The Drunken Dragon tavern smelled exactly like you'd expect a place called the Drunken Dragon to smell: stale beer, questionable decisions, and the lingering ghost of yesterday's mutton stew. Sera stood in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the murky interior while trying very hard not to touch anything. The afternoon sun caught dust motes dancing through air thick enough to chew, highlighting the tavern's impressive collection of suspicious stains and even more suspicious patrons.

  "Just threaten to kill him," Kersher's voice echoed in their shared mind as she approached the tavern keeper. "Quick, efficient, minimal mess. Well, unless you start with the fingers. Then it gets messy."

  Sera kept her pleasant healer's smile firmly in place, though her jaw ached from the effort. "We're not killing anyone," she whispered through gritted teeth, earning a concerned look from a passing barmaid who quickened her steps.

  "Fine. Maiming works too. I'm flexible about methodology."

  The tavern keeper – a mountain of a man whose impressive beard contained enough braids to suggest either dwarven heritage or a very dedicated personal grooming routine – raised one thick eyebrow at her approach. The way his massive forearms tensed as he wiped down the bar suggested he'd broken up his share of fights. Probably by using the fighters as improvised weapons.

  "Can I help you, miss?" His voice was surprisingly gentle for someone who looked capable of bench-pressing a horse.

  "Yes! Hello!" Sera's voice came out too bright, too high. Sweet merciful gods, she was terrible at this. "I was wondering if you'd seen any... um..."

  "Cultists," Kersher supplied, mental voice dripping with sarcasm. "Suspicious types. People who smell of incense and corruption. The ones who bound us together and deserve slow, painful—"

  "...travelers!" Sera finished quickly, fighting the urge to clap a hand over her mouth. "Specifically travelers who might be... religious?"

  The tavern keeper's other eyebrow joined the first, disappearing into his hairline. Various patrons were starting to take notice, conversations dropping to whispers. "Religious travelers," he repeated flatly.

  "Yes!" Sera's fingers drummed nervously on the sticky bar top. She could feel Kersher's mounting frustration like a headache building behind her eyes. "With... um... interests in... the old ways?"

  "Oh for void's sake," Kersher groaned. "This is physically painful to watch. Let me handle this before we die of old age.?

  "No!" Sera hissed. Then, to the tavern keeper's increasingly suspicious look: "No, thank you, I mean. Thank you for your time. Have a lovely day!"

  She turned and fled, nearly colliding with a serving girl carrying a tray of ales that smelled like they might be flammable. Kersher's exasperated sighs echoed in their shared skull as she burst out into the afternoon sun, gasping in fresh air that didn't taste of stale beer and poor life choices.

  "That," he declared, "was possibly the worst interrogation I've ever witnessed. And I once questioned a man who'd accidentally swallowed his own tongue."

  "Well I'm sorry I'm not up to your murder-vagabond standards," Sera snapped, then immediately felt guilty. Her mother had raised her better than to snap at people, even if they were unwanted mental passengers who wouldn't shut up about murder. "I mean... I'm just not used to... this."

  Their shared body's hands – her hands, but somehow foreign now – trembled slightly. Three days since the binding. Three days of sharing space with a voice that advocated violence as the solution to every problem. Three days of fighting for control of her own muscles. Her fingers still ached from where Kersher had tried to take control during breakfast, attempting to turn her spoon into an improvised weapon when the innkeeper had looked at them funny.

  "Look," Kersher said, his mental voice taking on that forced patience she was starting to recognize, the tone that suggested he was imagining creative ways to murder whoever had stuck him with such an obviously incompetent partner. "If you won't let me handle this properly—"

  "We are not killing anyone!"

  "—then at least let me tell you how to ask questions without looking like you're about to panic and confess to crimes nobody's accused you of yet."

  Sera paused in her frustrated stride down the muddy street, accidentally stepping in something that definitely wasn't mud. Perfect. These had been her favorite boots. "You... want to teach me?"

  "Well someone has to, and unfortunately I'm stuck in here with you. Consider it self-preservation. Either that, or you give me full control. The sooner you learn to be less conspicuous, the less likely we are to end up in a dungeon. Or executed. Or executed in a dungeon, which is just adding insult to injury really."

  She considered this while weaving through the afternoon market crowd. The street was packed with shoppers examining vegetables that had seen fresher days, haggling over questionably-obtained goods, and pretending not to notice the pickpockets working the crowd with practiced efficiency. On one hand, taking advice from the murderer trapped in her head seemed like a monumentally bad idea. On the other hand…

  ?Fine,? she said, earning a strange look from a passing merchant. Right. Speaking out loud to the voice in her head probably wasn’t helping their whole ‘avoid attention’ goal. ?But no killing,? she added mentally. ?Or maiming. Or threatening to kill or maim.?

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  ?You’re taking all the fun out of information gathering,? Kersher grumbled. ?But fine. First lesson: stop acting suspicious by trying so hard not to be suspicious.?

  ?That… makes no sense.?

  ?Trust me. I’m a professional. Now, there’s a merchant up ahead. Let’s practice being normal people who definitely aren’t sharing a body while hunting a cult.?

  The merchant in question had set up shop in a quieter side street, away from the main market’s bustle. His stall displayed an impressive array of herbs and potions, their glass bottles catching the afternoon sun like tiny captured rainbows. More importantly, his wife sat beside him, grinding herbs with slow, methodical movements that spoke of bone-deep exhaustion. The dark circles under her eyes suggested she hadn’t slept properly in days.

  ?Perfect,? Kersher said. ?Now, remember what I said about acting natural.?

  ?Right. Natural. I can do natural.? Sera smoothed down her travel-stained healer’s robes and approached the stall, trying to project an air of casual interest that probably looked more like barely-suppressed panic.

