Until she looked down at Piers.
Her expression... shifted.
Something flickered across her face—surprise, followed by what could only be described as baby fever hitting her like a truck.
Her eyes went soft. Her mouth parted slightly. A faint blush crept across her cheeks.
Piers watched this transformation with clinical detachment.
The knight seemed to realize what was happening to her and immediately tried to reassert control. Her jaw clenched. Her posture straightened. The blush deepened, but now it was clearly from embarrassment rather than simple reaction.
"I—" she started, her voice rougher than before. "That is—"
She cleared her throat forcefully.
"This child appears to be alone," she said, addressing the shopkeeper but very carefully not looking at Piers. "Has anyone come looking for him?"
"No one," the shopkeeper confirmed.
"I see."
The knight's internal struggle was visible on her face. Piers could practically see the war happening behind her eyes:
Must. Protect. Small. Cute. Thing.
You are a KNIGHT. You have DIGNITY. You do not succumb to—
But look at his little face and his little hands and his—
STOP IT.
Piers decided to experiment.
He turned his body fully toward her, shifting on the counter. Picked up one book from the pile and held it carefully with both small hands in his lap—like a treasured possession.
Then he looked directly at her.
And deployed the flat stare.
The knight made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a cough.
"Don't," she muttered, seemingly to herself. "Don't do this. You're a professional. You've faced down wyverns. You've—"
Piers blinked slowly.
The knight's knees actually buckled slightly.
"Oh for the love of—"
The door burst open again with enough force to make the bell above it ring frantically.
"VALE! VALE, I SENSED SOMETHING ADORABLE AND— oh."
The newcomer was a catfolk—a young woman with soft orange fur, pointed cat ears that swiveled toward Piers immediately, and a long tail that began swishing with increasing speed.
She was shorter than the knight—probably five and a half feet—wearing loose, comfortable clothes that allowed for easy movement. Her golden eyes went wide as they landed on Piers.
"Ohhhhh," she breathed. "Oh no. Vale. Vale. There's a baby."
"I can see that, Millie," the knight—Vale—said through gritted teeth.
"A very small baby."
"Yes."
"An unattended baby."
"Apparently."
"Can we keep him?"
"No."
But Millie was already moving. She crossed the shop in three long strides and immediately began nuzzling Piers' head, rubbing her cheek against his hair while making a rumbling sound that was probably the catfolk equivalent of a purr.
"AWWW... So soft," she murmured. "So small. Look at his little ears. His little nose. His little—"
Piers felt something he hadn't felt in a very long time.
Annoyance.
Genuine, actual annoyance.
Not the distant observation of something being suboptimal. OR the clinical assessment of an inefficient situation.
Real irritation at being rubbed on by a stranger.
[NULL SYSTEM ALERT]
[EMOTIONAL RESPONSE DETECTED: IRRITATION]
[VOID CORRUPTION: 47.5% → 47%]
[ANALYSIS: GENUINE EMOTION REDUCES CORRUPTION]
[RECOMMENDATION: FURTHER INVESTIGATION REQUIRED]
Piers processed this information in the background of his thoughts while dealing with the more immediate problem of the catfolk woman who was now attempting to pick him up.
He put both hands on her face and pushed.
"Mmmph!" Millie's voice was muffled by his palms.
He pushed harder.
She pulled back slightly, blinking in surprise. "Did you just—"
Piers pushed her face again.
"He's rejecting me," Millie said, sounding genuinely shocked. "Children never reject me. I'm very good with children."
"Perhaps because you immediately start treating them like pets," Vale observed dryly, having apparently regained some of her composure.
"I do not— okay, maybe a little, but it's affectionate!"
Piers glared up at Millie—hands still pressed against her face, keeping her at arm's length.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
She stared at him. Then her tail started swishing faster. "He's grumpy. That makes him even cuter!"
"Please stop," Vale said.
"Can't. Must nuzzle."
"Milliana—"
But the catfolk had already resumed rubbing against Piers, who had now graduated from annoyed to actively planning escape routes.
Vale sighed and turned to the shopkeeper. "How long has he been here?"
"Just a few minutes. Came in alone, went straight to the books." The shopkeeper gestured at the pile on the counter. "Tried to get me to give them to him for free using... well, I'm not sure what strategy that was, but it almost worked."
Vale looked at the stack of books. Then at Piers. Then at the books again.
"That's quite a selection for a child his age."
"He picked them very deliberately," the shopkeeper said. "Didn't even look at the children's section."
Vale leaned down to Piers' eye level, carefully maintaining enough distance that her knight's pride wouldn't be compromised by proximity to something extremely cute.
"Where are your parents little one?" she asked gently.
Piers looked at her and said nothing.
"Are you lost?"
Nothing.
"Can you tell me your name?"
Silence.
Vale's expression softened despite herself. "You're not making this easy, are you?"
Piers maintained eye contact but offered no response.
Behind him, Milliana had finally stopped nuzzling and was now attempting to braid his hair—which was both too short and too fine for braiding, but that wasn't stopping her from trying.
Vale straightened up and addressed the shopkeeper. "No one has come looking for him?"
"Not yet."
"Then we should probably—"
"We're keeping him!" Milliana announced.
"We are not keeping him," Vale said firmly. "We're going to find his parents and return him safely."
"But what if he doesn't have parents?"
"Everyone has parents, Milliana."
"What if they're terrible parents and he ran away?"
"He's approximately three years old."
"Precocious three."
Vale pinched the bridge of her nose. "We'll take him to the plaza. Someone will be looking for him. In the meantime—" she gestured at the pile of books "—I'll purchase these."
"Consider it a good deed. A child this serious about books deserves them."
The shopkeeper looked relieved. "That'll be fifteen silver gennies."
Vale produced a coin purse and counted out the payment while Milliana gathered the books into her arms.
"Right," Vale said, pocketing her change. "Let's go find your family, little one."
She reached down to pick up Piers.
He allowed it.
Not because he trusted her—trust was an emotion he could no longer access properly—but because the situation seemed optimal for his current goals. She'd bought him books. She was taking him outside. And most importantly, continuing to push away Milliana was becoming tiresome.