Another elf near the front leaned toward their leader and whispered something in Elvish, and I caught the word moonblood and hidden kin. Oh great. They were probably trying to figure out what kind of elf I was. Again.

  “She’s with me,” Lyra said firmly, her voice gaining that proud edge she rarely let out. “She helped me do a low level quest, so she’s my party member, even though she’s not an adventurer.”

  I blinked at her. “…That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” she muttered.

  Too te. It was already carved into the Hall of Glory in my mental rhythm game menu.

  Achievement Unlocked: Lyra Said Something Nice!Bonus reward: Warm fuzzy feelings +2. Cool party synergy +5. Defense against existential loneliness +10.

  Confetti cannons went off in my brain, complete with a rainbow-colored butterfly tapping a beat on a taiko drum while an invisible announcer shouted “FULL COMBO!” in the distance.

  The elves at the other tables still looked confused, some murmuring behind elegant wooden menus, others sneaking gnces at my cloak-draped figure. But at least none of them were reaching for their weapons. That was progress.

  I opened my mouth, ready to clear things up. Look, I didn’t want to be rude to the elf rescue squad, but someone had to say it, I was not an elf. Rhythm gamer, maybe. Graveyard gdiator, absolutely. Secret moonblood descendant from the lost silverwood tribe? Not unless they had tails.

  “Um, actually,” I started, reaching for the csp of my cloak. “Funny story, I’m not exactly what you think I—”

  But I got no further. Before I could even get halfway into my dramatic reveal, Lyra lunged across the table, her hand quick as lightning. She tugged the edge of my dark cloak up over my head and ears, muffling my words and shrouding me once again in mysterious anonymity.

  “Don’t,” she said under her breath, voice low and urgent. “Just… don’t.”

  I blinked from under the folds of fabric. “But I was gonna show them—”

  “They don’t need to know,” she interrupted, adjusting the cloak like a mom fixing a costume on a kid who was about to break character at a school py. “Right now, they think you’re some sort of hidden elf, moon-touched or whatever, and frankly, that’s buying us both more goodwill than you fshing your ears and saying ‘actually, I’m a fox’ ever would.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Ears stay tucked.”

  I slouched in my chair, sighing under the weight of the cloak, the warm lighting of the restaurant now dimmed to a filtered amber through the fabric. The wool was itchy against my cheeks, but I didn’t fight it. Lyra wasn’t often this serious unless she knew something I didn’t, and considering this was her people, I figured maybe she understood the stakes better than I did. Still, it felt weird to hide it.

  The elves, meanwhile, exchanged more looks, some respectful, some mystified, one or two slightly dramatic. A few of them murmured something in Elvish again, probably trying to decide if I was royalty, a sacred wanderer, or the second coming of some long-lost forest spirit. One even looked like he was about to cry.

  “…Are we lying to the elves?” I whispered from beneath the hood.

  “Not lying,” Lyra said smoothly. “We’re selectively mythologizing.”

  “…You scare me sometimes.”

  “Good.”

  The leader of the elf group, tall, graceful, with vine-woven armor even while dining and hair like cascading birch bark rose from her seat at the head of the table and stepped toward me. Her steps were soundless on the polished wooden floor, and her eyes held a reverence that made me want to crawl under the table and hide. She stopped beside me, studying the darkness of my hood with a look that felt like she was peering through yers of time.

  “You carry the scent of moonlight,” she said in Elvish, which I understood just well enough to mentally transte as some deeply poetic misunderstanding. “It is faint… but ancient. A hidden kin, perhaps. One who walks the in-between paths.”

  Under my hood, I winced. I walked the path of a fox girl with rhythm gaming habits and an emotional support butterfly, not some interdimensional leaf whisperer. But I could practically feel Lyra’s presence beside me, tense and unyielding like a wall of arrows waiting for a reason to fire. Her hand brushed mine for a second, lightly, a signal. Don’t ruin this.

  So I bowed my head a little and said nothing. Just let the cloak drape, let the mystery do the talking. Rhythm gamer: silent mode activated.

