A weapon shop, usually a place of quiet transactions and the occasional clatter of steel against steel, was now a tense, waiting chamber. The flickering oil lamps cast long shadows over walls lined with swords, spears, and well-crafted firearms, their polished surfaces gleaming dully under the low light.

  Milo sat at a wooden table near the center of the room, his fingers tapping restlessly against the hilt of his dagger. His eyes flickered to the large clock on the wall, its ticking sounding much louder than it should have in the otherwise hushed atmosphere. Every second that passed stretched his nerves thinner. The guards stationed throughout the building weren’t helping. Some were sharpening their weapons with slow, deliberate strokes, their expressions grim. Others murmured quiet prayers in front of a bronze statue of the Sun, their voices barely above a whisper, each one pleading to The Student for protection and victory.

  And then there were those who simply talked, sharing crude jokes or swapping stories, their laughter trying, but failing, to drown out the tension that hung in the air like the calm before a storm.

  But none of that mattered to Milo right now.

  Because sitting across from him, her armor gleaming even in the dim light, was Iris Avalon, a name that still carried weight in the right circles, a woman whose presence demanded attention, whether she asked for it or not.

  Her long, color-shifting hair cascaded over her shoulders, reflecting different hues with each slight movement, a mesmerizing display of gold, silver, and a faint hint of blue. She was beautiful, in a way that wasn’t just about looks. She carried herself like a warrior, like someone who had walked through fire and came out laughing.

  And right now, that laughter was directed squarely at Milo.

  "So this is your way of celebrating, huh?" Iris leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over the heavy steel of her breastplate, her lips curling into a smirk. "I finally reach the same rank as you, become a Heroic Liberator, and instead of a drink or a nice dinner, you call me into the middle of some high-risk raid?" She scoffed, shaking her head, her voice thick with mock disappointment. "Honestly, Milo, I expected better."

  Milo exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples. "I didn’t have a choice." His voice was tight, the weight of the night pressing against him. "I called in every favor I had, and you were the only one crazy enough to actually show up." Iris's smirk disappeared in an instant.

  "Excuse me?"

  Milo braced himself. She slammed her gauntleted hands onto the table, making some of the surrounding guards jump. "Are you telling me that I was your last choice? That you called every spineless bastard you know before even thinking of me?"

  "I called in my debts," Milo said quickly, holding up a hand in defense. "That doesn’t mean I didn’t want you here." Iris leaned forward, her blue eyes boring into his. "Damn right you wanted me here. Because out of every sorry excuse for a fighter you know, I’m the only one who could actually handle a mission like this."

  Milo sighed. "I’m aware."

  "Oh, you better be." She settled back into her seat with a huff, grabbing a small flask from her belt and taking a sip before pointing it at him. "Because while I am deeply insulted by how low I was on your little list, I also understand that you’re a moron, so I forgive you. This time."

  Milo let out a short laugh despite himself. "Thanks, I guess."

  "Damn right, thanks," she said, taking another sip before tucking the flask away. "And you should be grateful to have a badass like me on your little raid. Frankly, I should be charging you for this."

  "I’m not paying you."

  "Tsk, figures."

  She exhaled before glancing at Milo, who was still stealing nervous looks at the clock on the wall. A knowing smirk crept onto her lips as she tilted her head slightly. "So," she drawled, "Where are those two you promised would be showing up? You did say they’d be here soon, didn’t you?"

  Milo visibly stiffened, the tapping of his fingers on the table pausing for just a fraction of a second before resuming. "They’ll be here," he said, though the confidence in his voice was thin, almost forced. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to mask his unease as he glanced once again at the clock, the tick-tick-tick of the second hand now feeling almost accusatory.

  Iris arched a brow, took another sip of her drink, and waited. When Milo didn’t elaborate, she smirked wider. "Oh, I see what this is. You’re worried."

  Milo exhaled sharply through his nose and immediately tried to shift the conversation. "Should you really be drinking before a mission this serious?" His tone carried the edge of a scolding officer, but there was also genuine concern laced beneath it.

  Iris chuckled, her color-shifting hair shimmering as she leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her palm. "Milo, I could fight an infinite number of low-level thugs while drunk, blindfolded, and missing an arm. So forgive me if I don’t share your ‘grave concerns’ about my alcohol consumption." She punctuated her words by swirling the drink again before finishing the rest of it in one go, setting the glass down with a clink.

  Milo pinched the bridge of his nose. "You say that like it’s reassuring, but all it tells me is that you fully intend to be an idiot tonight."

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  Iris let out a short laugh, before, somewhat reluctantly, giving a small nod in his direction. "Look, I get it, you’re anxious. And I’ll even throw you a bone—you’re stronger than me, I won’t argue that. But if you of all people should know how easy this’ll be, why are you acting like this mission is some suicide run?"

  Milo’s expression darkened slightly, his fingers finally stilling on the table. "Because this isn’t some group of street thugs," he said, his voice quieter, heavier. "The Right Fist isn’t just another gang running rackets in the slums. They’re the largest criminal enterprise in all of Arkhold. They’ve been around for decades, they’ve built entire systems within the city, and it would be insane to assume they haven’t hired people strong enough to make us struggle."

  Iris sighed, waving a dismissive hand. "You worry too much."

  Milo opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, the doors to the weapon shop swung open. A gust of cold night air rushed in, flickering the oil lamps and carrying the scent of rain-soaked stone and distant smoke. And stepping into the light, framed against the darkened streets outside, were Kaiser and Erya.

