Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 118: Lyre: Maybe I Need to Blow Him

LYRE

I’m slouched in the only chair in this depressing motel room that doesn’t look ready to collapse, scrolling through my Divinity App while Jack-Eye makes significantly more noise in the shower than any one person should. The constant drumming of water hitting tile makes a surprisingly tolerable white noise—not that I’d ever admit it. There’s something satisfying about the rhythmic sound of someone else cleaning off the day’s grime that doesn’t involve me lifting a finger.

I have another direct message. Third one today. People are far too interested in what I’m doing, which means every step I take is going to be analyzed for Balance, damn it.

[CHAOS: Feels like the old times, doesn’t it, Witchlet?]

I snort. He’s been unusually talkative lately, which never bodes well. When Chaos gets chatty, worlds tend to crumble. Or at least have very bad days.

My thumb pauses over a new notification, pulsing red at the top of my screen.

[PLAUSIBILITY WARNING: EXCESSIVE INTERFERENCE IN REGION 23-BETA. FINAL STRIKE.]

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not this again.

Excessive interference detected in Region 23-BETA. Current manipulations have exceeded Plausibility Threshold by 417%.

Timeline strain now approaching rupture tolerance.

You are hereby issued a FINAL WARNING for deviation from ordained narrative progression.

Further unsanctioned alterations may trigger Purge Protocol: Soft Reset.

—Divinity Connect Oversight Engine, Axis Protocols Enforcement Division

"Yes, yes, I know," I mutter, thumbing the warning closed with more force than necessary. "Balance can suck my—"

stop, staring at

divine bureaucracy, I would’ve handled this differently, made sure I was alone. I could track down

do as I want, I’ll trigger divine

if something

Protocol? The thought alone makes my skin crawl. Memory resets, localized timeline alterations... Grace might wake up with no idea how she got into a camper with a man she

don’t handle

magical container with all the power of a dying flashlight. He’s barely at five percent of his capacity, and ambient

The sudden

planted on Thom earlier gave us three

need to blow

"Wh—what?"

I’d rather not lose him from a magical backlash, so I have to meter it out. But hand-holding

enough

his chest, a motel towel hanging so low on his hips it’s practically performing a disappearing act. His muscles are

mumbles, his

twice. "Why are you

opens again. "I, uh...

eyes follow his vague gesture to the nearest mattress—the one I’ve already claimed, my bag sitting at its

"That’s my bed."

other one. The

and they never get any better at it. I return my attention to the screen. "Then dry

doesn’t move. Instead, he does something so predictable I almost laugh: he positions himself closer, one hand gripping the back of my chair as he leans down slightly. Water drips from his hair onto the screen

you have needs, you don’t

language is dominating alpha, but his tone

archaeologist who’s just unearthed a particularly confusing artifact.