The last of the Rock-Shelled Lurkers fell with a muffled thud, its limestone carapace split perfectly down the center. As the creature's life-force dissipated, the blinding white-lavender glow surrounding Aiven's short sword flickered once and vanished.
The weight of the world returned to Aiven's limbs instantly. The buff had made him feel like he was moving through air; now, his muscles felt like they were packed with wet sand. He stumbled slightly, using his dull, now-normal, beat up sword as a crutch.
Rysa approached them, her flaming fists having subsided into glowing embers. She began methodically gathering the crystalline cores from the remains of the Lurkers. "Twenty cores," she announced, her voice echoing in the limestone chamber. "At five silver a piece, that's a clean hundred silver coins. Not bad for an hour's work."
She opened a small, leather satchel at her hip—a dimension backpack. As she dropped the jagged, palm-sized cores into the opening, they shimmered and shrank, disappearing into the bag's enchanted interior which could hold hundreds of such items without gaining a pound in weight.
"So," Rysa said, her green eyes fixing on Aiven with a piercing intensity. "Care to explain that show? I've seen buffing spells before—hell, I use a minor one for my fists—but that was something else entirely. You're an F-Ranker, Aiven. Even with a good mage, a buff is only as strong as the person it's placed on. You can't multiply zero and get a hundred."
Virelle hovered between them, her eyes narrowing into a dangerous violet glint. "If my Master is a zero, then you are minus a thousand, vixen. It is none of your business how he chooses to manifest his strength."
"Virelle, please," Aiven said, his voice calm but tired. He stepped forward, putting a hand on Virelle's translucent sleeve to gently pull her back. "Stop being so hostile. Rysa is our partner."
He turned back to Rysa, his mind racing. He needed a lie. Something dull. Something that sounded like a clerical error or a tragic, one-time-use mistake.
"It's... it's a Vessel-Drain contract," Aiven blurted out, his 'clerk-brain' frantically assembling pieces of obscure guild lore. "It's a forbidden-grade artifact I inherited. It allows a familiar to pour mana into the user, but at a horrific cost. I'll probably be bedridden for a week after this. It's very inefficient. Highly unrecommended by the Board of Magical Safety."
Virelle paused, looking at Aiven with a mix of offense and admiration. Inefficient? Forbidden-grade artifact? She almost wanted to correct him—to tell him it was actually a "Celestial Synchronization"—but the desperate squeeze he gave her sleeve told her to shut up.
Rysa arched a skeptical eyebrow. "A Vessel-Drain contract? I've heard of Mana-Leasing, but that usually turns the user's hair white or makes their nose bleed. You look... remarkably fine. Better than fine, actually. You look like you just had a very refreshing nap."
"Internal bleeding," Aiven lied instantly, keeping his face perfectly stoic. "It's all on the inside. Very professional, very quiet bleeding. I'm actually in immense pain right now."
He gave her his most blank, exhausted clerk expression.
Rysa stared at him for a long beat. She looked at the silver-haired girl who was currently sticking her tongue out at her, then back to the "bleeding" Aiven.
"Right," Rysa said, her voice dripping with disbelief. "And I'm the Queen of the Highland Realms. Listen, Aiven—keep your secrets. I'm an adventurer, not an Inquisitor. As long as the rocks are broken and I get my silvers, you can tell me your sword is powered by sunlight and friendship for all I care. But a word of advice?"
She stepped closer, the smell of smoke and sweat following her.
"Don't do that 'show' in front of a Guild Overseer. They don't care about 'internal bleeding.' They care about unregistered High-Tier assets. And your 'partner' there? She's a walking red flag for the Bureau of Classification."
"We'll keep that in mind," Aiven said, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Good." Rysa smirked, turning back toward the deeper tunnels. "Now, let's finish this. We have ten more Lurkers to find, and I still need those boots."
Virelle drifted back to Aiven's side, her orb humming a smug, melodic tune. "Internal bleeding, Master? Really? You couldn't have gone with 'Divine Right' or 'Celestial Chosen'?"
"I went with 'don't get us experimented on,'" Aiven whispered.
They began to head back toward the upper levels, intent on boarding the carriage and heading home. But as they neared the junction leading to the surface, a sound tore through the damp air of the caves.
It was a scream. Not the angry roar of an adventurer or the skittering of a monster, but a high-pitched, raw sound of absolute terror.
Aiven froze. The sound resonated deep in his chest.
"The mining crews," Aiven whispered, his face going pale. "The lower floors... that's where the scream came from."
Rysa's posture shifted instantly. Her jaw set, and her fists clenched. "That didn't sound like a Lurker bite. That sounded like someone watching their world end."
"Clara said the lower floors are off-limits," Aiven noted, his 'clerk-brain' struggling with the guild's strict warnings. "We're technically not supposed to go down there."
"If there's an anomaly down there and we solve it," Rysa said, a competitive fire igniting in her eyes, "the Guild will do more than just pay us. We're talking a fast-track rank-up and a reward that makes a hundred silver look like pocket change."
Before Aiven could argue for caution, a second scream erupted—louder this time, followed by the sound of grinding stone and a strange, static-like hiss.
Rysa dashed towards the lower floors.
"Wait, Rysa!" Aiven called out.
"I'm taking the risk!" she shouted back. "Stay here if you're scared, Aiven!"
Aiven felt a cold pit of unease open in his stomach. The air in the cave felt heavier, tasting of ozone and rot. He looked at Virelle, who was watching the descent with a playful, predatory smile.
"Master," she said, her silver hair beginning to drift as her mana flared. "I can feel it. That same 'nothingness' we deleted before. It's down there, and it's hungry."
Aiven gripped his hilt. He knew he should run the other way, but he couldn't let Rysa walk into a void alone, and he couldn't ignore the feeling that this "nothingness" was a trail to the mystery about Virelle and himself that he's trying to uncover.
If he dashed in now, would he regret it? Or would the regret be greater if he didn't—if he let Rysa go alone?
Aiven hesitated for only a few heartbeats. Memories surged unbidden: the weight of past regrets, the quiet moments where he had chosen safety over desire, and—above all—Lyra. Every time he had done nothing, every time he had told himself later, it had cost him something far greater than fear.
He clenched his jaw.
He was done regretting for not doing something.
"Virelle," Aiven said, his voice gaining a hard edge. "I'm going to need your help for this one."
Virelle's smile widened, her prismatic orb chiming a jubilant, violent note. "Oh, finally! I was starting to think this day would end without a single explosion. Don't worry, Master. I'll make sure there's enough left of the cave for you to walk out of."
Aiven didn't wait for her to finish. He broke into a run, chasing after the flickering orange light of Rysa's flame as they descended into the forbidden dark of the mining pits.