It took nearly ten hours for the paralytic to wear off completely. Josh had helped me into bed after Sharla’s repeated screaming fits made it clear that I wasn’t going to get any rest in the common area. Every twenty minutes, like clockwork, she was yelling at Milli and me for deviating from the plan. She was right to be furious. Though we acted with good intentions, trying to save her, our impulsiveness had endangered everyone. Her anger echoed in my mind even after I managed to get some sleep.

  When I woke up, the weight of the fight still pressed heavily on me. I got up and stepped into the common room, where Andrew was sprawled across the couch, snoring softly. I didn’t have the heart to wake him, so I grabbed my gear and headed downstairs to train.

  It was still dark, the faintest hint of dawn just starting to colour the horizon. I assumed the tavern would be empty at this hour, but as I entered, I noticed a familiar figure slumped over a table. Sharla sat there, clutching a nearly empty bottle of dark amber liquid.

  Her head was resting on her forearm, her hair falling messily over her face. The table bore the sticky residue of spilled alcohol, and a faint sour smell lingered in the air.

  I hesitated. Part of me wanted to give her space, but the other part—guilt-ridden and desperate to mend things—compelled me forward.

  As I approached, my coordination still shaky from the aftereffects of the paralytic, I bumped into a chair, sending it clattering to the floor.

  Sharla jolted awake, her eyes wild and unfocused. She grabbed the bottle like a club, lifting it above her head in a defensive stance.

  "Oh, it's you." She said, sounding cold and distant, a slur evident in her voice, she put the bottle down and made a half-hearted attempt at wiping the liquor off the table.

  I went over to the booth and sat across from her, she looked ragged, like she had clearly been up all night drinking.

  "Sharla, are you doing alright?" I asked softly, reaching out a hand.

  She pulled away before I could touch her, her movements sharp, almost reflexive.

  She didn’t look at me when she spoke, her voice distant, as if she was speaking to herself as much as to me.

  "Do you know why they call it pain tolerance?" she said, her tone bitter, hollow. "It’s because if you feel enough of it, over a long enough period, you start to build a resistance. Eventually, what would have killed you at the start is the only thing you can feel anymore."

  She paused, her shoulders trembling. "This place... it makes it so much worse."

  Her focus finally shifted to me, her eyes brimming with tears. She looked exhausted, the weight of something crushing her.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath before continuing. "It’s that insidious fucking healing. It makes it so that nothing matters—so long as they can scrape you off the pavement. Then, with a quick word or a wave of a fucking wand, you’re all better. Like you weren’t supposed to be fucking dead."

  Her words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. She pulled another bottle from her inventory and took a long swig, slamming it onto the table. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the glass neck.

  "How that shit wouldn’t change you is beyond me," she spat, her voice rising. "She should be fucking dead!"

  The last word came out as a choked sob, and she looked away, her fingers tightening around the bottle.

  "I’ve been seeing it change you too," she continued, her voice softer now, but no less raw. "Ever since what happened with Tim, you’ve been different. We go out there, day after day, killing and almost getting killed, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m okay."

  She reached for her prosthesis, her fingers brushing the surface with a distant, haunted expression.

  "I can feel it changing me," she whispered. "I can feel the numbness creeping in."

  She tilted the bottle again, draining more of its contents in one long drink.

  "Sharla... I..." I stammered, words failing me completely.

  She turned her face away, closing herself off once more.

  I got up and moved to sit beside her. Gently, I reached out, trying to pull her into a hug, but she shied away. Her body tensed as she scooted further from me, resting her head back on the table. The motion was clear—she was done talking.

  I stayed there for a moment, unsure of what to do or say. Eventually, I stood and made my way outside, the cool air brushing against my skin as I started my routines.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said, about pain, healing, and how this place changed people. I’d noticed it early on—how those who were scared in the beginning grew bolder, then reckless. The fear that once kept them cautious seemed to vanish over time.

  It had seemed appealing to me at first. Losing that cowardice. Shedding the hesitation that left me second-guessing every step. I’d pushed myself hard, morning and night, trying to harden myself into something unbreakable.

  But now, I wondered.

  What was I losing along the way?

  I couldn’t bring myself to train properly. My body went through the motions, but my mind was elsewhere. I found myself stopping frequently, sitting on whatever surface was closest, staring at the settlement walls that peeked over the tops of distant buildings. The weight of the morning was pressing down on me, suffocating and inescapable. I decided to call it early, my resolve evaporating with every step. The thought of returning to the tavern filled me with dread—what awaited me there? How was Milli? I hadn’t been told much about her condition beyond what Sharla had confirmed: she was alive. That knowledge wasn’t enough to soothe the gnawing guilt eating away at me.

