The sun was dipping low when Lyra and her friends trudged back from Bahari Bay, dusted in sweat and grass, full of laughter and the thrill of a good hunt. It had been a long day, but a successful one. They were growing into formidable hunters, all of them—Saraya, Lexi, Simon, Rex, and herself.

And they owed much of their improvement to Hassian.

He’d made sure they all had access to the best gear—bows perfectly strung, arrows sharp and balanced. It wasn’t just about quality weapons, though. It was the quiet trust he gave them, the time he’d taken to train them when he didn’t have to. It meant something. It meant everything.

They were getting in later than planned, but it wasn’t a worry. Hassian had known where she was going and who she was with. He trusted them. Trusted her. That knowledge settled like warmth in Lyra’s chest.
Still, she could hear his voice in her head—his steady, familiar parting words: “Just stay safe.”

It had become one of their rituals now. Like "hello, beautiful" and "hello, handsome". Little phrases that were only theirs. And that one… that one always made her wonder.
What exactly was it code for?

She’d told him one of the hunters swore the thickets were the best place to find proudhorn and azures, and his reaction had been immediate, intense.
“No! I’ve told you - stay away from the thickets.”
She hadn’t pushed, but she wondered. What was there he didn’t want to tell her about?

They stopped in the tavern for a quick drink, the mood still light, energy buzzing from the day. Lyra spotted Sifuu by the bar and made her way over. “Still out this late?” Lyra teased.

“Old woman’s allowed to enjoy a drink,” Sifuu replied, raising a brow. “Or four, don’t tell Hassian.”

They chatted, and Lyra mentioned their goal of finally bagging a proudhorn.
“We were thinking about the thickets,” she added. “But Hassian doesn’t want me going there.”

Sifuu scoffed into her glass. “Of course he doesn’t. Don’t want you anywhere near that old witch.”

“Witch?” Lyra blinked. “Like a witch witch?”

Sifuu gave her a look. “I’d call her something else that rhymes with witch but starts with a different letter. Not in public, though.” Another swig from her mug then “Ta-ma-la, forest witch” Sifuu continued as if saying that name left a bad taste in her mouth.
“She’s older than me,” Sifuu added with a sneer. “Wears some charm to hide it. Bothered me more than it did him. He was so young… just twenty. I tried to speak my mind, but that only pushed him further. And when it ended, he wouldn’t even let me comfort him. Said I’d been right.”

Lyra kept her expression neutral, but inside, jealousy flared hot and sharp. Of course she knew Hassian had a past—he hadn’t hidden that. But hearing Tamala’s name, imagining her face, her age disguised by magic, the history she had with him… it twisted something in her. The thought of Hassian loving someone else—being hurt by someone else—lit up every possessive nerve in her body.

It was irrational. It was in the past. But it didn’t matter.
She was jealous.
Ridiculously, fiercely, unreasonably jealous. And the worst part was, she didn’t even know the full story. Just enough to feel it burn.

They finished their drinks, and Lyra made their goodbyes, the friends heading home as a group.

Sifuu’s words clung like burrs. Tamala. Forest witch.

She walked a little behind the others, letting their chatter blur into background noise. Her mind refused to quiet. She pictured a younger Hassian—strong, earnest, still untested—and an older woman with the power to hide her years, reaching for him. The thought knotted her stomach.

It shouldn’t matter. It was long ago. He was hers now. And yet… the burn of jealousy wouldn’t leave. What had she looked like? What had she given him that made him stay until it ended in pain?
Lyra clenched her fists in her pockets, annoyed at herself. She trusted him, but she hated the shadow of someone else in his story. Hated the way it made her feel small, younger, unsteady.

By the time she reached home, the ache still pulsed beneath her ribs.

The Goodest Human

The house was dark when she arrived. Still, peaceful. She stepped inside, expecting silence—and instead let out a soft gasp.

On the couch sat a plushie.
A very large plushie.
Tau.

Nearly life-size, from the bandana to the proud tilt of his head. His fabric was soft and warm in muted blue-grey, and his collar bore the familiar Majiri symbol—the one on Hassian’s shoulder.

Two heart drop lilies were tied together with a pink ribbon and tucked beside the plushie’s paw.

There was a note.

I made this for you for all the food and love you share with me
and so we can always be together. Because you are the goodest human. Love, Tau.
P.S. The flowers are from the grumpy guy.

The absurd sweetness of it nearly undid her. A laugh bubbled out, even as her throat tightened. She sat beside the plushie, her fingers brushing over the careful stitches, the softness of the ears, the gentle curve of the embroidered smile.

The jealousy didn’t vanish, not entirely. But holding that gift, seeing the quiet thoughtfulness stitched into every line, it loosened its claws. Tamala had been a shadow in his story. But this—this light, this tenderness stitched into every seam—was hers alone.

Tears pricked her eyes.

All those months ago, when she could barely get a full sentence from him, she’d turned to her friends and said: Some day, he’ll be my man. And here she was, curled next to a stuffed version of his loyal companion, with heartdrop lilies by her side and love stitched into every seam. She pulled the plushie close.
“Some day,” she whispered. “Is turning out even better than I thought.”