The rain fell in a steady, warm curtain, turning the ground in front of Poca’s homestead into a soft, yielding mire. It was the perfect kind of morning for this. Paola sank her bare feet into the mud, her cloak discarded on a nearby fence post. Oso stood before her, his massive head now level with her chest, a wall of light-brown fur and starlit purple dust. He was no longer a cub; he was a force of nature, a living earthquake with a playful heart. And he had missed her.

  He let out a low, rumbling chuff and lowered his head, nudging her with enough force to make her take a step back. Paola laughed and dug her fingers into the thick ruff around his neck. “Alright, you big lug. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  She exploded forward, a blur of small frame and surprising strength. Her stats in strength and speed were no joke, enough that she could genuinely wrestle the beast. Oso, however, treated it like the best game he’d ever played. He braced his legs, his muscles bunching under his fur as she tried to push him sideways. He didn’t budge. He simply absorbed her momentum, a furry, immovable object. With a playful huff, he swung his head, catching her around the waist and lifting her off her feet. For a moment, she dangled, her legs kicking in the air before he gently set her down.

  “Try to get under him, Paola!” Poca called out from the porch, her hands on her hips. “Use his weight against him! Go for ze legs!”

  Paola nodded, trying to circle the bear, but Oso just turned with her, his massive body a constantly shifting wall. She darted in low, aiming for his hind leg, but he was faster than he looked. He simply sat down, his full weight coming to rest on her and pinning her beneath him. It wasn’t crushing, just inescapable. She squirmed, her small frame no match for his sheer mass, and he let out a deep, rumbling purr that vibrated through her entire body.

  Nearby, Ayla and Yasmin were working with a cluster of servants from the duchess, their movements sharp and efficient as they planted row after row of hardy saplings in the newly trenched soil. Yasmin glanced over, wiping a smear of mud from her cheek with the back of her glove.

  “I swear, if he gets any bigger, we’re going to have to get a license for him,” Yasmin grumbled, though a smile played on her lips. “He’s going to eat us out of home and garden.”

  “He’s just growing,” Ayla said, not looking up from her work. Her tone was even, but Paola could see the faint smirk. “You’re just mad you can’t win a single match anymore.”

  “I’m not mad!” Yasmin protested, a little too loudly. “I’m… strategically conserving my energy. For more important explosions. Not bear-wrasslin’.”

  The servants, for their part, were trying very hard to pretend the wrestling match between the small, naked woman and the bear the size of a small horse wasn’t happening. They kept their eyes fixed on their work, but every so often, one would risk a horrified glance, their eyes widening before quickly snapping back to the saplings.

  Paola finally managed to squirm free, scrambling away only to be caught by Oso’s huge paw as he gently rolled her onto her back. He stood over her, panting, his tongue lolling out as he looked down with his big, innocent eyes. She lay there, defeated and breathless, the rain washing the mud from her skin. She laughed, reaching up to scratch his chin. He huffed and plopped down beside her, leaning his immense weight against her side. She rested her head against his warm, fur-covered side, letting the rain fall on her face.

  “Okay, okay,” she panted. “I’m out of shape. You win.”

  Oso just huffed again, a cloud of warm air that smelled of honey and wilderness.

  Paola pushed herself up, looking towards the gate. “Any sign of them yet?” she called out to the others.

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  “Not a peep,” Yasmin answered, finally giving up on her planting to stretch her back. “Evan, Yucca, and Selene. They’ve been gone since dawn. How long does it take to pick up a few supplies?”

  “With those three?” Ayla said, finally standing and wiping her hands on her trousers. “They’re probably not buying supplies. They’re starting a small, quiet war in a back alley over the philosophical implications of bartering.”

  The alley smelled of stale beer and desperation, a narrow, grimy passage behind a tavern that catered to the less reputable merchants of Valarian. Selene stood in the center of it, a statue of lethal indifference. The deal had soured the moment the head thug, a brute with a broken nose and a belly that strained the buttons of his stained shirt, had decided her coin wasn’t the only thing he wanted.

  “This is a bad deal,” Selene said, her voice a low, flat line. Her purple-marbled eyes, swirling with faint nebulae, didn’t waver from his.

  The thug spat on the ground. “The deal is what I say it is, demon. You want the supplies? You pay the price. All of it.”

  “I have already paid the agreed-upon price,” she stated, her mithralite prosthetic arm resting at her side. The metal was a dull grey in the dim light, a stark contrast to the ash-grey skin of her other arm and the leather crop top that left her midriff bare.

  “Consider it a… service charge,” he sneered, and his two cronies fanned out, trying to flank her. They were big, clumsy men, used to intimidation, not a real fight.

  That was their first mistake.

  Before the word was fully out of his mouth, Selene moved. She exploded forward, not with supernatural speed, but with the trained, economical grace of a pit fighter. She closed the distance to the thug on her left in two steps. A sharp jab snapped his head back, followed by a cross that twisted him at the waist. He staggered, and she was already turning, her body a fluid pivot.

  The second thug lunged, swinging a wild right hook. Selene ducked under it, the air whistling over her head. She drove a hard elbow into his ribs, eliciting a grunt of pained surprise. As he doubled over, she grabbed the back of his neck and used his momentum to slam his face into her rising knee. Cartilage crunched, and he fell back, clutching his broken nose.

  The leader roared and charged, a bull rush meant to pin her against the wall. Selene met him head-on. She dropped her center of gravity, planting her feet, and met his charge with a perfect shoulder check that stopped him cold. He stumbled back, stunned by the impact. She followed up, a one-two combo that was a blur of motion. A left hook to the liver, a right uppercut that snapped his teeth together. He swung wildly, a desperate, clumsy haymaker. Selene slipped inside his guard, her body brushing against his. Her mithralite hand shot up, not as a weapon, but as a tool, grabbing his throat and shoving him back against the brick wall with a heavy thud.

  He gasped, his hands flying to his throat, his eyes wide with fear. Selene held him there, her face inches from his, her expression unchanged. “The price was fair,” she whispered. “Your greed was not.”

  The first thug, the one with the jabbed nose, had recovered and came at her again. Selene released the leader, spinning to meet him. He threw a punch; she parried it with her mithralite arm, the metal ringing against his knuckles. He howled in pain, and she countered with a vicious kick to the side of his knee. His leg buckled, and she drove the heel of her palm into his sternum, sending him sprawling.

  She took a blow herself then. The leader, having recovered his breath, managed to land a solid punch to her ribs. It was a good shot, hard enough to make her grit her teeth, but she absorbed it, her body barely swaying. It only seemed to make her angry.

  She feinted a low kick, and as he flinched, she launched a spinning back fist that caught him square on the jaw. He dropped like a sack of grain, unconscious before he hit the mud.

  Silence returned to the alley, broken only by the pained groans of the two men still conscious. Selene stood over them, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths. She looked down at the leader, then at the crate of supplies they had been arguing over.

  She walked over to the leader’s unconscious form and methodically began to strip him of his valuables. A leather pouch of coins. A decent-looking dagger. His boots. She moved to the other two, doing the same. When she was done, she had a neat pile of gear and currency.

  She looked down at the groaning men. “Consider this a bartering fee,” she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. “For poor customer service.”

  She gathered the supplies and her new acquisitions, and without a backward glance, walked out of the alley, leaving them broken and penniless in the mud. Just outside the alley, she found a pleasant surprise waiting for her that the would-be thieves wouldn't be needing anymore.