The request shattered the calm of the tavern like a wine glass hurled against stone. The beastfolk merchant stalked forward, her clawed hands slamming a framed painting onto the table. The canvas quivered slightly from the force.
"They say you're the finest sorceress in the Whispering Sands, Elara Starfrost—the Frostheart Magus. Your comrades are no less renowned. If anyone can accomplish this, it's your company."
The moon elf raised a single eyebrow, the shimmer of her azure robe catching the lamplight like frost under a full moon. Her obsidian hair cascaded over her shoulder as she leaned in to examine the artwork.
The painting was of a woman—beautiful, too beautiful. She looked human, yet there was an unnatural serenity in her expression, as though the painter had captured not just her face, but her essence... and buried something deeper beneath the brushstrokes.
Elara's lips parted in mild amusement. "Let's talk money."
"Eight hundred million gold." The merchant's voice cracked. "I've been cursed with ceaseless nightmares ever since this cursed thing came into my possession. I've tried burning it, burying it, selling it off—nothing works. It won't even tear. I gave it away once. It came back."
Elara folded her arms, eyes narrowing at the canvas. "She appears... human. Impossibly beautiful—even by elven standards. Yet the painting feels deliberately muted, as though the artist reined in their hand to prevent her from stepping off the canvas." She paused, head tilting. "No magic signature. No ma'nae trace. Curious." She flicked her gaze toward a nearby chair where a grey-striped tabby cat lounged like royalty. "Thoughts, Leonidas?"
The cat let out an exaggerated sigh. "You just love making me talk."
Leonidas' voice was deep and refined, completely at odds with his adorable appearance. He stretched languidly before springing onto the table, careful not to disturb any of the untouched food spread before them.
"We haven't been in Yugen long," he continued. "Highest bounty I've seen from the Adventurers' Guild was a hundred thousand gold—for a mirage naga terrorising merchant caravans. That beast turned the dunes into a hunting ground."
"A woman clad in black armour supposedly dealt with it," he added, tail twitching. "Solo. Days before we arrived. Ring any bells?"
Across the table, Fiona Redsteel sipped delicately from her milk glass. "What exactly is a mirage naga?"
Without a word, Illyria Raindancer opened her sketchbook. In swift, fluid strokes, she illustrated a monstrous serpent with hydra-like heads. A tiny figure stood beside it for scale.
"This dot here? That's you, Fiona."
Fiona choked on her drink. Milk sprayed across the table.
Illyria, prepared as ever, clamped a hand over Fiona's mouth, her face stern as milk dribbled down her fingers. "You are doing this on purpose, aren't you? Ever since that bath at the lake... Is this revenge?" She looked to Elara, scandalised. "It's a moon elf greeting! Back me up here!"
Elara merely nodded, unbothered. "Mirage nagas wield a vast array of illusion-based magic. They're cunning, not brute beasts. Luring prey with mirages, bending light to conceal their presence—it makes them formidable. Even archmagi struggle to combat their illusions."
"Exactly," said Leonidas, hopping back into his seat and curling up. "Which is why eight hundred million gold sounds less like a reward and more like hush money."
His tail tapped the wooden chair. "If this merchant could offer that much, you'd think she'd have better luck hiring someone less... well, alive. We're not the first she's come to. Probably not even the fifth."
The merchant, already red-eyed and sniffling, let out a thunderous sneeze. Patrons from nearby tables turned, whispers rippling through the room. A few stood and quietly left.
The merchant scowled. "It's just a cold. The nights here are colder than the Icefang Peaks, and I forgot my cloak. That's all. You lot act like I'm diseased."
Her eyes locked onto the lounging feline. "And you cats—always thinking you know everything."
Leonidas licked a paw slowly, unfazed. "Madam, I speak not out of pride, but caution. If this were a straightforward job, I'd be the first to sign on. But someone in this group has to be the voice of reason. Sadly, that burden falls to me... a housecat with an unusually high IQ."
A thud sounded as Fiona gasped out, "I-I give!"
Pinned beneath Illyria's thighs in a textbook Triangle Choke, she flailed. Illyria tightened the hold, calm as a glacier.
