the rger farmers stood up, their hands curling into fists. Gourdy didn't reach for his axe. He didn't even put down his ale. He simply sighed and stood up, his head nearly brushed the low-hanging rafters. His shoulders seemed to expand, casting a shadow that swallowed the entire front row of the dissenters. He looked down at the men with an expression of bored, casual lethality.

  "I’ve had a long day, too long to deal with this bullshit." Gourdy rumbled, his voice like boulders grinding together. "I can throw a miserable excuse for a man like you through that front window just as accurately as my man flicks a dart. Who wants to be my first throw?"

  Artie leaned back against Gourdy’s massive chest, crossing his arms and offering a snide, razor-sharp little wave to the men. “Sit down, or you’ll limp back home to your dirty ass women with at least a broken leg.” The farmers looked at the Orc’s scars, his muscles and the lethal intent in his eye. Slowly, one by one, they sat back down. The grumbling continued for a moment before dying out.

  Miz’ri, standing in the doorway with Baby and Talisa, felt a sudden, sharp bark of a ugh escape her throat. It was genuine. It was the sight of such casual, violent competence in the face of stupidity that did it.

  "Golly!" Talisa whispered, looking at Miz’ri with wide eyes. "Miz... you have a beautiful smile."

  Miz’ri’s ugh died instantly. She felt the heat rush to her cheeks, turning her purple skin a darker, bruised hue. She immediately pulled her scowl back into pce, adjusting her goggles with unnecessary force.

  "I wasn't smiling," Miz hissed, marching toward the booth. Talisa ughed and quickly followed behind

  The tension in the Golden Sheaf didn't evaporate, but it settled into an uneasy truce as Gourdy sat back down. The group cimed a rge, scarred oak booth in the back corner, positioned so Miz’ri could watch both the front door and the kitchen exit. Herkel stood like a silent, terrifying coat rack at the end of the table, his eyeless sockets staring into the middle distance.

  "You boys always cause a ruckus." Baby said, sliding in next to Gourdy and patting his massive hand. "We have logistics to discuss - namely, what’s next for us?"

  Gourdy grunted, his eyes fixed on the remaining silver Artie was stacking on the table. "Our contract with the caravan ended at the gate. We’re officially looking for a new venture. But I’ll be honest—I’m not in the mood for another merchant run. Too much weeping, not enough pay."

  Talisa sat up straighter, her hands folded neatly on the table. "I would like to hire you all; the Garden Gang. I have a stipend," she said clearly. "All of you. We have to go north to the Twin Cities of Nuvuski and Mulukaos, then west to the Temple of Ruokitarin and finally into the valley and onto Vigil."

  She looked at Miz’ri, then at Gourdy. "I can offer my entire stipend. Miz’ri didn’t want it."

  “You’re here out of charity, cousin?” Artie probed with a cocked white eyebrow. “Sure…”

  “Hardly, she’s paying me in other ways.” Miz offered back with a little smirk and stared over at Talisa. “Our business is our own.” Their eyes met for a moment before Talisa ruffled her nose a bit in a knowing way before returning to looking bashful again.

  “Give us a minute.” Baby said behind a giggle at the tension of it all. The three of them came together in a little circle. Artie and Gourdy exchanged a gnce. Artie smirked, ruffling the hair at the back of his neck. Gourdy replied quietly, nodding towards the girls. Baby put a hand in the middle of them, Gourdy quickly followed. They stared at Artie for a moment before he offered his hand to the quorum.

  "Consider us hired, Talisa Magleby."

  Baby beamed, cpping her hands. "Marvelous! A proper party. Now, let’s celebrate. Barkeep! Rounds for the table! Bring the Vandi Gold."

  The "Vandi Gold" arrived in a tall, frosted ceramic pitcher. It was a deep, viscous fruit wine made from sun-ripened apricots and honey. It smelled like a summer afternoon and looked entirely harmless. When a gss was pced in front of Talisa, she stared at it as if it were a holy relic she wasn't allowed to touch. "Oh, I... I shouldn't. My tutors always said that an unclouded mind is a servant's best tool."

  "Your tutors aren't here, Talisa," Miz’ri drawled, leaning back and nursing a gss of a much harsher, dark local grain spirit. She felt a familiar, wicked itch to see the girl’s composure crack. The Silence in her head was humming a low, static tune, urging her to py with her food. "Do you think a little honey-water is going to shatter your soul?"

