Chapter 22: Ghosts and Glimmers
She was back in the dungeon's tunnel, the stench of rot and iron thick in her throat, her party's screams echoing off the stone walls.
She watched as the black-skinned brutes cut down Ken, the fighter who'd shielded her since they were snot-nosed kids in the village, his sword clattering to the ground as a rusted blade sank deep into his back.
She heard Rose, her healing mentor and fellow life mage, beg for mercy before a goblin's club crushed her skull, the soft, sickening crack searing itself into Maren's bones forever.
She felt her own left arm snap, the bone grinding against muscle, as rough hands dragged her away—their grunts and leers thick with malice, fingers tearing at her tunic, closing in, hungry, unyielding—
Maren jolted awake, gasping so hard her ribs ached.
Cold sweat soaked her matted hair, her thin nightgown, dripped in heavy, corn-sized beads from her forehead to her jaw, pooling on the straw mattress of her shabby rented room in Southbrook's lower district.
Her left arm was encased in a rough wooden cast, the mend from Hannah's golden magic still tender under the frayed bandages, and she curled it tight to her chest, trembling, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to chase the nightmare away.
It was no use. Ken's final cry, Rose's whimper, the goblins' high, cruel laughter—they looped in her head, an unbreakable chain.
Third day.
Three days since Hannah pulled her from that blood-soaked cave. Three days since she lost everyone: Ken, Rose, Jax, Talia.
Her adventuring party, her village family, the only people who'd ever loved her for who she was.
Three days of drinking cheap ale from the tavern down the lane, morning till night, the burn of it down her throat the only thing that dulled the guilt, the fear, the hollow ache where her heart used to be.
She'd barely eaten, barely slept, barely spoken to a soul.
The guild healers had given her minimal treatment—swamped, short on mana, a broken arm from a dungeon rescue was low on their list.
She was alone. Utterly, irredeemably alone.
Maren swung her legs over the mattress, her bare feet hitting the cold stone floor, and winced.
The cast was heavy, awkward, a constant reminder of the day everything fell apart, but she didn't care.
She needed another drink. Needed to forget.
The sun was just peeking over the rooftops, painting the sky a pale, sickly yellow, but the tavern would be open—for drunks like her, they always were.
She pulled on a tattered wool cloak, her good hand fumbling with the frayed fastenings, and stumbled out the door, her steps unsteady, her eyes fixed on the tavern's splintered wooden sign down the lane.
But as she rounded the corner, she didn't see the tavern. She saw her.
Hannah. Her savior.
Hannah sat at a rickety wooden table outside the village's only eatery, a chipped clay mug in one hand, a stack of empty plates beside her,
as the server set down a mountain of food—roast meat smothered in gravy, a bowl of thick vegetable soup, a loaf of crusty black bread, and three giant earthenware jugs that glinted white in the weak sunlight.
Milk.
Three gallons of it, sitting on the table like it was nothing more than a cup of water.
Maren's feet froze to the dirt.
She'd thought about finding Hannah a hundred times in three days, about thanking her, about falling to her knees and begging for absolution for being so weak.
But guilt and shame and the fear that she'd break down if she spoke to the girl who'd pulled her from an unspeakable fate had kept her away.
Now she stood there, hair a mess, cloak frayed, breath reeking of ale, and Hannah was there—calm, steady, eating like she hadn't seen food in a week, a faint, unreadable expression on her face, no trace of judgment in her eyes.
Maren took a shaky step forward, then another, until she was standing at the edge of Hannah's table.
Her throat was dry as bone, her words stuck, but she forced them out, her voice rough and hoarse from disuse and drink.
"Hi. You're the girl who saved me. I… I want to say thank you. Without you, I don't even want to imagine what would've happened."
She bowed deeply, her cast digging into her chest, her head hanging low, the words tumbling out clumsy and earnest.
"I owe you my life."
Hannah looked up, her mug pausing at her lips, and set it down gently.
Her expression softened, a quiet, sad understanding in her eyes—like she knew exactly what Maren was feeling, like she'd carried that same hollow grief herself.