"And?"
"...I apologise... it won't happen again," Fiona choked out.
Silence.
"...Knight's oath! Knight's oath!" she added hastily.
Illyria released her, satisfied. "Apology accepted."
Elara watched the exchange with detached amusement. "Leonidas, Illyria, and I have lived through empires and witnessed their fall. The word challenge has little meaning left to us."
She laced her fingers, eyes gleaming like sapphires beneath the desert sun. "Eight hundred million gold. A lifetime of luxury. That's our new future."
"You're really charging into the serpent's mouth, aren't you?" Leonidas muttered. "Well, have it your way. But don't count me in. I value my lives—all nine of them."
"I'm in," Fiona said, her voice raspy but resolute. She pushed herself upright, red hair tousled and cheeks flushed. "Not for gold. For honour. Divide my share however you like."
She smiled, even as she winced, her neck visibly sore.
The painting remained on the table, silent and still. Yet the air around it pulsed with an unseen weight.
The Mistress of Ruin was watching.
Illyria Lunarsong adjusted the wide brim of her pink bard's hat—a flamboyant piece trimmed in rose-gold that shimmered subtly beneath the enchanted chandeliers of the tavern. Candlelight danced across her polished lute as she leaned forward, a crease of unease forming between her brows.
"I'm not entirely sure about this..." she murmured, her voice softer than usual. "Just looking at that painting gives me goosebumps. I sincerely hope she doesn't exist, but my unfortunately accurate intuition says otherwise... I feel like she's watching us. Right now."
She glanced toward Fiona, her silver eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"You recently graduated from the Mystic Blade Institute, didn't you? Sanctumaria's pride and prodigy." Illyria gave a wistful sigh, her hand fluttering over her sketchbook. "Ah, to be young, energetic, and immune to existential dread... Perhaps I should compose a ballad in your honour."
With a flick of her wrist and a glyph-stone press, the ominous serpent she had drawn earlier vanished from the page. She began sketching again—this time, Fiona herself, framed in graceful arcs and heroic posture.
"The piece shall be titled..." Illyria's gaze settled on the longbow resting beside Fiona's chair. "Phoenix Plume. That's the name of your bow, is it not? The one you never use and absolutely refuse to talk about. Mysterious! Intriguing! Very poetic."
She twirled her stylus dramatically. "Your quiet stubbornness, your reckless courage—it's like a flame that refuses to die. Yes, the song shall be called Flames of Resilience! Oh, Fiona, to me, you're like a flame of hope, igniting my maiden heart anew!"
"...Illyria," Elara interjected with a smile curling on her lips. She swirled the dark liquid in her crystal glass and cast her gaze around the lavish tavern. Mahogany panelling glowed under golden chandeliers, and the hum of gentle conversation mingled with the sweet notes of an enchanted violin in the distance.
"If you're having second thoughts about the bounty, feel free to decline. But wasn't it you who once sang about mortals surpassing gods themselves—including Nae the Almighty?"
Elara reclined with practiced grace. "You have your odd moments of hesitation, but at other times, you radiate like a muse descended from the heavens. You even managed to make me blush once... which I thought was physically impossible."
Illyria met her gaze, tilting her hat back to reveal the subtle glow of her moon-kissed features. "With our inherent affinity for magic and blessed ma'nae reserves, confidence does come easy. Elves like us remain in our prime forever. We don't age... but we're not truly immortal, either. Unless you've been dabbling in necromancy when I wasn't looking?"
She gave a musical laugh—crystalline and light, harmonising perfectly with the tavern's ambience. "I may have grown strong, but I've always considered myself a bard first. Not some fearsome archmagus or martial artist."
Across the table, Fiona raised her chin proudly. Her noble red hair shimmered in the candlelight, and her blue eyes sparkled with purpose. She placed her left hand over her heart.
"As a prodigious arcane ranger of Sanctumaria—and this year's Colosseum Champion—I swear to protect both of you with my life. Whether with blade, bow, or spell." She extended her hand. "Though the bow is my forte, I've mastered all manner of combat. Trust me."
