The night settled over Delwig like a tired sigh.
The streets were quieter now—only the humming sounds of mana lamps and the distant chatter of patrols and their footsteps echoed through the corridors as Damien, Arielle, and Lyone walked toward their assigned quarters.
The tension from the earlier debrief still clung to them, heavy and unspoken, but exhaustion dulled its edge.
The mont Arielle stepped inside, she exhaled, shoulders slumping. "Finally," she muttered, pulling the pins from her hair. "I can’t feel my legs."
Lyone dropped his pack with a grunt and stretched, the joints in his arms popping audibly. "I can’t feel anything except hunger. Please tell we have food."
Damien closed the door behind them, letting his mana sense ripple through the air—habit more than need. The quiet hum of the city’s barrier pulsed distantly beyond the walls, reassuringly stable. Nothing felt off. For now.
He turned back to see Arielle tugging at her boots while Lyone rummaged half-heartedly through the cupboards. They moved like soldiers who’d spent too long pretending to be normal people.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just heavy. Familiar.
Then Arielle broke it.
"Do you think we did the right thing?" she asked quietly, not looking at him. "Hiding the Gate from the general?"
Damien froze mid-motion, halfway through removing his cloak. For a mont, the flicker of candlelight caught his face, cutting across his eyes in sharp amber lines.
"Yes," he said at last. His tone was steady, but sothing beneath it wavered. "If we’d told him now, we’d lose control of what happens next."
Lyone frowned, glancing between them. "You think they’d... cover it up?"
Damien shook his head slowly. "No. But they’d act without knowing what they’re dealing with. And once word spreads, that thing—whatever it is—it won’t stay contained."
He didn’t sound confident, not really. Just... resolved.
Arielle watched him, the hint of guilt still softening her expression. "You really think it’s that dangerous?"
He hesitated. His gaze drifted toward the wall—though she knew he wasn’t seeing it.
"I don’t know," he admitted finally. "But when I touched the barrier, it felt like sothing was... awake down there. Sothing old."
Neither of them responded. The faint hum of the city outside filled the silence, and the air between them thickened with quiet unease.
Lyone’s stomach broke the silence with a loud, unmistakable growl.
Arielle blinked, then burst out laughing. "We’ve been fighting all day and you didn’t think to bring supplies?"
Lyone threw a cushion at her. "You were the one who said you’d handle provisions!"
Damien, leaning against the counter, smirked. "You two can argue about that after we eat."
They both turned toward him in unison.
"What?" he asked warily.
"You’re cooking," Arielle said flatly.
He blinked. "Excuse ?"
"You said you could handle anything," she said, leaning back with a grin. "Let’s see it."
Lyone folded his arms, nodding in solemn agreent.
Damien groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But if you die, that’s on you."
The kitchen looked like it hadn’t been used in weeks—dusty shelves, an old pot, a few bundles of root vegetables and dried at.
Damien stared at the ingredients with the sa expression he used for enemy ambushes: tense, calculating, mildly murderous.
He muttered to himself as he worked, throwing things together without a care. A little salt, too much oil, definitely too much heat. He was used to eating at and feeding vegetables in the forest of Twin Disasters. No need for all of the ingredients. Just roasted at was good enough.
Arielle and Lyone watched from the table, half amused, half terrified.
The pan hissed. Sothing boiled over. Smoke curled toward the ceiling.
"Is that supposed to be gray?" Lyone whispered.
Arielle snorted, clapping a hand over her mouth. "I think it’s evolving."
Damien frowned at his creation, squinting. It looked like it might move. He tried a cautious taste. The grimace that followed said everything.
He coughed. "It’s... edible."
Lyone leaned over. "Edible for what species?"
Damien sighed and turned away. "Fine, you both need to clean up first."
While the other two argued about whether or not to risk eating it even after he’d chased them away for them to wash up, he quietly slipped out through the back door.
He pulled on his cloak, blending into the cool night. The streets were mostly empty—just the faint glow of mana lanterns and the sll of baked bread from a nearby bakery.
A small food stall still burned its lamps: an elderly couple serving steaming stew to passing guards.
Damien dropped a few silver pieces onto the counter. "Three portions. Heavy on the herbs and at."
