The evening sun flooded the streets of Orario with thick, honeyed light, lengthening the shadows of the buildings.
"Nnnngh!.."
Hestia arched her back so hard that something popped pleasantly in her spine. She stood by the service entrance of the stall, feeling her legs aching, but a thoroughly satisfied smile beamed on her face.
"Freedom!" she exhaled, patting the jingling pouch on her belt. "And a bonus! You should have seen the boss's face when we counted the register. His beard almost fell off from surprise."
She giggled, remembering the old dwarf's widened eyes. The man who had threatened to fire her just this morning was practically bowing to her as she left.
"Hestia?"
A familiar, soft voice made her turn around. Approaching her was a tall man with long blue hair, holding a paper bag of herbs.
"Oh, Miach!" she waved in greeting. "Finished with work too?"
The God of Medicine smiled warmly as he caught up with her. They strolled unhurriedly towards their "residences"—an abandoned church and an apothecary shop, both located in the same, less-than-prosperous district.
"Yes, I was gathering ingredients," Miach nodded. "But my successes pale in comparison to yours. The whole northern quarter is buzzing about the 'Potato Goddess' and her incredible croquettes."
Hestia stumbled on thin air. She slowly turned her head. Miach was looking straight ahead with an innocent expression, but a sly smirk was hiding in the corners of his lips.
"'Potato Goddess'?" she repeated in a dangerous whisper. "Seriously? It reached you too?"
"Rumors in Orario spread faster than the plague," the God shrugged. "They say the barker himself promised a divine blessing to every customer."
"Aaaagh!" Hestia flushed red, covering her face with her hands. "Don't remind me! It's so embarrassing! I thought I'd spontaneously combust right there behind the counter!"
"Effective, though."
"It's all Rayne's fault!" she suddenly dropped her hands, clenched her fists, and shook them belligerently in the air. "That arrogant, cocky... manipulator!... How did he even have the nerve?! Next time, I'll give him a piece of my mind! I'll give him such a scolding he'll forget how to smile!"
"There, there," Miach noted placatingly. "Don't get so worked up. If it weren't for him, you'd be walking home without a bonus right now, right?"
Hestia froze mid-sentence, puffed out her cheeks, and crossed her arms, turning away.
"Well... maybe," she grumbled reluctantly. "Fine, I admit it. He helped. Sales really did skyrocket. He... has a talent for these things. He's weird, though. He seems polite, but he looks at you like he sees right through you."
"He is an interesting young man," Miach agreed, growing more serious. "He made quite an impression on me. Smart, level-headed. He doesn't look like your typical kid chasing glory."
"Hmph!" Hestia snorted, though without malice. "I hope his patron God keeps him on a short leash. With a personality like that, he needs strict supervision."
Miach gave her a strange look.
"Patron God?" he repeated. "Hestia, don't you know?"
"Know what?" she stopped, noticing the shift in his tone.
"He doesn't have a patron," Miach replied simply. "He and his friend, Bell, arrived in the city quite recently. They are still without a Familia."
Hestia froze. It was as if the noise of the evening street had been switched off.
Memories flashed through her mind: Rayne pulling her cart. Rayne coming up with a plan to save her job. Rayne who, despite his teasing, hadn't abandoned her.
"Without... a Familia?" she asked, feeling her heart starting to pound somewhere in her throat.
"Yes. It's strange that no one has snatched them up yet," Miach added thoughtfully. "Apparently, they are looking for something specific. Or they're just unlucky."
They walked in silence after that. Miach, tactfully not interrupting her thoughts, said his goodbyes at the crossroads and turned toward his shop.
Hestia practically flew into the damp room beneath the old church. She ran to the wall where a battered calendar hung.
Her finger slid across the dates and stopped on a day two days from now. Circled in thick charcoal was: "Faction Fair."
"Without a Familia..." she whispered, and a wide, anticipatory smile bloomed on her lips. "That means... you're free agents."
The fire of a hunter spotting prey ignited in her eyes.
"I have a chance!"
***
The Guild's windows faced west, and right now the staff office was bathed in an unsettling crimson light.
Eina Tulle stood by the window, clutching a folder of reports to her chest. The sunset was especially vivid today, blood-red, as if the sky over Orario had decided to serve as a reminder of the cruel nature of this city.
She had a bad feeling. A sticky, unpleasant chill between her shoulder blades that appeared every time one of her assigned adventurers stayed in the Dungeon longer than usual.
The faces of two rookies floated into her mind's eye. Rayne and Bell.
"Too overconfident," she whispered, looking at the towering Spire of Babel in the distance.
She recalled Rayne's calm gaze. He didn't look like a fool. But the Dungeon doesn't forgive mistakes, even for geniuses. Especially for geniuses.
"Eina-san!"
The sharp call and a slap on her shoulder made the half-elf flinch. She spun around.
Before her stood Misha Flott, her colleague and friend, wearing a cheerful smile.
"Why are you spacing out?" Misha tilted her head. "I've been calling and calling you. The workday is over! Let's go, unless you want to spend the night with your paperwork?"
Eina exhaled, trying to calm her racing heart.
"Sorry, Misha. I was lost in thought."
"Worrying about the rookies again?" her friend clucked her tongue understandingly. "Let it go. Your boys look like tough kids. They'll be back, they aren't going anywhere."
"I hope so," Eina replied quietly, casting one last glance at the bloody sky beyond the window. "I just hope they know their limits."
***
A sharp stench of blood hit his nose. A mix of rust, dust, and bestial reek.
"Haa... haa... haa..."
Bell pressed his back against the cold, uneven wall of the cave. His chest heaved wildly, every breath echoing with pain in his ribs. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, the sleeve soaked with something sticky and hot.
His eyes, wide with terror, were glued to the center of the cavern.
"Rayne..." he whispered through parched lips.
At the far end of the grotto, in a pool of his own blood, lay his brother. His sworn brother. The one who always knew what to do. The one who had always seemed like an unshakable pillar.
Now he lay unnaturally still, face down. And nearby, in the dust, lay the hilt of his sword. The blade was snapped off right at the base.
Bell shifted his gaze forward.
A couple of meters away towered a mountain of muscle, covered in coarse brown fur.
A Minotaur.
The monster was in no rush. It stood on its hind legs, towering over the small human, looking down at him. In its bloodshot bovine eyes, there was no berserker's rage. There was something far more terrifying—a sentient, cold arrogance.
The monster snorted, releasing clouds of steam from its nostrils. It was enjoying this. It knew its prey had nowhere to run.
Bell felt his legs turning to jelly. Fear, sticky and cold, paralyzed his entire body. This wasn't a sparring match. There would be no calling a halt here. There would be no debriefing of mistakes.
This was the end.