"Oi," came a dry, disgruntled meow.
Leonidas, still curled up like a throw pillow with delusions of grandeur, twitched his tail.
"What about me? I'm tagging along too, you know. Sure, I act tough, but I have feelings. I'd appreciate a little protection as well. Just because I'm adorable doesn't mean I'm expendable."
"So you're accepting the job?" asked the beastfolk merchant, her voice trembling with a mixture of relief and disbelief. "Ah—where are my manners? I'm Hazel Barkbreeze. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
She gave a light cough into her sleeve. The twitch of her ears betrayed the effort it took to maintain composure. Her hazel hair was swept into a loose braid, and her finely tailored orange tunic suggested status and taste, though the dark circles under her eyes hinted at sleepless nights.
"Since this is an unofficial commission," Elara asked smoothly, "do you have a contract prepared?"
"Of course! I'm a professional." Hazel's demeanour brightened. She reached into a Dimensional Pocket woven into her sleeve and retrieved a scroll glowing faintly with ma'nae.
"Here it is," she said, offering it to Elara. "Also... I must say, I've never seen enchantments like those woven into your robe or your companion's bard attire."
Illyria smiled, pride flickering in her eyes. "Both are blessed vestments—gifts from the goddess Glacialus. Her magic flows through the seams. But..." Her expression faltered for just a moment. "Lately, she hasn't answered our prayers. Her presence, once as constant as moonlight, has gone quiet."
She clapped her cheeks with both palms, chasing away the doubt. "No matter. Elara and I will step into her legacy—freeze evil in its tracks, and purify this tainted world. Perhaps then... she'll return to us."
"A goddess' enchantment?" Hazel blinked, stepping closer. Her fingers brushed the soft silvery fabric of Illyria's sleeve, reverent and curious.
Illyria flinched. "W-wait, why are you coming so close?! Careful with those hands! That tickles—ah! Not there!"
"Wow," Fiona murmured, watching with a twitch of a smile. "She really is small but daring."
"You hush!" Illyria protested, wriggling away from Hazel's inquisitive fingers.
"Focus, Elara. There's gold at stake. Glorious, delightful gold."
Elara Starfrost whispered the words like a mantra, her fingers lightly tapping the polished mahogany table as her sapphire eyes scanned the glowing parchment before her.
"Should I be concerned that our famed Frostheart Magus is worshipping currency more than Glacialus these days?" came a dry, feline voice from somewhere near her elbow.
Leonidas, the ever-opinionated grey tabby and self-proclaimed strategist of the party, flicked his tail in mock disdain. "Gold-lust might be a sin in the eyes of the Frozen One, you know."
Elara didn't look up. "Glacialus is a pragmatic goddess," she said breezily. "She understands the necessity of wealth. Magic reagents don't come cheap, and temples don't maintain themselves on snowflakes and hymns."
Ignoring the increasingly lively banter around her, Elara fully immersed herself in deciphering the elegant, self-writing script now blooming across the unfurling scroll. Runes shimmered across the page in silver and indigo, rearranging themselves until legible text emerged.
Contract for Slaying the Mistress of Ruin
Parties:
- Employer: Hazel Barkbreeze, Renowned Beastfolk Merchant and Enchantress
- Adventurers:
- Elara Starfrost, the Frostheart Magus
- Fiona Redsteel, Genius Arcane Ranger
- Illyria Lunarsong, Siren of the Starfall Strings
Calendar Reference: All dates follow the Yugen Imperial Standard.
Scope of Services:
The Adventurers agree to investigate and neutralise the entity known as the Mistress of Ruin, as depicted in the Employer's painting. This includes:
- Tracing the entity's origins and magical composition
- Locating and surveilling the entity's current manifestations
- Ensuring her permanent removal through any viable method
Duration:
Effective upon signing, valid until the mission is fulfilled or until six thousand (6000) years have passed, whichever occurs first.
Compensation:
A total sum of 800 million gold coins, distributed evenly among the contracted Adventurers upon successful completion.
