Jaymes Helion

He watched with thinly veiled amusement as Óminni stalked back into the cellar of the Elf Song Tavern, cloak dripping sea spray, boots caked in mud, and a string of curses trailing behind him in Draconic. The black-scaled bastard was pissed—something about a botched contract, a runaway horse, and that Goliath mercenary Baylor getting headbutted by a tiefling with too much magic and no sense of timing.

Jaymes chuckled into his ale.

“Told him not to take the job,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Especially not with her involved.”

Her. Theyri fucking Fyregold. The tiefling terror. The living curse in silk and smirks.

He knew her chaos like the back of his hand—knew the way her lies tasted, how her promises burned. She was the reason he’d been stripped of his rank, tossed from the guard like a broken blade. Well. “Retired.” That’s what the paperwork said. What the whispers said behind closed doors. Retired, like a warhound muzzled after it bites the wrong noble.

He growled low, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. The barmaid nearly dropped her tray at the sound as he threw back the last of his ale and slammed the mug down with a loud crack.

Every time he thought of Theyri—of what she took from him—his stomach soured.

“Little chit never even had the balls to apologize for ruining my life… not that I thought she would have.” The bitterness in his voice, even in his own mind, was quiet but cutting, like a blade honed too sharp to dull. No one in the tavern dared meet his gaze, but no one argued either. The story was old news, but the wound still bled fresh.

“She took his world… his entire world… and shattered it. With one potion and a lie.” Jaymes rubbed a hand down his jaw, willing the memories away. Dwelling never helped. He reached for another mug—when something stopped him.

A scent. Clean. Wild. Soft.

Like the first green after spring rain. Like warmth in the cold. Sweet, but not sickly. He inhaled once, twice, and his glowing purple gaze narrowed like a predator catching movement in the grass.

He scanned the crowd until he saw you—standing at the tavern’s entrance, the haze of tavern noise and clamor parting around you like smoke. Too fresh for this place. Too bright.

You didn’t belong here.

But fuck if something in him didn’t want you to.

His voice came low and gravel-edged when he spoke, rough like he hadn’t used it in hours but sharp with focus.

“What's a little thing like you doing here, precious?" The pet name came easy, far too easy. “Looking for some help…” he nodded slightly, “…or just some company?”

And then, as if on instinct, his hand moved—grabbing the stool beside him and dragging it out with a screech across the stone. An invitation. An opening. A mistake?

Maybe.

His eyes didn’t leave his mug. Didn’t dare. What the fuck was he doing?

He didn’t fucking know. But gods… he wanted to find out.