Willowdale was the village closest to the Rousseau cottage, though Azima rarely visited unless absolutely necessary. Hunters and Imermen were the revered saviors of the known world, but she always felt a strange sense of judgment by those unfamiliar with their ways. So she avoided civilians at all costs unless she needed something from them.

And at the moment, she needed somewhere to sleep.

The road through Willowdale was well lit by the town's public buildings and with lamplight and finding her way to the central inn was easy enough. She kept her head down to avoid glances from passersby as she walked towards it, rubbing at the brand on her chest as though its presence beneath her clothing would give away who she was. Quietly, she entered the establishment as if she were just another traveler looking for a place to stay for the night.

Or she would have, if there wasn't already someone in the inn's common room making enough of a ruckus she was surprised every demon within the surrounding mile wasn't already making its way to the village.

"I have as much right to be here as anyone else!" the young man exclaimed to anyone who would listen.

It was the same man Azima had previously crossed paths with. The one with the winged tattoo.

An Imerman.

The matron of the establishment, a short, plump woman with a bust as rotund as her stomach, stood behind the tavern's counter, looking anything but amused.

"I know who you are. This is my inn, and I can deny anyone I choose," she snapped, returning to running the rag in her hand through the goblet in the other.

"I have the gold to pay!" he argued.

"I can do without your gold," she said sternly, "especially if it's from a blasphemer's coffers. The last thing I want to do is jeopardize the reputation of my inn just so you can pay with your gold."

The Imerman's countenance darkened, and she found her hand instinctively moving towards her blade. If Azima could have found another inn for the night, she would have, especially as the young man turned and met her stare. Recognition flashed across his eyes and her breath caught as his gaze, as green as fresh grass even in the dim light of the common room, held her stare, pleading. "You're looking for a room, too, aren't you?"

Her jaw dropped slightly. "I... uh..."

"Will you accept her gold?" he asked the bar's matron, challenging her earlier claim.

The matron turned to look at Azima, and she felt like cattle being inspected before the slaughter. "Are you looking for a room, girl?"

"I... I am," she stuttered out, clearing her throat as she stepped forward.

With a smirk on her face and a glance at the young man, the woman put out her hand in Azima's general direction, curling her fingers in a gesture that suggested she was looking for the gold in question.

Azima's coin purse was around her neck, buttoned beneath her jacket for safekeeping. She angled herself away from prying eyes as she worked at freeing the gold from underneath her shirt.

A quiet gasp from the man made her pause, and she realized how far she had undone her jacket, how open her shirt fell... just enough to display the V-shaped brand on her chest over her heart. Her eyes widened as she met the young man's, his gaze pointedly on her chest, and if she had been anywhere else, she would have slapped him. Instead, she pulled out the pouch, poured enough coin into her hand, and replaced the purse around her neck. Straightening her clothes before she turned around, she slammed the gold on the counter between the matron and the man.

"Gold enough for two rooms," she said steadily, but her eyes meant pain if the stranger even considered saying anything to the unsuspecting matron. "He will be my responsibility, should anything occur within your establishment during his stay."

She prayed to the angels in Heaven that it was enough for him to keep quiet about who—or what—she really was. It wasn't that she didn't want to help these people should they need it, but she didn't have time to waste. She'd be gone by the sun's first light anyway...

He gave her a dashingly arrogant grin as he bowed and picked up his own pack from the ground before giving her and the bar matron one final glance. "My thanks, ladies," he boasted before he turned towards the stairway that led to the rooms on the second level.

The Imerman had entered his room and closed the door by the time Azima walked up the stairs, and she didn't care for his disregard of her generosity for the second time. She decided, as she closed the door to her own quarters, that if she never saw him again, she would be all the better for it. Now was not the time for an Imerman to meddle his way into her business. Not yet...

"So do you have a name, or should I just call you Venandi?"

She didn't scream, as much as every nerve in her body surged in surprise. Instead, her instincts took over, and she spun fast enough that her momentum flung her satchel from off her shoulder towards the source of the intruding voice.

She didn't look to see if it connected—she was too busy crouching down, ready to pounce as she pulled a hidden dagger from out of her boot.

She looked up just in time to see her pack fall to the floor, sliced in two, the pieces thudding against the worn wood.

Azima's head whipped up even higher to see the same young man from downstairs as he sheathed his sword beneath his coat, sitting upon the room's single chair in the darkened corner. The moon was full outside the room's only window, his features shadowed in the dim evening light. Even still, his eyes shone a deep emerald, beneath heavy brows and short, ruffled brown hair. And on his lips rested the same arrogant grin from before.

"What do you want?" Azima snapped as she pushed herself up into a standing position. The knife was still steady in her hand—she couldn't kill an Imerman, but she sure as hell could harm him.

He lounged too comfortably as he watched her. "I merely wanted to thank you. Personally."

"There. You thanked me. Now get out."

The Imerman cocked his head to the side. "Now, why would I do that, when we both want the same thing?"

"To sleep in peace without further interruption?"

He chuckled at that, and she gripped her dagger tighter.

"You should have told me when we first met and I would have taken care sooner. You're Venandi, I am Imerai. Any reason for you to be on the road alone can mean only one thing."

"I'm on a mission."

"To the Parish?"

Azima couldn't help as her lips curled back, baring her teeth.

His grin curled into one of delight. "Or away from the Parish?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about, so this is going to be your final warning."

"Don't I though?" He crossed his legs, resting his foot on his knee—making himself too comfortable for Azima's liking. "I believe I know more than you give me credit for, and that is why the Venandi and the Imerai work so well together. I should have seen it before. We are bred to be the perfect partners, you and I. Equally matched and trained to protect one another. Live together, fight together—"

"Do not quote the Vade Mecum to me," Azima hissed.

"The way I see it, I can save you the trip," he continued, ignoring her threat.

"Get out," she grumbled as she moved around the room, lighting thick candles as she went.

"This village is lovely, don't you think? The perfect place to create the next line of—"

"I said enough!" she snapped, turning to face him.

But her reaction was apparently exactly what he was waiting for. He stood with a mischievous grin on his face and sauntered to the door. "You could at least let me know your name before we part ways."

"No, I could not."

He gave her a smirk. "Rahn."

"Excuse me?"

"Rahn. My name."

"I didn't ask for your name."

"Oh, I know."

The door clicked shut, the sound of heavy cloth colliding with the wood thrumming through the empty room after she kicked half of her ruined satchel directly at his head.