Additional Terms:
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
- Equipment provided by the Employer shall carry protective enchantments
- Termination clause requires 1,400 years' written notice
- All disputes to be resolved under Yugen Law, via arcane arbitration
Signatures:
Hazel Barkbreeze
Elara Starfros
Fiona Redstee
Illyria Lunarson
Elara exhaled slowly, running a hand through her dark hair. "A contract that's actually fair and comprehensive. Either you're extraordinarily generous, or your desperation outweighs your caution." She looked up, arching a brow. "You're an enchantress too? That's uncommon—even among elves. Among the beastfolk, it's nearly unheard of."
Hazel, still sniffling into a silken handkerchief, gave an eager nod. "Enchanting runs deep in my family line. I'm not some wandering merchant selling trinkets—I was raised amidst runes and resonance. My grandmother once imbued a mountain with a slumber enchantment, you know."
She glanced sheepishly at the group. "But when I first examined your robes and Illyria's attire... I couldn't identify the enchantments. That's never happened before."
"Oh?" Illyria leaned forward, curiosity piqued. Her tone was playful, but her eyes sharpened like a blade unsheathed.
Hazel's voice turned solemn. "It's not that the enchantments are fading. Quite the opposite."
She looked each of them in the eye in turn, her amber gaze unusually firm. "I believe they're growing stronger."
The table fell quiet.
"That's impossible," Elara said flatly, though her tone betrayed uncertainty.
Hazel shook her head. "Not impossible. Rare, yes. The common theory among high-level enchanters is that Glacialus hasn't weakened—she's evolved. Ascended beyond traditional divinity, like the Almighty Nae once did."
Illyria's fingers went still over her sketchbook.
"Think about it," Hazel continued. "The magic in your equipment has outpaced your current capabilities. Even with her divine favour, you two can't tap into its full potential. Yet it's there, dormant. Waiting. Like she left you seeds, not spells."
"...That would explain the humming resonance I've noticed recently," Illyria murmured. "It wasn't there during our last expedition."
Hazel smiled faintly. "Even with all my years of training... I realise now, I still have much to learn. As my mentor Ophelia once said, 'The deeper you carve into truth, the more the world reshapes itself around you.'"
"I—I just noticed something else!" Fiona suddenly interrupted, leaning over the contract and blinking rapidly. "Did you say... six thousand years? For this one quest? Are mortals just supposed to, what, live that long now?! And what does EOL stand for?!"
Illyria sighed and, with mock gravity, reached over to pinch both of Fiona's cheeks. "You really are precious. Haven't you been paying attention during my history lectures?"
"Let gooo—mmf!"
"EOL stands for Era of Liberation, you adorable ignoramus." Illyria finally released her with a theatrical flick of the wrist, as if she were pulling down a velvet stage curtain at the end of a grand performance. "Ever since the Enlightened One shattered the Old Chain and unsealed the Breath of Aeons, mortal lifespans have gone absolutely berserk. Shot up like a firework spell cast by a drunk apprentice."
She struck a thoughtful pose, finger tapping her chin. "Still not quite at elven levels—yet," she added with a sly glint in her eye and a wink sharp enough to cut glass. "But who's to say? Perhaps you charming little mortals will be skipping through centuries soon, treating aeons like extended lunch breaks. Immortality might very well become the next season's hottest accessory."
"... but with taxes," Leonidas muttered from his perch.
Illyria nodded, placing her sketchbook into her Dimensional Pocket and pulling out a tattered, rune-bound notebook instead. "Let's see... according to both my past notes and an actual academic source, the Enlightened One's Liberation began here in Yugen. It's why the Whispering Sands became the cradle of a new age—and why so many relics from that era keep turning up in taverns like this one."
"Is that... normal?" Fiona asked, warily eyeing the enchanted chandeliers above.
"In this country?" Elara sipped her wine. "Yes."
Illyria took a thoughtful step back, resting her hands on her hips as she gave Fiona a once-over—head to toe, as though inspecting a newly unearthed relic of uncertain origin.
"Hmm... Fiona, tell me the truth—are you a Founder or an Eternal?"
Fiona blinked. "A what now?"