  I wandered the streets instead, the eerily quiet pre-dawn roads stretching out before me. Merchants hadn’t set up their stalls yet, and the usual bustle was absent. The occasional hooded figure slipped in and out of alleyways, a ghostly reminder of the settlement's other side.

  As I meandered aimlessly, my mini-map blipped. A small beer mug icon appeared, indicating a tavern nearby. I didn’t realise how much I craved a drink until that moment. My feet moved automatically toward the mark. The building was an unassuming hole-in-the-wall, its wooden sign swinging slightly in the breeze. Above the door was a crudely painted caricature of a grinning thief hoisting an overflowing mug. The name above the sign read “The Rogue’s Poison.”

  I stepped inside, expecting a dim but welcoming space like the Bottomless Pit. Instead, the air hit me—a pungent mix of stale alcohol and mildew. The room was dark and damp, with faint, flickering blue light illuminating a collection of dusty bottles behind the bar. It was staffed by a stout man, about my height, with a light complexion and a completely bald head that gleamed under the light. Intricate, pointed black tattooed swirls adorned one side of his face, and his thick, hairy arms rested heavily on the counter. Despite his stocky build, his sagging skin showed his age.

  The rest of the tavern wasn’t much better. A dozen scattered tables were occupied by lone patrons, each nursing a drink like it was their lifeline. Their faces were shadowed, their postures hunched, and their murmured conversations barely audible. At the far end of the bar, three men sat together, speaking in hushed tones.

  I dragged out a stool and planted myself. The scrape of wood on the floor echoed through the room, briefly drawing attention before the murmurs resumed. The bartender approached silently, his expression unreadable.

  “I don’t care what it is,” I said, my voice low and heavy. “Just make it strong.”

  The bartender nodded and grabbed a dusty bottle filled with a swampy green liquid. He poured a measure into a small, smudged glass and slid it toward me. The drink smelled powerfully of Liquorice, and the first sip set my mouth and lips on fire. I winced, sucking in air to dull the burn, and coughed violently.

  The sound carried, cutting through the quiet, and caught the attention of the men at the end of the bar. Their conversation stopped abruptly, and one of them stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He made his way over to me, a crooked smile revealing uneven, yellowed teeth.

  “You look like you’re in the wrong place, mate,” he said, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp from years of smoking.

  The man loomed over me. His tight, stained white T-shirt stretched over a wiry frame. Dark pants and worn leather boots completed the look of someone who belonged in this place far more than I ever could. His balding head sported a greasy comb-over, and his skin was leathery, sun-beaten, and crisscrossed with lines. Bloodshot, yellow-tinged eyes stared down at me, appraising and dismissive all at once.

  I ignored the man. All I wanted was to drink in silence, to let the burning liquid numb the edges of my thoughts.

  “I don’t think he heard you!” one of his friends called out, his voice loud and mocking. The other man at the counter stood, the two of them walking over to flank me on either side.

  “You deaf or just plain stupid?” the first man sneered, leaning closer. His yellowed teeth gleamed in the dim light, and the fetid stench of his breath washed over me like a wave of rot.

  “I’m just here to have a drink, guys,” I said evenly, raising my hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  Is that really the line you’re going with? Said a small voice in the back of my mind, mocking me for the cliché.

  The man’s gaze shifted to my face, and a cruel grin spread across his leathery features. He started laughing, a harsh, throaty sound.

  “Would you look at this!” he said, turning to his friends. “We got ourselves a baby boy here! You sure you’re old enough to be drinking that, kid?” His companions joined in with short, mean laughs, dripping with disdain.

  I stood to leave, unwilling to let this escalate further, but his hand shot out, pressing firmly against my chest and shoving me into the counter.

  “Hey, hey, hey—where you think you’re going, buddy? We’re just starting to get to know each other,” he said, his tone laced with mock friendliness. He leaned in, his smile widening, and I felt the sharp edge of the counter bite into my lower back.

  Behind me, I heard the soft clink of glass as the bartender quietly moved bottles and cups out of the way, clearly anticipating what was about to happen.

  “I’ve got a bit of a fascination,” the man said, gesturing theatrically with his hands. “I like to know who people were before we got dragged into this magical little hellhole. So tell me, kid—what were you before all this?”

  I stared at him, keeping my expression neutral, my thoughts steady. My inventory menu flickered into view, and with a subtle mental command, I equipped my staff. It appeared in its shortened form, concealed in my hand.