"It's okay. It was everyone's hard work. Bart, Mike, Mimi—we all fought for you." She hesitated, then added, her voice soft enough to be lost in the breeze,
"I even feel sorry. I should've been there faster. Had I known, we might've been able to save more. I'm sorry for your loss."
Maren's chest tightened until she could barely breathe.
The dark cloud that had hung over her for three days descended again, thick and heavy, and she fell silent, her jaw tight, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.
Hannah's words weren't unkind—they were too kind—but they cut straight to the guilt gnawing at her insides.
We might've saved more.
But they hadn't. Ken was dead. Rose was dead. Jax and Talia were dead.
And it was her fault. She'd been the healer, the one who was supposed to keep them alive. She'd failed.
She shook her head, her voice a hollow whisper.
"No. We were just too weak. We should've never tried the second floor. F-rank, first-ring magic… we were easy prey. Stupid, stupid prey."
Hannah pushed a chair out with her foot, a warm, unhurried gesture.
"Take a seat. You need to eat and regain your health. Weak or strong, everyone needs to eat."
A tiny, snarky voice echoed in Hannah's skull, Ren's camouflaged form perched on the back of her chair,
his black scales glinting invisibly in the sun as he lapped at one of the milk jugs—already half-empty, the liquid vanishing into thin air like it had never been there.
'Yes, that's true human! Food is the best! Milk is even better—sweet, cold, filling. You should order more. This one's gone!'
Hannah's eye twitched.
She was this close to elbowing the invisible dragon in the side, to breaking her stoic face and snorting at his antics, but she clamped down on it.
Maren was raw, hurting, and the last thing she needed was her savior looking like she was laughing at her.
So Hannah kept her expression steady, her gaze on Maren, and ignored Ren's pleased purr as he drained the first milk jug and moved onto the second.
Maren sat, her cast resting on the table, and stared at the food—roast meat, soup, bread—and her stomach rumbled, loud and embarrassing, the first time it had demanded sustenance in three days.
She'd forgotten what hunger felt like, buried under the ale and the grief.
Hannah held out a wooden spoon, pressing it into her good hand.
"I'm Hannah. I just started as an adventurer. E-rank, for what it's worth."
Maren's fingers wrapped around the rough wood, and she nodded.
"Maren Hale. Me and my party… we were F-rank." Her voice cracked on the were.
Hannah's brow furrowed, sharp and curious.
"What do you mean 'were'?"
Maren stared at the soup, the surface rippling with her shaky breath, and the words came out cold and final, like she'd carved them into stone a hundred times.
"I plan to quit. No matter what I think, I don't think I can do this anymore. I'm only a first-ring healer.
All my friends—all my family, from the village—they're dead. Ken, Rose, Jax, Talia… I have nothing left to fight for."
Hannah was quiet for a moment, stirring her own soup with a spoon, her gaze distant, like she was staring at a memory only she could see.
When she spoke, her voice was low, rough, honest—no platitudes, no empty comfort, just the unvarnished truth.
"I know what it's like to have nothing left. To lose everyone you care about, to feel like the world's against you, like there's no point in going on."
She paused, her spoon clinking against the bowl.
"I have nothing left to lose, either. I'm not afraid to die. But I'm not going to lay down and let the people who made my life suffer win.
I'm building something—something to fight back with. Against the people who hurt me, against the world's injustice, against the monsters that prey on the weak.
I fight because I have to. Because if I don't, who will?"
She looked at Maren, her eyes sharp and bright, a fire burning in them that Maren hadn't seen in anyone since Ken and Rose were alive.
"Whether you quit or continue, I respect your choice. It's yours to make.
But sinking in your depression, drinking yourself to death… that's not living.
Your friends wouldn't be happy if they saw you die from ale instead of fighting. I believe I had time to save you for a reason. It must be a blessing from them, too.
Don't make them sad."
Hannah reached for the third milk jug, twisted the cork free, and poured a cupful, sweet steam curling up from the ceramic.