"Founders existed before the Enlightened One's Liberation," Illyria explained, tapping her cheek as if reciting from a half-remembered lecture. "Eternals are those born after. It's a simple distinction—yet one filled with historical weight and tragic romances. You really didn't know?"
The Blood Knight gave a casual shrug. "Not a clue."
Illyria gasped theatrically, as though someone had just defiled the Sacred Library with muddy boots. "You've been playing coy, haven't you? Acting childish, giggling at sweets, pretending not to know things—classic Founder behaviour. Or maybe that's just the human in you." She tilted her head, lavender locks shimmering in the light. "But I simply refuse to believe you're five thousand years old."
Before Fiona could protest, Illyria stepped closer and took her hand—gently, yet with unmistakable intent.
"My, what soft hands..." she murmured, her thumb tracing Fiona's palm. "You must rely on your magic far more than brute strength. So mysterious. It's not every day you meet a human whose magic rivals the elite of elvendom."
Illyria's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Why, even Merlinia Emerick—yes, that Merlinia—was humbled by a mere youngling elf. And yet here you are... formidable, unrecognised, and oddly modest. The world really is a strange place."
Elara, lounging nearby with a half-glass of plum wine, looked up with the dry amusement of someone who'd long since accepted the eccentricities of her companions. "Illyria, during your little music tours, I actually taught at the Mystic Blade Institute for a while."
Fiona straightened with surprise. "You did?!"
"Yes," Elara replied calmly, "and the curriculum is riddled with historical bias. It's no wonder poor Fiona's got gaps in her understanding." She closed her eyes briefly. "Not her fault, really. The way they glorify human victories while downplaying everything else is almost... adorable."
Illyria, still holding Fiona's hand, absorbed this with a hum, her silver gaze alight with sudden inspiration.
Then Fiona made a mistake.
She tried to pull back.
"Illyria! You're too close—too close!"
"Ah-ah—too late," Illyria cooed.
And then—bam—with a pulse of arcane energy and the sharp clap of her heels against nothingness, the world blinked.
With the grace of a seasoned performer, she hooked one leg behind Fiona's and, in a fluid motion, dipped her back into a dramatic pose. Their faces were inches apart.
"Don't think I didn't notice you pretending not to see what Hazel did to me earlier," Illyria whispered, her voice low and velvety. "You promised to protect me, did you not? From monsters and mischief. Well, now you're my dance partner, and I won't stop until I've exhausted you completely."
"W-wait! I meant actual monsters!" Fiona stammered. "Hazel's a friend! Isn't she?!"
Illyria said nothing, merely smiling with eerie serenity, as though to say: You know what you did.
Surrendering to her fate, Fiona groaned as Illyria led her to the tavern's centre.
With a wave of Illyria's hand and a wink at the tavern's owner, tables were cleared and a modest stage area prepared. A few patrons jumped to help—some out of excitement, others from sheer curiosity. After all, who would say no to a performance from the Siren of the Starfall Strings?
The music began.
Elara, eyes closed, drew her bow across the violin with clinical precision and haunting beauty. Hazel, still pale but notably improved, played the bandoneón with the practiced ease of one born into rhythm. And in a truly bizarre turn, Leonidas the cat—standing upright on a levitating bench—used his paws and a touch of psychic finesse to command the piano keys like a maestro from a previous life.
Illyria and Fiona moved as if born to the rhythm.
Illyria initiated the ochos with effortless poise, shifting her weight to guide Fiona through smooth, intricate pivots. The connection of their torsos kept their movements synchronised, a physical conversation playing out between leader and follower.
Fiona adapted quickly—frighteningly so. Her footwork grew more confident, her axis never faltering. Every barrida, every embelishment, was met with elegance and controlled flare.
"You're catching on beautifully," Illyria whispered, her voice somewhere between pride and seduction. "Keep the connection through your fingers. Don't think—just feel."
Fiona nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. Don't think. Feel.
By the time the dance concluded, the entire tavern had gathered around, enchanted. Patrons lined up with napkins, parchment, even plates for autographs. Hazel, generous as ever, covered the night's expenses—earning cheers and toasts in her name. Formerly sceptical patrons now gushed apologies and praise, their prior rudeness forgotten.