  "It's not honey-water, it's wine," Talisa protested weakly.

  "It’s a hug in a gss," Baby encouraged.

  Miz’ri leaned in closer, her voice dropping to that silky, tempting register. "What are you afraid of, little pilgrim? That you might actually enjoy yourself? That you might say something you actually feel instead of something you were taught to recite?"

  Talisa looked at the wine, then at Miz’ri’s challenging, red eyes. She took a deep breath, grabbed the gss, and took a tentative sip. Her eyes widened. "It... it tastes like sunshine."

  Miz’ri ughed and put a hand approvingly on the small of Talisa’s back, which sent a river of goosebumps going up her spine. “There you go, good girl.” She kept her hand there as an anchor, though she wasn’t sure whom it was for; her or the warm girl she was touching.

  "See? No demons," Baby ughed. Talisa took another, rger sip and smiled. It was not long before she finished the first gss as the drinks began to flow, the conversation turned lighter.

  "So, why 'The Garden Gang'?" Miz’ri asked, genuinely curious. "It’s a bit... decorative for people who break bones for a living."

  "Safety in numbers and names," Gourdy expined. "We use pnt aliases on the job. Protects our real identities from bounties and bothersome retives. I’m Gourdy, she’s Baby Bok Choy, and the scout is Artie—short for Artichoke. We’re all a little different but we grow from the same garden."

  Miz’ri smirked. "Clever. I already have a pnt name. Miz’ri. It’s a bright-bloom fungus that grows in the deepest pces of the Reaches. It’s pretty, it’s poisonous, and it loves the dark. My mother thought it was a fitting bel for a seventh daughter."

  Artie, who had been quiet, suddenly looked up from his wine. He tilted his head, studying Miz’ri with an intensity that made her skin crawl. "You think that’s what it means?" Artie asked softly.

  Miz’ri frowned. "Of course. That’s what it’s always meant, and has for generations."

  "Generations in the dark," Artie countered. He leaned across the table. "Miz’ri, do you know our real history? Before the dark things beneath the surface drove us to become their sves, beled us Teazalna, and told us it was our truth?” Artie asked in a genuine tone. Miz'ri remained stone-jawed and silent. “Well, before we and our words were fractured and twisted by the Reaches... your name meant so much more."

  Miz’ri felt a sudden, sharp coldness in her chest.

  "Our people came from the sun once," Artie said, his voice carrying the weight of ancient, oral histories Miz'ri had been taught were myths. "Before we lost our eyes to the gloom. In the original surface dialect, the root of your name isn't Miz’ri but Miz-ri."

  "What does it mean?" Miz’ri asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Miz-ri”

  "It means Hope," Artie said. "It was a name given to daughters born in the spring. It meant the future was coming, and it was going to be bright. When we were forced into the darkness, it became the only bright hope we could see."

  Miz’ri felt as if the floor had dropped away. Hope. She was a Niranath—the bloody hands of the Xyrian Empire—and her very name was a relic of a light her people had spent centuries trying to extinguish. It felt like a cruel joke, a brand of a future she would never have.

  She opened her mouth to scoff, to mock Artie for his “histories," but the moment was shattered by a sound from the other side of the table.

  Hiccup. Everyone turned to Talisa. The girl had finished her third gss and was already draining her fourth, which happened to be Miz'ri's cup that she had stolen while the elf was listening to Artie. Her face was a vibrant, glowing pink, her eyes were slightly gzed, and she was staring at Miz’ri with a hazy, lopsided grin.

  "Miz-ri," Talisa slurred, the name coming out as a soft, messy sigh. "miz-RI. That's... that's so much better. You’re my Hope. My big, grumpy, purple Hope."

  Miz’ri closed her eyes, the profound weight of her name instantly repced by the realization that she was now responsible for a very drunk, very loud pilgrim. "Oh, Vith," Miz’ri muttered. "You greedy little piggy."

  Talisa didn't just look drunk; she looked like she had finally unbuckled a suit of armor that had been ten sizes too small for her entire life. Her posture, usually as stiff as a temple pilr, had colpsed into a series of soft, liquid curves. She was leaning so far toward Miz’ri that her chin was nearly resting on the dark elf’s shoulder.