The old man chuckled. "Cooking gone wrong?"
"Field rations test," Damien muttered. "Failed spectacularly."
When he returned, he crept toward the door, bowls in hand, trying to move silently. Unfortunately for him, Lyone’s sharp eyes caught movent through the window.
The boy smirked the mont he saw the shadow of the mighty Damien sneaking ho with takeout.
Damien set the bowls down with exaggerated pride. "Dinner’s served."
Arielle blinked. The stew was rich and fragrant, steam curling gently toward the ceiling. "You made this? Because I sure as hell didn’t sll this or anything similar when you were cooking."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Of course. Did you doubt ?"
Lyone couldn’t help it. "You an the old lady down the street made it?"
Arielle froze. "Wait—what?"
Damien’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. He side-eyed Lyone with the slow, deadly look of a man betrayed. "You little—"
"I saw you sneak out," Lyone said, grinning from ear to ear. "You even tripped on the step outside. Smooth move, chef."
Arielle’s laughter broke like sunlight. "Our mighty rcenary, slayer of demons, vanquisher of... burnt soup."
Damien sighed, defeated, though his lips twitched. "You liked it though, didn’t you?"
"I’ll like it more when you admit it wasn’t yours," Arielle said between chuckles.
He gave a mock bow. "Fine. Credit to the culinary masters of Delwig."
For the first ti in what felt like weeks, the air was light. Laughter rolled through the small room, echoing softly against the walls.
Outside, the city felt cold, faintly—but inside, there was warmth. The kind that ca not from victory or safety, but from belonging.
Later, when the laughter faded, the dishes sat forgotten in the sink. Lyone had passed out on the couch, his arm hanging over the edge.
Arielle sat by the window, her gaze distant, moonlight tracing the edge of her hair.
Damien joined her silently, leaning against the fra.
"You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?" she asked.
He didn’t deny it. The forest, the Gate, the feeling that sothing was stirring—it all still pulsed at the back of his mind.
After a long pause, he said softly, "I don’t think it’ll stay buried much longer."
Arielle turned her head slightly, studying his face. The faint creases of fatigue around his eyes, the guarded calm in his voice. "Then we’ll deal with it when it wakes," she said simply.
There was no bravado in her tone—just quiet certainty. The kind that steadied him, even when his instincts scread otherwise.
She rose, heading toward her room, but paused at the doorway. "Thank you for dinner," she said, her voice softer now.
Damien chuckled. "Even if it wasn’t mine?"
"Especially because it wasn’t," she replied, a small smile touching her lips. "It ans you cared enough to fake it."
He blinked, caught off guard. By the ti he thought of a response, she’d already closed her door.
For a while, he stood there, the moonlight catching faintly in his eyes. The room felt quieter—but sohow warr.
Damien sat by the window, half-shadowed, one leg resting casually on the other. His dark robe hung loosely around his shoulders, the faint pulse of essence still thrumming quietly in his veins.
Across the room, Lyone slept soundly, face turned toward the wall, breathing even. His training blade rested near his hand, out of habit.
Damien’s gaze drifted outward, past the rooftops and barrier shimr, toward the distant line of forest where moonlight glinted faintly on scorched treetops.
Even from here, he could feel it — a certain heartbeat buried deep within the earth. The Gate’s essence pulsing in perfect rhythm, faint but steady.
He flexed his hand unconsciously, magic essence rippling across his fingertips before fading again.
"So that’s how it’s going to be," he muttered under his breath. "Hiding in plain sight..."
The night wind pushed softly through the window. Sowhere in the distance, a bell tolled midnight.
Damien’s eyes narrowed slightly, his reflection overlapping with the forest’s outline on the glass.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
"I don’t think it’ll be long now."
~~~~~
Across the fortress, General Ivaan stood in his private study.
The candle on his desk burned low, its wax pooling beside scattered maps and reports. Lines of ink marked the Verdant Verge and surrounding districts, every symbol a weight in his mind.
At the center of his desk lay a single note, freshly written:
"Confird structure — Gate remains sealed. Essence pressure increasing."
Ivaan’s gloved hand rested over the page. His gaze was steady, cold, contemplative.
"So," he murmured, almost to himself. "It begins."
User Comments
0 comments from readers