  The man leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “As for me? Well,” he said, his smile twisting into something darker, “I was a bit of a big shot where I came from. Had plenty of friends who’d do anything for me. Accommodations weren’t great, though. You know how it is when you kill a few people—prison’s a real step down from the high life.”

  His friends chuckled darkly at the revelation, their postures shifting to something more predatory. The tension in the air thickened, the room feeling smaller, tighter, with every word he spoke.

  His eyes darted to my cup. Without warning, he grabbed it in a blur, wanting to smash it over my head.

  I reacted instinctively. My thumb found the button on my staff, and with a click, it extended to its full length. The base struck the floor, and the tip slammed into the man’s chin with a satisfying crack. His head snapped back, and he crumpled into the table behind him, sending mugs and plates clattering to the ground.

  I glanced at the other two men. For a heartbeat, they froze—staring at their friend sprawled on the floor.

  Then they moved. One drew a knife, eyeing me carefully. The other hefted a mace and shield, his stance tense but sloppy.

  I stayed calm, keeping my focus on the knife. My Flaw Finder skill lit up the room like a map of opportunity: a chair knocked over on the floor, and the table the first man had crashed into both glowed faintly in my vision.

  The knife-wielder lunged. I spun my staff, intercepting the strike with a resounding CRACK. His wrist snapped under the force, and the knife dropped, clattering to the floor. I didn’t hesitate. I shoulder-charged him, driving him backward. He stumbled, legs catching on the fallen chair, and went down hard.

  SNAP

  His shin broke, his leg still tangled, his head struck the table with a sickening ‘thud’. The entire thing collapsed onto him.

  The man with the mace roared and swung wildly at me. I deflected the blow downward with a sharp turn of my staff, the mace smacking into the floorboards with a heavy ‘thunk’. Before he could recover, I reversed my grip and jabbed the staff into his knee.

  He howled in pain, staggering back.

  Another swing came, sloppy and desperate. I ducked under it and stepped back, sizing him up. His movements were clumsy—his footwork off balance, his shield hanging loose at his side, leaving him wide open. He was an amateur. Unlucky for him, I’d spent time sparring with Sharla, almost every day since we got here.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  I shifted my grip and took my stance, staff out, hands firm at the base. He saw the movement and charged. Perfect.

  I slid my hands up the staff and thrust forward—snapping it into his face.

  CRUNCH

  His nose broke, blood spraying across his mouth.

  He reeled back, but I didn’t give him time to recover. I twirled the staff overhead and brought it crashing into the side of his head. The tip connected with his ear, and he staggered sideways, disoriented and bleeding.

  I swept the staff low, hooking it behind his ankle, and hefted upward. His leg flew out from under him, and he crashed to the ground. Before he could even groan, I stepped forward and drove my boot into his face.

  CRACK

  Teeth scattered across the floor like dice.

  I straightened, breathing hard, and looked around.

  The bar had gone silent. Every chair was overturned, every table abandoned. Around me, men and women were on their feet, weapons drawn—knives glinting, bows nocked, swords at the ready.

  I tightened my grip on my staff, rolling my shoulders as I adjusted my stance.

  "THAT'S ENOUGH!" The bartender roared, he was now brandishing a crossbow that shimmered in the dim light. "You!, Get the fuck out of my bar!" he said pointing the weapon at me. I retracted my staff and walked out, every eye in the room followed me as I left.

  I jogged away, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was following me. The town had begun to stir, with merchants setting up their stalls and early risers walking about. My pulse was still racing as I spotted a food stall offering stuffed bread. I bought one, sat on the side of the street, and took a bite. My hands trembled, but a wide grin spread across my face.

  "That felt good," I murmured to myself, leaning back and letting the morning sun warm my skin.

  After finishing my impromptu breakfast, I sent a quick message to Andrew.

  Ryan:

  Hey, do you know if Sharla is back upstairs yet?

  It only took a moment for a response.

  Andrew:

  Yeah, she's back alright. Milli's up too.

  The tone of his message made my stomach twist. I got up and made my way back to the Pit, the jaunty spring in my step quickly tempered by the unease creeping into my chest.

  When I entered the apartment, I was greeted by raised voices.

  "Why are you even talking about taking a quest? What’s wrong with you!? You almost died yesterday—do you even comprehend that?" Sharla was standing over Milli, who was curled up on the couch next to Andrew, her knees pulled to her chest.

  "It's not like I'm going out there right now," Milli muttered, her voice small and trembling. "I'm taking the day off."

  "Oh, so sorry! That makes it so much better," Sharla snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She turned and caught sight of me walking in, her face a mask of grief and frustration.