  The merchant brightened at her approach. ?Ah, a healer! Welcome, welcome! We have a fine selection of medicinal herbs, all guaranteed fresh!? A generous interpretation of ‘fresh,’ Sera noted. Those angelroot leaves were definitely showing signs of frost damage.

  ?Hello! Yes, I was hoping to—? She broke off, frowning at the merchant’s wife. The woman’s hands moved with the peculiar tremor of someone fighting sleep while handling tools. ?Oh, dear. Are you having trouble with that sleeping draught??

  The merchant’s smile faltered. ?Excuse me??

  ?The valerian root she’s grinding – the dosage must be off. See how her hands shake? And the fatigue signs are obvious. You’ll want to adjust the mixture, add more chamomile to balance the—?

  ?How do you know about my wife’s sleeping draught?? The merchant’s voice had gone dangerously quiet. His hand moved toward something under the counter.

  Sera’s healer instincts battled briefly with her survival instincts. ?I just noticed the symptoms, and as a professional—?

  ?Who sent you?? The merchant’s wife had stopped grinding herbs, her expression fearful. ?Was it Lady Blackwood? Are you one of her spies??

  ?What? No! I’m just a healer! I was actually looking for some cultists—? Oh sweet merciful gods why had she said that?

  ?Guards!? the merchant bellowed. ?Guards!?

  ?Run,? Kersher suggested helpfully.

  For once, Sera didn’t argue.

  The guards, it turned out, were surprisingly fast for men wearing enough armor to outfit a small battalion. Sera’s legs burned as they pounded down the street, dodging carts and startled pedestrians. This body wasn’t used to sprinting – her usual exercise routine involved calm walks to gather herbs, not fleeing for her life.

  ?Left!? Kersher commanded. ?No, your other left!?

  ?I know which way left is!?

  ?Then why aren’t you—CART!?

  Sera yelped and dove right, narrowly avoiding a collision with a cabbage vendor’s cart. Their shoulder slammed into a wall, sending jagged pain through their shared nervous system. The impact scattered a family of pigeons who expressed their displeasure by divebombing them with remarkable accuracy.

  ?Okay,? Kersher said as they scrambled up, trying to wipe something distinctly pigeon-like from their sleeve, ?new plan. Let me drive.?

  ?No! Last time you ‘drove’ we killed someone!?

  ?That was different! That was… a job!.?

  ?We’re not killing these guards!?

  ?Who said anything about killing? I just want to not die. Again. You clearly have no idea how to escape pursuit.?

  He had a point. The guards were getting closer, their boots thundering against the cobblestones. But letting him take control… The memory of Castle Carris was still too fresh, the feeling of her body moving without her permission while Kersher efficiently ended a life.

  A guard’s meaty hand nearly grabbed their collar. Sera squeaked.

  ?Fine!? she gasped. ?But no killing!?

  ?Yes, yes, no killing. Now relax and let me—?

  The world shifted as Kersher took control. The change was instant and disorienting – suddenly their body moved differently, smoother, more efficient. He took them down an alley in three quick steps, the movement so fluid it barely disturbed the resident rats. They reached a drainage pipe, and without hesitation he began climbing with the casual ease of someone who’d spent years treating gravity as more of a suggestion.

  ?How are you doing that with my body?? Sera demanded as they rapidly ascended. The pipe creaked ominously, but Kersher’s movements were precise, finding handholds she would never have spotted.

  ?Training and muscle memory. You’d be amazed what the human body can do if you just convince it physics are more like guidelines. Also, your arms are stronger than you think. All that herb grinding builds unexpected muscle.?

  They reached the roof just as the guards rounded the corner below, their curses echoing off the narrow alley walls. Kersher kept them low, moving silent and cat-like across the rooftop. His control of their shared form was frustratingly impressive – even the ends of Sera’s robes seemed to know than to snag on anything.

  ?See?? he said as they reached the far side. ?No killing required. Though it would have been easier if—?

  ?We are not having the killing discussion again.?

  ?Fine, fine. Now, about that merchant…?

  ?What about him?? Sera was more focused on not looking down. They were very high up, and these tiles looked very slippery.

  ?He mentioned something interesting while threatening to have us arrested. Something about Haven’s Rest.?

  Sera frowned. ?The free city? What about it??

  ?Apparently our friendly neighborhood cult has connections there. Quite a few of them, according to his wife’s gossip. Someone named Lady Blackwood seems particularly interested in binding magic research.?

  ?You were listening to gossip while we were running for our lives??

  ?I told you I'm good at what I do. Did. The point is, we have a lead.?

  Sera considered this. Haven’s Rest was several days’ travel away. A free city, outside Imperial control. The kind of place cultists might hide. The kind of place they might find answers about their binding.

  The kind of place where Sera’s complete lack of subtlety and Kersher’s murder-based problem-solving methods might actually cause less trouble than they had here.

  ?We are not killing anyone there either,? she said firmly.

  Kersher’s mental sigh could have felled trees. ?You’re really committed to making this difficult, aren’t you??

  ?You’re the one who got us bound together!?

  ?That was not my fault! I was dead at the time! You were the one they managed to kidnap.?

  ?Well I was happily not sharing my body with anyone, so clearly this is your fault!?

  Their argument was interrupted by distant shouting. The guards had finally thought to look up.

  ?We should go,? Kersher said.

  ?Agreed. But I’m controlling.?

  ?Oh come on! You’ll get us killed!?

  ?It’s my body!?

  ?Which you clearly don’t know how to use properly!?

  They were still arguing as they fled across the rooftops, one body moved by two souls who couldn’t agree on anything except that they had to find answers. Haven’s Rest awaited, promising secrets and sanctuary in equal measure.

  Assuming they didn’t kill each other first.

  really like where this is going.