Among the crowd stood two notable figures.
One towered above the crowd—taller than even the largest ursine beastfolk. Her hair was forest green, her eyes deep brown, and her expression unreadable.
"K?ss'Ius," she murmured, "behold Illyria. As I foretold, the Siren of the Starfall Strings. Her influence... is undeniable."
The man beside her, robed in grey and built like a statue of a war god, gave a faint smile.
"She's left an impression, that's certain," K?ss'Ius said softly, eyes scanning Illyria and her companions. "It's good to see you looking more like yourself, Merlinia."
Merlinia's lips curved just slightly. "Is that what this is? Feeling like oneself?" She sipped hot spiced chocolate through a straw, her expression unfathomable. "I wonder... how many lifetimes it takes to be sure."
K?ss'Ius said nothing.
Meanwhile, at the bar...
"King Thaddeus begged me to lead the Swords of Damnation," Fiona slurred, now utterly drunk and cradling Leonidas in her arms like a favourite plush. "I beat Prince Alaric, Eternal Wall Maximilian, and that smug Archmage Merlinia in the arena. I'm just too brilliant for this world, y'know?"
Leonidas, eyes wide with feline horror, looked to the others. "Help me. Someone. Anyone. I have claws, but she has... drunken strength."
"You're my Noo-noo! NOO-NOO!!" Fiona wailed, nuzzling him with the enthusiasm of a berserker hugging a pillow enchanted to scream.
Note: Noo-noo is a term of affection used by lunatics, warlocks, and drunks alike. Leonidas was unsure which category Fiona currently fell under. Possibly all three.
Several patrons tried to pry Fiona's arms open. They failed.
Fiona laughed like a madwoman. "I am... invincible!"
Elara and Hazel, now finalising the contract at a corner table, exchanged amused glances before sealing it with a handshake. Illyria, swarmed with admirers, looked up just in time to spot Merlinia and K?ss'Ius in the distance.
They stood silently amid the crowd. Then, with the shimmer of teleportation, they vanished—Merlinia looking bored as ever, sipping from her straw. K?ss'Ius gave one last polite smile before disappearing into the ether.
Illyria sighed, flicking her hair back. "Figures. The moment you look away, the legends show up."
She turned back to the next fan, quill in hand.
"Alright, who wants a dedication?"
Illyria's gaze, mid-wander through the crowd, was abruptly reined in by a voice brimming with nervous excitement.
"E-Excuse me! I'm a huge fan! Could I please have your autograph?"
Before her stood a blond young man, face flushed, book clutched tightly to his chest like it was the last bastion between him and total emotional collapse.
Illyria's eyes lit up like the sun striking a goblet of starlight.
"Oho~ A fan!" she cooed, spinning gracefully on one heel. "How delightful! You must possess truly exquisite taste to recognise my brilliance amidst this sea of unpolished stones." With a flourish worthy of stage curtains and thunderous applause, she produced a plum-feathered quill seemingly from nowhere, twirling it between her fingers as if conducting an invisible orchestra.
"Now," she mused, eyes twinkling, "where shall I bestow my magnificent mark? Upon parchment? Your hand? Or perhaps... directly over your heart, so you'll never forget the moment you were touched by radiance incarnate?"
The young man nearly combusted.
"U-uh—just... just the book, please!" he stammered, thrusting it forward like a peace offering.
Illyria sighed, long and dramatic. A performance in and of itself.
"How terribly conventional," she lamented, although her smile betrayed genuine warmth. "But who am I to deny the humble wishes of the faithful?"
With the air of a high priestess anointing a sacred relic, she signed her name with an elegant, sweeping flourish. A tiny chibi doodle of herself, complete with exaggerated hair and sparkles, appeared beside it.
"There you are, my dear! A keepsake from the one and only! Treasure it always—for within lies a fragment of my boundless, radiant essence. Oh, and do remember to proselytise on my behalf, won't you? Spread the Gospel of Illyria far and wide!"
"Th-thank you so much! This means the world to me!" he blurted before scurrying off like a startled rabbit.
