Page 12 of A Match Made in Slumber

“Abduction charges, yes. Or do you mean to tell me that you travelled here voluntarily?”

Kill’em’s military integrity clearly prevented him from confirming such an outright lie. “No charges,” he gritted out.

“Very well. It doesn’t really change much anyway.” Cholerius snapped the ledger closed, casting me a look that made my teeth ache. “I am not going to lie to you, Elian. You’ve got yourself in quite a pickle this time. The standard protocol for an infraction of this scale requires an immediate stall shutdown, your subsequent arrest for public endangerment and the immediate detainment of your, well… hostage until his extra-planar identity can be formally verified by the Council.”

“‘Hostage’?” I croaked, stupefied by this turn of events.

Kill’em’s hand moved towards his hip, fingers curling around the empty air, where his sabre should have been. For the fact that it wasn’t, I sent the goddess a quick dozen thank-yous. “What bloody nonsense is this?”

Before Kill’em resorted to finding his weapon to terminate everyone in sight—and before I could collapse into a full panic attack—a calm, warm presence stepped up from the back of the stall.

“Please. Let me handle this,” Fern muttered to Kill’em.

Unintimidated by Cholerius’ dress of office, his ledger and stylus or the assorted threats of arrest floating in the air, Fern stepped right into his prickly personal space radiating unshakeable ease.

The High Arbiter widened his gaze.

“Cholerius, let’s be reasonable about this,” Fern said softly, his voice gentle and coaxing. “Take a breath before quoting the penal codes to high heaven, all right?”

He extended a steaming earthenware mug, along with a reassuring smile, towards the enforcer, ignoring his stiff demeanour. As he handed over the drink, Fern’s fingers first brushed Cholerius’s sleeve and then straightened the front of his golden silks with a lingering touch.

My jaw went slack.

“Elian is an upstanding citizen and an award-winning alchemist,” Fern continued, keeping his tone even and smooth. “He isn’t going to run away, nor is he a threat to anyone. Well, apart from himself, sometimes, perhaps.” Fern gave a little snort. “But there’s no need for such punitive solutions right now. Why don’t we all take a step back, eh? How about we wait till tomorrow, giving Elian a fair chance to secure legal counsel and present the Council with a thorough explanation. Huh?”

Fern leaned in just a fraction closer. “You look completely exhausted, Chol. I sense your blood sugar crashing. Drink some of this sweetened chamomile and vanilla-bark brew. It’s perfectly legal, I assure you.”

Cholerius blinked, completely derailed. He looked down at the steaming mug, then up at Fern’s kind, genuine face. His features unfrosted a touch and he took a sip. Then another.

“Well…” Cholerius muttered, clearing his throat and averting his eyes, suddenly flustered by Fern’s intense gaze and proximity. “Very well. I suppose… given the highly unusual circumstances, we could allow a brief administrative grace period. But tomorrow, I expect all the relevant reports on my desk before the first bell.”

“Of course, of course.” Fern nodded. “You’ll have it all on time. I give you my word.”

Cholerius drained his tea then thrust the mug back into Fern’s hands. After treating me to one final, cold glare, he snapped, “Do try not to set the market on fire.” Then he strutted off, his wide golden sleeves fluttering behind him like a pair of angry little wings.

I didn’t have the faintest idea what had just transpired, and I felt too tired to analyse it. I only took comfort in the fact that Kill’em and I wouldn’t be spending the night in the dungeons, courtesy of the Council.

Things Get A Tiny Bit More Out Of Hand

Timeline: Fifteen hours after the opening of the Great Midsummer Market.

Elian

Trading wrapped up by early afternoon. I’d been forced to pack up simply because Kill’em had cleared every single piece of my inventory. He’d even flogged the silk ribbon talismans—and at full price, too. The concept of a discount eluded him; my suggestion of one had earned me one of his are-you-insane looks.

Word of a handsome, otherworldly warrior with magnificent shoulders vending matchsticks from my stall had spread through the market and adjacent villages like wildfire, drawing every nosey bugger within walking distance. The rumours had morphed at breakneck speed into the absurd. As Settie had informed me, giggling and blushing all the while, the whispers now claimed I’d summoned a deadly assassin from another plane because no local could satisfy my more… carnal urges. Kill’em didn't offer a word of commentary on the matter, but the smirk that appeared on his face suggested he didn’t feel offended by the implication.

As the early evening settled in, we were holed up in my cottage trying to find a solution. Despite hammering away at it for hours, we’d hit a complete standstill. I couldn’t believe the situation had devolved into such a total, utter clusterfuck. All because I’d wanted some shuteye.

My house, small but cosy and comfortable, featured wooden beams, mismatched velvet armchairs and shelves crammed with whimsical, magical trinkets that occasionally lit up or whistled. It was also, of course, on the opposite end of the spectrum from tidy.

Right now, however, the hive of activity centred on the kitchen. We crowded around my large wooden table, its surface buried beneath an avalanche of heavy volumes, sprawling scrolls, half-empty carafes and ceramic mugs. Not a single sliver of timber remained exposed.

The drink selection, a testament to our collective stress, consisted of cherry wine, cider, pomegramon liquor and mead. The mead had turned out to be Kill’em’s drink of choice. Since I had dragged the poor man across dimensions, I figured the least I could do was cater to his specific tastes. I’d gone down to the cellar to break out my best bottle—the one I’d been saving for a special occasion. If having an interdimensional warlord sitting in your kitchen didn't call for the good stuff, I didn't know what did.

I stuck to snow-syrup tea. Fern had banned me from touching alcohol after my week-long binge on tempest-root. I comforted myself by adding a double amount of cinnamon swizzle sticks to the mug. The brew was on the candied side, but like most magic-producing elves, I craved vast amounts of sugar the moment the sun went down.

We’d already inhaled a massive dinner ordered from The Bold Trader, an inn just off the market square. Despite the underlying sense of foreboding in the room, our appetites had remained intact. The volume of roasted meats Kill’em could devour in a single sitting defied belief, though I supposed his towering stature and having tumbled between realms entitled a man to a few extra servings.