Zayn cracked his neck, then his knuckles, and then every other joint that would make a sound.
His back gave a satisfying pop that made him sigh like a man three decades older.
"Remind me again," he muttered, "how the hell did I agree to this?"
The answer stood ten paces away, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his glasses like a martial arts instructor at a dojo he didn't want to be at.
Tobias. Calm, calculating, and unfortunately — dead serious.
They were in the inn's backyard.
Morning mist still clung to the grass, and birds chirped happily overhead, utterly ignorant of the testosterone brewing below.
Tobias adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. His plain shirt and pants gave off no combat-ready aura, but Zayn knew better.
Underneath that nerdy composure was a fighter who didn't blink while dodging swings or casting spells in the middle of enemy barrages.