  Milo’s face instantly lit up with something close to relief, his entire posture shifting, as if the weight on his shoulders had lessened at the mere sight of them. His mouth opened, probably to greet them, but then his expression changed. Because behind them, just a step slower, was a boy.

  The same boy who had been bleeding out not long ago, who had been barely conscious, whose wounds should have had him bedridden for days.

  And yet, here he was.

  Milo’s jaw tightened, and his initial joy at seeing Kaiser and Erya soured into a deep frown. His gaze darted to Kaiser, then to Erya, and finally to the kid, his disbelief evident. His mind immediately ran through the worst possible conclusions—had they forced him to come? Had he snuck away?

  "What the hell is he doing here?" Milo asked, his voice sharp, more accusatory than he had intended. Kaiser, who had been in a good mood up until this point, raised an eyebrow. "Nice to see you too, Milo."

  Erya, as expected, rolled her eyes. "Oh great, here we go." She crossed her arms, already bracing herself for an argument. "Yes, yes, we tried to get him to stay behind, and yes, we pointed out the fact that he’s injured, and yes, we told him this wasn’t a place for some random kid."

  Milo looked at the boy. "And yet, he’s here."

  The boy stepped forward, his face set with determination. "Because I’m going."

  Milo ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "You’re barely standing. You need rest."

  "I need to save my sister," the boy snapped back.

  Milo’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. His eyes flickered between Kaiser and the boy, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. Then he let out a sharp breath and shook his head, anger flaring in his voice. "No. No, we are not doing this."

  Kaiser exhaled through his nose. "The kid's choosing this himself," he said simply, his tone controlled, even.

  Milo scoffed, his eyes narrowing. "Yeah? And what the hell does that matter?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "You think that just because someone ‘chooses’ something, it means they should do it? That it’s right? The kid’s still bleeding through his damn bandages, Kaiser. If I let him come along, I might as well be putting a dagger in his gut myself."

  Kaiser’s expression darkened, and for the first time since entering the room, the tension in his shoulders became visible. "If he wants to fight, then he fights. He’s made up his mind."

  Milo took a step forward, his glare cutting through the air like a dagger. "And some choices need to be made for people who don’t know any better," he shot back. "You think he actually understands what’s ahead? That he has any idea what he’s throwing himself into? He’s a kid! His ribs are probably cracked, he can barely stand, and you’re seriously telling me you’re just letting him decide to run into a den full of slavers who would skin him alive for fun?"

  The words landed like a slap, and the heat in the room rose a few degrees. Kaiser’s jaw tightened, and then, something inside him snapped.

  A memory surged, raw and sudden. A younger him, standing on shaking legs, eyes dark, voice hoarse, the weight of chains still lingering on his wrists. A choice forced upon him—a path he had no say in.

  And then, his own voice, years ago, saying something that still burned in his bones. Kaiser’s posture changed. His whole demeanor shifted, the fire in his eyes didn't flare. It hardened.

  He stepped forward, his voice dropping lower, quieter, but carrying a weight that made the room feel smaller. "The freedom to do what we want… That’s what makes us who we are."

  Milo blinked, thrown off for just a second. "Kaiser…"

  "All men are born innocent, a perfect, smooth boulder," Kaiser continued, his voice almost distant, as if he was speaking from somewhere deeper than the present moment. "But the actions they take in life… those are the things that carve them. Shape them. Sculpt them into what they are meant to be."

  His fingers twitched at his sides, his fists clenching, his nails biting into his palm. "If this is what he wants… Then he will do it.” The finality in his voice was chilling.

  The boy didn’t say anything, but his eyes, wide, burning with quiet admiration, were locked on Kaiser.

  Milo, for the first time in the conversation, looked slightly uncertain. But he still pushed back. "That’s not how this works. He can't do this alone, you know that. He’ll die out there, Kaiser."

  "Then stop him," Kaiser said. "Lock the doors. Hold him down. Leave another guard behind to watch him. Do whatever you want." He took another step forward. "But if you do, we lose another blade. And if we do that, our position gets worse. And the moment we step outside, the kid will still leave, by himself, and he will die. You know I’m right."

  Milo’s lips pressed into a thin line.

  He did know.

  He hated that he did.

  Kaiser didn’t break eye contact. "You want to make a decision for him? Fine. Then make the only one that actually matters. Let him come, or leave another man behind and weaken our position."

  Milo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, frustration rolling off of him in waves. Iris, who had been watching the whole thing with barely hidden interest, let out a short whistle. "Gotta say, I’m impressed."

  "This isn’t about impressing anyone," Milo snapped. "This is about keeping people alive."

  Milo turned to the boy, eyes sharp. "You understand what’s going to happen, right? That if you come with us, there’s no turning back? That the people we’re fighting will kill you if they get the chance?"

  The boy nodded once. "I understand."

  "And you’re willing to die for this?"

  "I’m willing to fight for it," the boy corrected, his voice steady. "Because if I don’t, then what am I?"

  Milo exhaled slowly, looking away, his fingers digging into his temples. "Damn it…"

  Another beat of silence. Then, finally, he looked back at Kaiser. "Fine," he muttered, the words heavy, reluctant. "He stays with you. You’re responsible for him. You watch him, you make sure he doesn’t do anything that’ll get himself killed, and if something happens, you deal with it."

  Kaiser didn’t hesitate. "I promise."

  Milo’s eyes narrowed. "I mean it, Kaiser. No half-measures. No second chances. If you say he fights, you fight beside him. You protect him. Swear it."

  Kaiser’s gaze didn’t waver. "I swear."

  Milo studied him for another moment, then finally sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I hate this."

  "So do I," Kaiser admitted.