She slid it across the table to Maren, the liquid golden and warm, sweet with a hint of honey and sugar.
"I asked them to add sugar. They said sweet things ease the pain, in times like this."
'Or so I learned in my past life', she thought to herself, Ren's purr softening in her skull, like the dragon understood the unspoken words, the weight of grief that bound them both.
The server set down Hannah's roast meat then, a giant slab of it, crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside, and Hannah picked up a knife and fork, cutting into it with a sharp snick.
"You eat too. You need to regain your strength to continue living—whatever that looks like for you."
Maren stared at the warm milk, at Hannah's steady gaze, at the food that smelled so good it made her eyes water. And then she broke.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and heavy, and she sobbed, her good hand covering her mouth, her cast shaking as her shoulders heaved.
She cried for Ken, for Rose, for Jax and Talia.
For the village they'd left behind, for the adventures they'd never get to have, for the guilt that ate her alive for surviving when they hadn't.
And when she could speak, her voice a broken whisper, she asked the question that had haunted her since the dungeon, the one she'd been too afraid to say out loud.
"Is it okay if I continue living? After everything? After they died for me?"
Hannah set down her fork, leaned forward, and placed a hand on Maren's good one, her palm warm and steady, no trace of hesitation.
"It's more than okay. They died protecting you—not because of you. They chose to stand between you and the danger, to fight so you could live, because you mattered to them.
That's not failure on your part; that's love. Value your life for the gift it is, the gift they gave you by fighting for it. Honor them by living—not by letting the grief take you too."
Maren cried for a while longer, the milk growing cold beside her, but when she stopped, her cheeks were wet, her chest lighter, like a weight she'd carried for three days had finally lifted.
She picked up the cup of warm milk, sipped it, and the sugar hit her tongue, sweet and warm, and for the first time since the dungeon, she didn't feel the cold of the nightmare.
She felt hope. A tiny, fragile glimmer of it, but it was there—bright and alive, a spark in the dark.
She looked at Hannah, her eyes red but clear, and nodded, her voice small but sure.
"I don't know how. But I'll try. I'll strengthen my healing magic. I'll help people. And someday… I'll repay my debt to you. I promise."
Hannah smiled, a small, rare thing, the kind that reached her eyes, and nodded back.
"That's all anyone can ask for."
Weeks passed, and Southbrook settled back into its quiet rhythm—adventurers delving dungeons, farmers selling their crops, taverns filling with laughter and ale—but for Hannah and Maren, everything was different.
Maren found her footing again, slow and steady.
She quit drinking cold turkey, flushing the last of her ale down the drain and never looking back.
She started training her life magic at the guild every morning, healing minor wounds for villagers and low-rank adventurers, her hands growing steadier with each mend, her mana flowing stronger with each spell.
She visited Hannah often, bringing loaves of fresh bread, jars of wild honey, small gifts to thank her, and the two of them would sit and talk for hours—two souls bound by loss, by survival, by the quiet understanding of what it meant to fight on when everything was gone.
Maren never forgot Ken, Rose, Jax, or Talia, but she stopped letting their deaths define her. She started living for them.
Hannah, meanwhile, trained. Hard.
No more dungeon delves—not yet, not until Mimi's mana core fully recovered from the strain of the goblin cave.
Instead, they trained behind the inn where Hannah rented a room, a small, overgrown yard with a dirt floor and a rickety wooden fence, the air thick with the scent of clover and dust.
Mimi taught Hannah to hone her magic, to control the golden mana that roared in her veins, to weave it into spells that were not just for destruction, but for precision—Minor Mend, Spark of Light, even a shaky Aqua Barrier that Mimi praised (even if it splintered after ten seconds).
Hannah's control grew, her mana steadier, the golden light no longer a wild, untamed fire, but a controlled flame—bright, hot, and deadly when it needed to be.
And when Mimi needed to rest, Hannah ventured into the forest on the edge of Southbrook, hunting with Ren.
Ren loved the forest.
