Rykarion walked through the arching wooden doors of the Jade Petal Inn, letting the scent of incense and hot food wash over him. The air inside was warm, filled with the low hum of conversation and the faint notes of a flute playing somewhere upstairs.
It was quieter than the main street—just the way he liked it.
He scanned the room.
Polished floors. Silk curtains. Lanterns glowing softly in pale gold. It wasn't luxurious, but it had class. The kind of place that catered to traveling cultivators who wanted to stay out of trouble, but had enough coin not to live like mortals.
Then his eyes landed on the front desk.
And stopped.
Behind the counter stood a young woman—early twenties at most. Slender but curvy, with long dark hair that spilled over one shoulder like a silk river. Her eyes were a deep crimson, playful and sharp, like someone who knew how to smile and bite at the same time. Her outfit was just shy of scandalous—tight at the waist, low at the chest, sleeves sheer with embroidered lotus patterns. A beauty, no question.
She leaned forward slightly when she saw him, elbow on the counter, chin resting on her palm.
Rykarion gave a low whistle and grinned, sharp and unfiltered.
"Well damn… and here I thought dragons only liked treasure."
The girl chuckled softly.
"And here I thought rogues like you didn't know how to talk."
"Depends on who I'm talking to."
She tilted her head, lips curling into a smirk.
"Well, you're talking to Meyra. I manage this place. And I don't give out rooms to guys who don't tell me their names."
"Fair," he said, stepping closer, arms resting lazily against the counter. His golden eyes didn't hide where they were looking. "Name's Rykarion."
She raised a brow. "Rykarion? Sounds like a name carved out of old stone."
"Maybe I am."
"Old stone?" she teased.
"No," he said with a crooked smile. "Ancient fire."
She laughed then. Full, throaty. The kind of laugh that made her whole body move just slightly.
"You're trouble."
Rykarion leaned in, voice dropping low.
"I'm worse when I'm bored."
They locked eyes.
And for a brief second, her breath actually hitched.
She cleared her throat, pulling out a ledger with a light flick of her wrist, but her cheeks had just the faintest tint of red.
"Room on the second floor. End of the hall. Quietest one we've got."
"Perfect."
She slid the key across the counter.
His fingers brushed hers.
Neither pulled away.
Then Meyra smirked again. "If you get bored up there… come back down."
He met her gaze. "I plan to."
And with that, he turned and walked toward the stairs, the golden light of his aura trailing like heat in the room behind him.
Meyra watched him go, fingers still resting on the desk.
"…That one's dangerous," she whispered to herself.
Then smiled.
"But damn, he's my kind of dangerous."
Rykarion smirked.
He'd heard her.
"If you get bored up there… come back down."
The words danced in his head. Smooth. Teasing. Like silk brushing against skin.
He glanced over his shoulder just once as he climbed the stairs.
Meyra was still at the counter.
Still smiling.
Still watching.
His smirk widened.
Bold girl.
Wild thoughts spun through his mind—quick, vivid, heated. Her pinned against the wall, lips parted in surprise. That low-cut bodice slipping loose, her breath hitching. His hands on her waist. Her back arching against the inn's polished stone walls.
He shook the thought off before it ran too far—but not because he didn't want it.
Because he wanted it too much.
He reached the second floor.
The hallway was dim, quiet, lit by lanterns swaying gently in the breeze that snuck through the woodwork. The room she gave him sat at the very end, just as promised.
He opened the door and stepped in.
Simple. Clean. Big enough for a cultivator to meditate or spar in. There was a single bed—plush, layered with dark sheets—and a small round table beside the window, which framed the rooftops of Moonveil City in golden dusk.
Rykarion dropped his pack on the floor.
Then walked to the window.
He didn't sit.
Didn't rest.
He just leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded.
And the image of her came back again.
Not just the curves or the way she leaned across the desk.
But the fire in her eyes.
The smirk like she already knew he was trouble… and liked it.
He laughed under his breath.
"…Meyra, huh?"
His fingers traced the wooden frame beside him.
"Let's see who ends up more bored by the end of tonight."
Meanwhile… back at the counter.
Meyra's playful smile faded the moment the front doors creaked open again.
Her eyes sharpened. Her body straightened slightly behind the desk. Instinct.
Trouble had just walked in.
And it wore rich dark robes with a silver trim, the crest of Silverthorn Sect embroidered proudly on the chest. His hair was tied into a high tail, neat and sharp like he practiced his reflection more than his swordsmanship. Behind him trailed two disciples like shadows.
Xuan Feng.
Young master. Son of Sect Master Xuan Lie.
Arrogant.
Entitled.
And the type who thought gold could buy silence—and loyalty.
Meyra didn't bow. She barely blinked.
She folded her arms and leaned lazily on the counter, expression unreadable.
"If it isn't Young Master Xuan Feng," she said dryly. "To what do I owe this honor? Thought you stopped slumming it with the rest of us."
Xuan Feng walked in like he owned the floor.
He didn't return the smile. Didn't even bother to pretend.
"I'm looking for someone."
"Are you," she said, tone flat.
His eyes didn't leave hers.
"A man," he said. "About my age. Silver hair. Long. Carries himself like a prince but dresses like a rogue. Walked into the city alone. You'd remember him."
Meyra didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
But a flicker of heat curled behind her ribs.
She tilted her head. "You don't know his name?"
Xuan Feng's jaw clenched. "No."
"You follow him here?"
"Just answer the damn question."
Meyra chuckled softly and shook her head, turning her back to him as she started wiping a cup with a clean cloth.
"I don't tell people who checks in and who doesn't. Especially not when they come in acting like they own the place."
Xuan Feng's hand slammed onto the counter.
The sound echoed.
His two followers tensed behind him.
Meyra didn't even flinch. She placed the cup down calmly and turned, meeting his stare dead-on.
"Careful," she said quietly. "This isn't your father's sect hall. You're not the loudest name here."
Xuan Feng's eyes narrowed. "So he was here."
Meyra raised a brow, amused. "I didn't say that."
He leaned forward. "You're protecting him?"
"I'm protecting my business," she said. "You want to act like a young master, do it outside. Not behind my counter."
A silence stretched between them.
Heavy. Charged.
Finally, Xuan Feng stepped back. His fingers twitched once before he turned.
"You think I'm scared of him?" he muttered.
Meyra smiled sweetly.
"No. I think you should be."
He scowled, but didn't say anything else.
Just turned and walked out—his disciples trailing close, throwing one last glare over their shoulders before the door shut behind them.
Meyra exhaled softly. Her fingers tapped the counter.
"…Looks like tonight really is going to be interesting," she murmured.
Then she glanced up the stairs, toward the room at the end of the hall.
And smiled again—this time not playful… but sharp.