  The younger elf from earlier, he of the curious eyes and questionable mustache stepped closer again. “Then… we welcome you as kin, friend of Lyra. May the silver branches guide your journey.” He reached into a pouch and handed me a small carved token, shaped like a leaf etched with swirling lines.

  Lyra whispered, “Take it.”

  I did. It felt warm in my palm, like it had been carved from a living tree. Or maybe just carried close to the heart.

  “We will take you both to the forest,” the leader said at st. “There are those who wish to see Lyra’s return. And… to meet the moonblood.” Her eyes twinkled slightly at the st word, as if she wasn’t quite convinced either, but was willing to py along.

  “Right,” I muttered with as much sarcasm as I could wrap in fake humility. “Moonblood. Yep. Cssic me.”

  Lyra nudged me hard in the ribs, her elbow sharp and full of unspoken judgment. “Don’t get cocky,” she hissed.

  “How can I not get cocky?” I whispered back, a grin creeping across my face. “I’m literally being mistaken for a mythical figure of elven legend. That’s like… fantasy street cred.” My voice dropped a little as I imagined the nonexistent fantasy leaderboard shifting to put my name at the top: Mashiro – Moonblood Fox-Elf Who Cleanses Graveyards and Has Good Hair.

  Still, despite the temptation, I didn’t pull the hood back. Not yet. My fingers twitched near the csp, but I kept them still. Lyra was watching me like a hawk, and somewhere deep down, I knew she was right. This was one of those “py along or ruin everything” moments, and I wasn’t quite ready to derail the elf train just yet.

  But I was ready to test the waters.

  “Excuse me,” I said, raising a hand with a polite little wave. “But I don’t really want to… you know, follow anyone. I’m, uh… sightseeing. I’m on a very sacred journey of looking at things. You know how it is. Trees. Rocks. Foresty stuff.”

  The leader tilted her head at my protest, her sleek silver braids swaying like the strings of a harp caught in a gentle breeze. Her expression remained calm, but there was an unmistakable glint of amusement in her eyes, like she was used to dealing with dramatic woodnd spirits and was just waiting for the part where I gave up and came quietly.

  The leader tilted her head, her sleek silver braids catching the nternlight like dancing threads. Her calm expression didn’t change, but there was definitely a spark of humor behind her eyes. Across the room, a younger elf barely stifled a ugh. Another whispered something that transted roughly to, moonbloods are weirder than I thought.

  Lyra closed her eyes briefly, likely calcuting whether it was worth it to strangle me now or wait until we were deep enough in the woods for no one to hear my screams.

  “Sightseeing,” the leader repeated ftly.

  “Cultural enrichment,” I added with a hopeful smile. “Very important.”

  The elven leader tilted her head slightly, her long, pale hair catching the sunlight in strands of silver silk. There was no accusation in her tone, only an unwavering calm, as if her words were as much part of nature as the breeze rustling through the trees. “You don’t wish to return with us?” she asked, her voice serene but undeniably firm. “The forest will welcome you both. You are not a prisoner, moonblood… but our seers have spoken of one cloaked in shadow and light. Of one who walks between roots and stars. They believed it was a sign.”

  My shoulders tensed a little. That was… poetic. Overly so. The kind of thing that sounds beautiful until you realize someone has basically built an entire prophecy around your fashion sense. Shadow and light? That was just my cloak and my white hair with a tint of pink. Walking between roots and stars? I tripped over a flower root just st week and had to fight it. Was that now part of some elven scripture?

  Before I could reply with something appropriately vague and polite, Lyra suddenly stepped forward, her hand lifting in a halting gesture. “Ahahaha… she’s a weird elf,” she said quickly, her tone breezy but forced. “She probably just wants to be left alone. You know, mysterious types. Doesn’t talk much, always brooding, prefers snacks over people.”

  Several of the nearby elves blinked, clearly unsure how to take that. One of them looked at me with something that might have been sympathy. Another one gave a small, understanding nod, like yes, I too am a snack-preferring introvert.