The store door closed behind them with a timid bell, and for a second too long neither of them moved.

Damon stared at the street, as if deeply interested in the cobblestones. Morgana adjusted the bag of clothes on her arm, then switched sides, then adjusted again. The silence weighed heavily.

“So…” Damon began, without looking at her.

“So…” Morgana replied at the same time.

They stopped.

He cleared his throat.

“I was just going to say that the city is… busy today.”

“It is,” she replied too quickly. “Very… busy.”

Another silence. A couple passed by them laughing, and Damon felt his face heat up for no reason that could be rationally explained.

“Do you usually come here?” Morgana asked.

“To the store?” he replied. “I mean, on the street. Or… in the city. Or—”

“Forget it,” she said, pressing her lips together to hold back a smile.

He took a deep breath.

“I don’t usually… buy lingerie.”

Morgana turned her face away, clearly fighting back laughter.

“I could tell.”

“That wasn’t supposed to… happen.”

“No,” she agreed. “Definitely not.”

They walked a few steps together, perfectly misaligned, almost bumping into each other and moving away too quickly.

“You knocked over half the racks,” she commented.

“It was an accident.”

“You froze the mirror.”

“Reflection,” he defended himself. “Literally.”

She let out a short laugh, which ended up escaping louder than she intended. Damon looked at her, surprised, and that was enough to make him laugh too.

“Did you see the saleswoman’s face?” Morgana said, putting a hand to her forehead.

“I tried not to.”

“She went into the fitting room,” Morgana continued, her voice thick with laughter. “She looked at us. She looked at the floor. She looked at the clothes.”

“And then…”

“And then she smelled it,” Morgana finished, closing her eyes. “I thought she was going to faint.”

“She turned red from ear to ear.”

“And she came out apologizing to us,” Morgana said, laughing harder now. “To us.”

They stopped walking at the same time, their laughter fading until it was just deep breaths.

Damon ran a hand over his face.

“That was a terrible idea.”

“A horrible idea,” Morgana agreed.

They looked at each other for a moment. A second longer than necessary.

They both sighed at the same time.

“That was crazy,” they said together.

There was a brief silence.

Then they started laughing again, this time without trying to hide it, drawing some curious glances from passersby.

“I can’t believe you turned a fitting room into a battlefield,” Morgana said.

“You didn’t help,” Damon replied. “You laughed.”

“I was nervous.”

“You seemed very comfortable.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t be mistaken. I’ll pretend this never happened.”

“Great,” he said too quickly. “Me too.”

Another uncomfortable silence settled in.

“But…” Morgana began.

“But…” Damon echoed.

They stopped again.

She shook her head, smiling slightly.

“That was truly insane.”

“It was,” he agreed. “And it can’t happen again.”

“Of course not.”

They exchanged one last knowing glance, heavy with awkwardness, stifled laughter, and too many unspoken words for a simple shopping trip.

And then they continued walking, a little closer than before, trying to pretend that the chaos in the fitting room was just another irrelevant detail of that day.

Damon cleared his throat, trying to regain some control over his own thought process.

“Maybe…” he began, looking ahead. “Maybe we should eat something before heading back to the mansion.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow.

“Eat?”

“Food,” he quickly reinforced. “Normal. On plates. With cutlery. No fitting rooms involved.”

She laughed, in that low way that always seemed to carry a hidden provocation.

“An excellent attempt to appear functional after… all that.”

“I’m being extremely functional,” Damon retorted. “It’s practically a miracle.”

Morgana pretended to think, lightly tapping the tip of her finger on the bag.

“There’s a tavern around the corner,” she said. “The one with the crooked windows and the constant smell of bread.”

“I know it,” Damon replied. “They make a decent stew. And beer strong enough to erase bad decisions.”

“Dangerous,” she commented, already starting to walk in that direction. “After what just happened, alcohol can be an incentive, not a deterrent.”

“I promise to behave,” he said, following her.

“Did you promise that in the fitting room too?”

“Completely different context.”

The tavern was fuller than it looked from the outside. Warm light, worn wooden tables, voices mingling in a comfortable murmur. The smell of food made Damon’s stomach rumble, betraying him.

Morgana smiled at the sound. “See? You really needed to eat.”

They sat at a table in the corner, too far from the counter for casual conversation, close enough to the fireplace for the warmth to be pleasant.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

It wasn’t the same awkward silence as before. It was… cautious.

“So,” Morgana said finally. “Let’s establish a few things.”

Damon nodded immediately.

“Please.”

“First: that wasn’t planned.”

“I agree.”

“Second: it wasn’t supposed to happen that way.”

“Definitely.”

“Third…” she tilted her head, observing him attentively. “Let’s not pretend it didn’t happen.”

He took a deep breath.

“That sounds less comforting.”

“It’s honest,” she replied.

The tavern keeper approached, interrupting the moment, and they both ordered food almost simultaneously, stumbling over their words and laughing about it afterward.

When they were alone again, Morgana rested her elbow on the table.

“You’re tense,” she commented.