Illyria chuckled, placing a hand over her heart as if touched by divine sentiment. "Of course it does, darling. Naturally." Then, addressing the queue that had formed behind him, she struck a pose worthy of a statue in the Grand Hall of the Crystal Bard College.
"Ah! Behold—the adoring masses! Each of you positively glimmers with anticipation! But fear not! I shall sign for all, for my benevolence knows no bounds! One by one, step forth and receive the honour of my mark!"
She gave the next fan a conspiratorial wink as they stepped forward, and thus continued the ritual: signature, flourish, playful remark, rinse, repeat. Every so often, she'd throw in a teasing flirt or an exaggerated gasp of faux surprise—"You've heard of me? Why, I'm blushing!"—all while maintaining the unshakeable poise of a performer in her prime.
Yet even as she dazzled the crowd, her mind flickered inward.
Telepathy – Whispering Thread of the Heart
'Elara, I spotted Merlinia—with some ridiculously handsome guy, no less. She was using Resonant Veil to hide herself. That's not low-tier magic either... What was she doing skulking around here?'
Across the tavern, Elara didn't miss a beat. One hand was casually appraising the magical bag of 180,000 gold Hazel had handed over as an advance. The other delicately cradled her cheek against the coin pouch like it was a lover freshly returned from war.
'I was busy verifying the gold,' Elara replied, utterly deadpan. 'Now that it's confirmed, I'm enjoying some quality alone time with my new fiancé. Let me know if Merlinia wants to hire me.'
Illyria twitched slightly, her dazzling smile unwavering.
'I hate you... sometimes.'
She maintained her grin as she signed the forearm of a werewolf cultist, who was shaking with excitement and probably minor religious ecstasy.
Meanwhile, Elsewhere—In a White Room of Wonder
A grand chamber, bathed in perpetual white light, stretched silently like a dreamscape. Every inch of wall space was adorned with paintings—some vivid and wild, others so serene they felt like songs.
Merlinia reclined on a plush, oversized sofa, long legs crossed, sipping iced coffee from a straw. An unopened avalanche of letters rested on the low table before her—some addressed to her, others to K?ss'Ius. None had been opened. None would be, if she had her way.
"Honestly," she sighed, "why do people get so excited over duel results? First place at the arena was what—fifty thousand gold? Hardly worth the theatrics. Not when I've accidentally incinerated more than that in a bad mood."
A few metres away, seated on a simple stool, K?ss'Ius worked silently at a canvas. His tousled black hair obscured his face, but his brush strokes were elegant and deliberate—each movement an expression of soul and skill.
"Mortals and gods alike must reaffirm their place in the world," he murmured, though halfway through the sentence, he slipped into the deep trance of pure creation.
Merlinia raised an eyebrow.
"Are you painting me again?" she asked, rising with a languid stretch. "You once said no two portraits of me ever came out the same. Something about my essence being unfixed or some other poetic nonsense."
He didn't respond, as expected.
With a resigned sigh, Merlinia raised one hand and began a soft chant:
"In the stillness of the ivory chamber, brush meets magic, soul meets mirror..."
A subtle shimmer formed in the air, and from it emerged a fully realised phantom duplicate of K?ss'Ius—this one finishing a painting he hadn't yet truly begun in reality.
The illusion stepped back with pride, revealing the completed work.
Merlinia tilted her head. Then blinked.
It was... the Silk Pavilion. The tavern where Illyria and Fiona had performed. Only, something was different.
"I don't remember either of us participating in that performance," she observed, deadpan. "Yet here I am with a double bass, and you're on cello like some tragic musical prodigy."
The phantom K?ss'Ius gave a serene nod. "I conceived it. Therefore, it exists."
Merlinia's lips curled into a small, knowing smile.
"Ah, the power of imagination. A realm where even the absurd becomes art. Perhaps you're trying to capture the harmony between us—a resonance that exists beyond spoken word. A mutual rhythm... rarely acknowledged, but always present."
She leaned in, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Or maybe... you just wanted an excuse to see me holding a double bass like a total badass."
K?ss'Ius, in real time, said nothing. But the corner of his mouth twitched.