  "You're very... purple," Talisa whispered, her voice carrying across the quieted tavern with the crity of a bell. "I never noticed how many shades of purple you are. Like a sunset. A mean, pointy sunset."

  "She’s gone," Baby chirped, looking delighted. "The Magleby fortress has fallen. We have breach, people!"

  "Talisa, sit up straight," Miz’ri hissed, trying to push the girl back. "You’re making a scene."

  "I like the scene," Talisa announced, grabbing Miz’ri’s hand. Her palms were warm, slightly sticky from the wine. "Almost as much as I like your Honey…I want to taste it again, Miz-ri. Do we have our rooms yet? Baby said we got our own rooms..."

  Miz’ri felt a heat in her face that had nothing to do with the spirits she’d been drinking. She pointed a sharp, warning finger directly in Talisa’s face. "One more word out of you, pilgrim, and I am putting you in a sack. Behave yourself or—"

  Talisa didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned forward, parted her lips, and slowly, deliberately, sucked on Miz’ri’s pointing finger.

  The sound that left the Garden Gang was a collective 'Oooooh!' Miz’ri froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, the Silence in her head momentarily drowned out by the sheer, shocking proximity of the girl’s tongue and the heat of her mouth.

  "Good golly Ehmtua, You taste like trouble," Talisa mumbled around the finger, her blue eyes locked onto Miz’ri’s red ones with a raw, unmasked hunger.

  "That's it," Miz’ri choked out, wrenching her hand away. "We’re leaving. Now."

  Miz’ri stood up so fast she nearly upended the table. Without waiting for a response, she stepped around the booth, bent down, and swept Talisa up into a bridal carry. The girl let out a squeal of surprise that turned into a bubbly, breathless giggle. She draped her arms around Miz’ri’s neck, burying her face in the crook of the drow's shoulder.

  "Oh! You're so strong," Talisa babbled, her breath smelling of apricots and honey. ”I like it. Carry me to the moon, Miz-ra. Take me to the spring."

  "I'm taking you to a bed so you can sleep this off before you get us lynched," Miz’ri growled, marching toward the stairs.

  "Bye, kids!" Baby called out, waving a ce handkerchief. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do! Which, for the record, is a very short list!"

  Gourdy and Artie just watched them go, the big Orc shaking his head with a smirk. "Fifty gold says the elf doesn't get any sleep tonight," Gourdy rumbled.

  "No bet," Artie replied. "She's already halfway to the moon herself."

  Miz’ri ignored them, her boots thudding rhythmically on the wooden stairs. In her arms, Talisa was a warm, shifting weight, her word sad becoming increasingly nonsensical as the cool air of the hallway hit her. She reached the room Artie had secured—a modest space with a thick feather mattress and a heavy oak door. Miz’ri kicked the door shut behind her and practically dropped Talisa onto the bed.

  The girl bounced once, her hair fanning out like a halo of wheat against the white linens. Miz’ri stood over her, chest heaving, ready to deliver a scathing lecture on the virtues of temperance and the dangers of public indecency. But the words died.

  Talisa wasn't giggling anymore. She was lying back, propped up on her elbows, looking up at Miz’ri. The alcohol hadn't just lowered her inhibitions; it had quieted the frantic, dogmatic noise that usually occupied her head. For the first time since they had met, Talisa Magleby looked truly present. Her gaze traveled slowly from Miz’ri’s boots, up her leather-cd legs, to the curve of her hips, and finally to her eyes. It was a look of pure, unadulterated desire—unburdened by the Ministry, by Theodore, or by the weight of Censure Street.

  "You really are my Hope," Talisa said, her voice steady and quiet.

  “Don’t let Artie fill your head full of wild ideas…get some rest.” Miz said, turning to head to the door. “He’s a dreamer who sees what he wants to see.”

  “I see you, even when you try to hide.” Talisa reached out, her fingers grazing the hem of Miz’ri’s tunic, enough to catch and keep her here a moment longer. "Don't go, Miz. Not yet. Please."

  Miz’ri stared down at her, the Silence screaming at her to run, to bite, to break this girl before she could be broken herself. But as she looked into those clear blue eyes, all she could think about was the ancient name Artie had given her.

  Miz-ri. Hope. Maybe it wasn't a mocking curse. Maybe it was an invitation.