“You say that as if it’s news.”

“No,” she said. “Now it’s different. Before it was desire. Now it’s… expectation.”

Damon frowned.

“That’s worse.”

“A little,” she admitted, smiling. “But it’s also interesting.”

He let out a low laugh.

“You really don’t make things easy.”

“I never promised to make things easy.”

The food arrived, saving them from continuing down that dangerous path. For a few minutes, they just ate, exchanging comments too trivial for those still feeling the echo of the recent chaos.

But, between sips, Damon noticed something strange.

He was… comfortable.

Not on guard. Not tense. Just there.

Morgana watched him over the rim of her glass.

“See?” she said softly. “Food helps.”

“Maybe,” he replied. “Or maybe it’s just the fact that we’re sitting, dressed, and in public.”

She laughed.

“Small victories.”

They toasted without saying anything.

The way back was quieter than the way there.

The city was already beginning to change its rhythm, the murmur gradually diminishing, the shadows lengthening between the stone buildings. Damon walked beside Morgana, too attentive to the sound of his own footsteps.

Then the feeling returned.

Subtle at first. A shiver down his neck. An invisible weight in the air.

He frowned, without slowing his pace.

He glanced sideways at Morgana.

She walked normally, her expression relaxed, the bag swaying slightly at her side. No warning signs. No tension.

That only made things worse.

Damon took a deep breath, trying to rationalize. Maybe paranoia. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe the excess residual energy after the… recent chaos.

But the feeling didn’t lessen.

On the contrary.

Each step seemed to echo too much. Each corner seemed to hide something that wasn’t there seconds before.

He turned his head quickly, staring at the street behind them.

Nothing.

He kept going.

Two steps later, the shiver reached its peak. It wasn’t fear. It was recognition.

Someone was there.

Without warning, Damon grabbed Morgana’s wrist and pulled her forcefully to the side of the street.

“What—”

He didn’t answer.

He pushed her into a narrow alley, pressing her against the cold stone wall. Before she could protest again, the air around them condensed, the cold rising too quickly to be natural. Damon’s hand moved in a precise gesture.

Ice formed almost instantly, shimmering blue lines before solidifying into a long, elegant blade. He placed it in Morgana’s hand without ceremony.

An ice sword.

Solid. Lethal.

She looked at the weapon, then at him, her eyes wide.

“Damon, what’s happening?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

His other hand was already working, drawing energy from the environment, compressing it until the air crackled. The ice stretched, lengthening into a spear, the sharp point reflecting the little light that entered the alley.

He swung the weapon once, testing its weight.

“We have company,” he said softly.

Morgana felt her stomach clench.

“Company as in…”

“As in we haven’t been alone since the tavern.”

She gripped the sword’s hilt, feeling the cold pass through her palm, strangely comfortable.

“Why didn’t I feel anything?”

“Because they’re good,” Damon replied. “Or because they’re focused on me.”

He took a step forward, positioning himself slightly in front of her, his body on full alert.

The silence of the alley grew heavy.

Then, a sound.

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Coming from the entrance.

One silhouette emerged first, then another. Hoods pulled forward, faces hidden in the shadows. The air around them felt… wrong. Dense. Ancient.

“I knew you weren’t just a bored nobleman,” said a male voice, hoarse, laden with disdain. “Too clean energy. Too strong.”

Damon narrowed his eyes.

“How long have you been following me?”

“Since the shop,” replied another voice, lower. “It was… difficult to ignore the trail.”

Morgana felt a tightness in her chest.

“So it’s because of me,” she murmured.

“Partly,” Damon replied without looking at her. “But not only.”

The first figure took another step forward, the cold reacting to his presence.

“We’re looking for something that was taken from us,” he said. “A succubus.”

Morgana’s grip on the sword tightened.

“You arrived late,” she said, her voice too firm for someone still trying to understand the situation.

A low laugh echoed.

“Perhaps,” the man replied. “But we found something interesting along the way.”

He tilted his head slightly toward Damon.

“An incubus… hidden in a mansion that shouldn’t house that sort of thing.”

Damon smiled slightly.

“You really chose the wrong alley.”

The tension crackled in the air.

One of the assassins moved too fast for an ordinary human, appearing on the left. Damon reacted instinctively, the ice spear flying from his hand and embedding itself in the wall inches from its target.

“Now,” Damon said quietly. “Stay behind me.”

“No way,” Morgana replied, taking a step forward. “I’m not a problem you can solve on your own.”

He glanced at her, surprised.

She raised her ice sword, her posture firm, her eyes focused.

“You said we wouldn’t pretend things weren’t happening,” she continued. “So don’t pretend I’m not here.”

Damon took a deep breath.

Then nodded.

“Don’t back down.”

“I promise nothing.”

The assassins’ laughter echoed through the alley.

“This will be interesting,” one of them said. “Very interesting.”

The ice creaked under the pressure of Damon’s energy.

And, for the first time that night, the chaos didn’t seem like an accident.

It seemed inevitable.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep