Bogran counted two handfuls of glittering gold dust, placing it on Grimstrong's scarred table. "For the intel, old friend. And for the existential dread you unknowingly provided." One was the usual fee, but Bogran wanted to make sure to pay Grimstrong for the Sky Citadel intel he'd imbued on an earlier loop, which only Bogran remembered. He wondered whether Grimstrong thought him an incredible tipper, or suspected.
Grimstrong chuckled, pocketing the payment with a grunt. "Thanks for the extra. Dread is the currency of this city, wizard. Best take what you can get." He squinted at Bogran, noting the way his nostrils twitched even as he spoke. "You best use that time wisely. Those boogers ain't gonna drain themselves."
Anya stepped closer, her lavender scent a balm against the tavern's smoky haze. "Come on, let's lay low and find some semblance of rest before you turn into a human snot-statue," she said, squeezing his arm reassuringly. "Two bunks upstairs should do us for the night."
They secured their cramped quarters, a dimly lit alcove crammed with mismatched bunk beds and smelling faintly of stale ale and desperation. The tavern thrummed with activity downstairs, the usual cacophony muted by the exhaustion clinging to everyone after the night's chaos. Bogran collapsed onto his bunk, and Anya in the one beside him.
"We did it," she whispered, "we actually made it." The city outside their window had fallen quiet, the sky no longer ablaze with unnatural light. A fragile peace settled over New Firenze. If the city could only last until the next morning, Bogran could lock in a final loop with the dawning sun. The two closed their eyes.
Sunrise painted the grimy windows a pale orange as Bogran stirred awake. He sat up, walked to the window, and gazed out at the cityscape. Anya blinked her eyes blearily awake, staggered to her feet, and joined him. Smoke billowed from the Sky Citadel, tendrils of violet fire dancing against the sickly dawn light. But the city below seemed intact.
"It worked," Bogran breathed, relief washing over him like a wave. The Trashborn assault had succeeded in disrupting the Shepherd's plans and allowing Anya's escape without obliterating the city. A flicker of triumph warmed his chest, but it was quickly eclipsed by an urgency that pressed down on him like a physical weight.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
"Lock it in," Anya whispered, her hand finding his.
They lay down together in a bunk. Long experience had taught them that to set a time loop start point standing up was to invite a painful faceplant on an unexpected loop restart, and safely lying down was the only way to avoid concussions. Anya placed her hand close to his nostril. Bogran felt a jolt of energy as her blood magic linked once more to his loop.
Bogran lifted his silver ring to his nose. Focusing his will, he directed a beam of shimmering energy from it into his nostrils. A searing sensation ripped through him as the excess boogers within his sinuses dissolved, leaving behind a single, solitary remnant. One final booger. One past, locked in, amidst the fractured array of possible loop timelines. From this moment, the past was set in stone, and future loops would begin.
Anya's nose, too, depressurized. Free of their snot-goblins, the two shared a long, languid kiss.
A thrown pillow hit the back of Bogran's head. "Quiet down, you lovebirds!" A gruff voice barked from the next bunk. "Find yourselves a private room if you're going to get frisky. Some of us are still sleeping."
Bogran and Anya sheepishly disentangled themselves, flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and affection. Downstairs, they shared breakfast with the tavern keeper, a burly dwarf named Borak, whose eyes glinted with amusement as he told a tale of surviving another night in New Firenze.
"Heard tell of a right ruckus last night," Borak rumbled, wiping a stray sausage crumb from his beard. "Trashborn swarmed the Citadel like angry wasps. Some say they even tried to crack open that old Groundborn fortress down by the Veins—the one with the Heart of the City." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Crazy fools, thinking they can steal magic from under the Skyborn's noses."
Bogran turned to Anya, their eyes meeting across the table. "Hero or Zero?" he asked, using their private code for the ultimate decision–stay and fix things, or walk away and start anew. He knew her answer already.
She met his gaze, her expression resolute. "Zero," she replied, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Besides, if I stay here, I'll probably end up kidnapped again, destined to open another portal for some power-hungry lunatic. You don't have enough loops to unscramble this city's mess."
They finished their meal, paid Borak with a generous tip of gold dust (a small fortune he eyed greedily), and slipped out into the bustling morning market, disguising themselves in worn cloaks and simple clothing. A short walk later, they were speeding away from the chaotic metropolis in a rented conveyance, headed away from the city, towards a zeppelin terminal. The tranquil countryside of the Russian Far East, where Anya's family resided, awaited them after a long flight from the chaos they would leave behind.
