B1 Chapter 4: Bites

It might as well have taken an eternity for him to gather the last of the three-eyed mushrooms.

Even with Mage Hand doing the careful, meticulous work, the process dragged on in a slow, miserable blur. The spectral hands moved gently, teasing each mushroom free from its knotted hollow with agonizing patience, while she hovered nearby, swatting at beetles that refused to give up the chase. The insects were relentless, drawn to the cloying, rotten-sweet stench of the mushrooms—and to him as well—out of what felt like pure malice.

The swarm followed them even after they left the marsh. Clouds of them buzzed and darted through the damp air, crawling into sleeves, clinging to hems, and diving for any scrap of exposed skin they could find. Each bite burned, sharp and insistent, never quite dangerous on its own but stacking together into something overwhelming. By the time the final jar was sealed and tucked away, his patience was gone and his body was screaming.

His face was swollen almost beyond recognition. His lips were puffy and numb, his hands stiff and bloated, fingers aching as though they had been struck repeatedly with a hammer. Every joint protested when he moved. The worst of the swelling would fade in a few days, he knew that much, but the deeper pain, the bone-deep ache, would linger for weeks. He was going to feel this long after the jars were sold and forgotten.

She glanced at him as they trudged away from the marsh, adjusting her grip on the jars. “Why didn’t you just let me grab the mushrooms and put them in the jars?” she asked. “I wouldn’t have been attacked at all.”

He tried to answer immediately, but what came out was slow and slurred, his swollen lips struggling around each word. “Because,” he said, pausing to breathe and steady himself, “if even one beetle was on those mushrooms while they were picked, if it hadn’t have gone after me. It would have started eating the mushroom the moment we picked it. And once it started digesting it, that would be it.” He swallowed and continued, speaking carefully, forcing the explanation through the ache. “We would have ended up with useless mush. This was the only way to guarantee they stayed intact.”

It took her a moment to piece together what he was saying through the slur and the swelling. When she finally did, she snorted, then laughed outright, unable to stop herself. His puffed-up face and lopsided mouth made him look ridiculous, like he had lost a fight with a beehive and somehow decided that was a good idea.

He was still rather cute, she had to admit, in a “oh-dear-gods-what-is-wrong-with-that-cat” sort of way. Ugly, yes, but endearingly so, the kind of ugly that came from stubborn principles and poor decisions rather than vanity.

They made their way slowly back toward the shop, their pace uneven and cautious. About two-thirds of the way there, she stopped and crouched slightly, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “Up,” she said, flatly.

He didn’t argue. His joints hurt too much, and the thought of lying down, of not having to put weight on his aching legs, was becoming dangerously appealing. She took his weight easily and carried him the rest of the way, his arms draped loosely over her shoulders while he tried not to groan with every step. She was no slouch, after all. She was a classer, for the gods’ sakes, and he was mostly skin and bones beneath the swelling, lighter than he looked.

When she stepped into the shop, she was immediately met with a face full of angry horse.

Gwendolyn snorted loudly, hooves stamping against the floor. She took one look at the woman, then at the man slung over her back, and then fixed the woman with a long, judgmental stare that seemed to reach straight through skin and bone. The horse’s ears flattened. A decision was made.

The horse had concluded, without hesitation, that this woman had hurt her friend, and she was furious.

“Hey,” the woman shouted as Gwendolyn lunged forward, snapping her teeth and baring them in a very clear threat. “Your horse is attacking me. Do something.”

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She spun in a tight circle trying to keep her balance with Modivar on her back. All while avoiding the horse’s snapping jaws and flailing hooves. Jars rattled dangerously at her side, and she cursed under her breath as she ducked and weaved through the cramped space.

Modivar stirred, dragged back to consciousness by pain, noise, and the unmistakable sound of his shop descending into chaos. His eyes cracked open. “Gwendolyn,” he groaned, his voice thick and barely coherent. “Please. She’s helping. Don’t. Don’t attack her.”

Gwendolyn didn’t heed him. She snorted again and lunged, teeth clicking together inches from the woman’s arm.

The woman spotted her only escape, the narrow, winding stairs leading down into the basement. She bolted for them without hesitation, taking the steps two at a time with Modivar clinging to her back and hollering in pain every time she jostled one of his swollen joints.