He'd drop his camouflage the second they were out of sight of the village, his golden scales blazing in the sunlight, his wings beating hard as he soared above the trees, scouting for prey with his sharp red eyes.
He led her to deer, to boar, to wolves—small game at first, then bigger, tougher, until he set his sights on the grey wolves that roamed the forest's heart, the ones the local monster butcher had been begging adventurers to hunt for weeks, their pelts and meat fetching a pretty penny in the market.
That one, Ren had snarled one afternoon, his voice thick with excitement, his red eyes fixed on a giant grey wolf lurking in the trees—twice the size of a normal wolf, its pelt thick and silver, its jaws lined with sharp, yellowed teeth, its eyes cold and fierce, the alpha of the pack.
"The alpha. Kill it. The butcher will pay a fortune. And it'll make a good snack for me."
Hannah had hesitated—the alpha was huge, bigger than her mare, Bess—but Ren had been relentless, his magic coiling around her, golden and dark, a boost to her strength, her speed, her reflexes.
They'd fought it together, a deadly dance of steel and shadow:
Hannah's dagger sinking into its flank, Ren's invisible claws raking at its throat, its howl echoing through the forest as it fell, blood pooling in the dirt beneath it.
It had taken both of them to bring it down, and even more to drag it back to Bess, who'd stared at the giant wolf with wide, frightened eyes before Hannah tied it to her with thick hemp rope, the beast's body almost twice the mare's size.
Bess had dragged that alpha wolf all the way back to Southbrook, huffing and snorting, her sides heaving, her hooves clicking on the stone roads, and by the time they reached the monster butchery on the edge of town, the mare was ready to collapse.
Hannah untied her, leading her to a water trough outside, and Bess drank deeply, her tail swishing lazily as she chewed on a pile of sweet hay, her eyes half-closed, exhausted but proud.
Hannah turned and dragged the alpha wolf into the butchery, its paws thudding on the wooden floor, the sound echoing through the room.
The butchery fell silent.
The butcher, a burly man with a beard thick with sawdust and a scar across his cheek, stared at the giant wolf, his mouth hanging open, his eyes almost popping out of his head.
The other customers—adventurers cleaning their weapons, farmers buying fresh meat, villagers haggling for bones—stared too, their whispers dying on their lips, their gazes fixed on Hannah, the E-rank adventurer who'd dragged a wolf alpha into the butchery like it was a tiny rabbit.
"Wahhhh!" the butcher yelled, slamming his fist on the wooden counter, his voice a mix of shock and awe, loud enough to rattle the windows.
"I said I wanted grey wolves! I didn't mean you need to bring their alpha! Girl, how strong are you? Did you not say you were E-rank? What are you— a knight in disguise? A mage with a strength spell? Did you catch this alone?"
Hannah froze. She stared at the giant wolf, at the butcher's gaping face, at the curious, admiring gazes of the crowd, and her mind went blank.
Ughh… she thought, Ren snickering in her skull, his voice thick with amusement, how do I explain this?
She'd told everyone she'd hunted it alone.
She'd told the butcher she'd bring back a grey wolf, not the damn alpha. She'd thought Bess could handle the weight (she'd been wrong).
And now everyone was staring at her, an E-rank adventurer with a wolf alpha at her feet, waiting for an explanation that she didn't have—an explanation that didn't involve a tiny, invisible dragon who loved milk and killing things.
Ren's laughter echoed in her skull, loud and unapologetic, as Hannah opened her mouth, and nothing came out.
"You're on your own, human," he purred, his golden scales brushing her cheek invisibly.
"Now lie. Say you're a prodigy. Say you trained with a hermit in the mountains. Say anything—just don't mention me. hahaha."
Hannah glared at the empty air beside her, her cheeks burning hot with embarrassment, and tried to think of something—anything—to say. A lie, an excuse, a half-truth. Anything to get the crowd to stop staring.
And Hannah, E-rank adventurer, dragon bonded, slayer of a wolf alpha, had never felt more confused in her life.
.
.
.
To be continue...