  Andrew, sensing the tension, stood and tried to insert himself between them. "Maybe we should all just take a moment and relax, okay?"

  For a second, Sharla tensed, and I worried she might actually take a swing at him. But she relented with a huff, retreating to her room and slamming the door behind her.

  I exhaled, the charged air in the room making my chest feel tight. I walked slowly to the couch and sat down, drumming my fingers on my legs.

  "I—" I started, but Milli cut me off.

  "I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking. "I fucked up. I almost got everyone killed." She was looking at her hands as she rubbed them together anxiously.

  "What? No," I said, startled by her admission. "It was my fault for pushing everyone to do the quest in the first place."

  "No, we all agreed to it," Andrew said, his arm resting lightly around Milli's shoulders.

  "Sharla’s right, though," I said, glancing toward her closed door. "We’re not in the right mindset to go out again so soon. Let’s give it a few days."

  Milli didn’t respond immediately, but when she did, her voice was quiet, almost resigned. "You said it yourself. We need to get stronger. And you’re right. It’s the only hope we have."

  Her words struck a chord, a deep, unspoken truth we all avoided voicing. The only hope we have to get home.

  She pulled her legs tighter to her chest, her face pale and gaunt. "We can’t just stay here farming goblins and wolves until we die of old age." She looked up at me, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "Eventually, the monsters will get so strong that we’ll be stuck inside the walls. And then…"

  Her words hung heavy in the air. I didn’t have a response, just a sinking sense of dread. From what Louis had hinted, we only had a few more weeks before the monsters reached a tipping point, outpacing the players' strength. After that, it would be hopeless.

  Milli broke the silence, her tone softer. "Oh, I forgot to give this to you." She reached into her inventory and pulled out a small, burnished rod no longer than my hand. "I finished it the day before last. I was going to give it to you yesterday, but, well… you know." She held it out to me, her lips quirking in a faint, apologetic smile. "Sorry about the name."

  I took the item, examining it briefly in my inventory. The name ‘Milli’s Multi-tool’ floated beside it in glowing text.

  "Is this my other staff?" I asked, pulling it back out, I had forgotten I had given it to her all those weeks ago.

  "It's a bit better then that!" She said perking up at the chance to talk about one of her creations.

  "I've modified it a lot!" she said, taking it from me as she stood.

  She held the shiny rod in her hand, her brow furrowing in concentration. A flicker of light sparked in her eyes, then grew brighter—flashing and swirling like tiny storms.

  In her hand, the rod responded. Its polished surface dulled, shifting to a matte finish, as though it were breathing in her energy.

  Slowly, it began to grow. Inch by inch, it extended, the metal stretching like liquid until it reached its full length. She grabbed it firmly with both hands, and—click—it split apart, separating cleanly into two equal sticks.

  The pieces shrank, until they were more manageable, like short batons. She snapped them back together with a deft motion, and the rod clicked into place, growing into a full-length staff.

  A moment later, snap, it collapsed back down to its compact size, no longer than her finger. Before I could blink, it expanded again, WHOOSH, stretching out to a full ten feet, as though responding to her will.

  She twisted her grip. The staff’s tip shimmered, shifting and rippling, and small round rivets sprouted along the end, protruding like mechanical studs.

  With a quick flourish of her wrist, the rivets retracted, shnnkt! and a gleaming spear tip shot out with a metallic clang.

  She spun the staff once, the blade catching the light before she stilled it with practiced ease. The weapon hummed faintly in her hands, as though alive. It retracted again and she handed it to me.

  I closed my mouth realising that it had been hanging open.

  "Holy shit Milli! You made this!? You're a freaking genius!" I said taking the object from her, she blushed slightly as she swivelled her hips to and fro in pride.

  "The material is doing most of the work, it's super responsive and forgiving. The real trick was getting it to be controlled via the interface, I only cracked that a few days ago." She sat back down and bounced happily.

  She talked me through the controls, they were very intuitive, after a few minutes I was able to easily switch between the different configurations. I shrank the pole down and put it in my inventory.

  "I'm going to be honest," I said, rubbing the back of my neck, "I’m not sure if I’ll be able to handle all the different modes on this thing. I’ve only just gotten good enough with my regular staff that Sharla doesn’t completely stomp me." My mind flashed back to the bar fight earlier. Maybe being able to keep up with her is more of a badge of honour than I realised.

  "What quest were you thinking of doing, anyway?" I sat down on the couch, noticing Louis slipping through the dog door with a quiet flap. He jumped onto the couch next to Milli and curled up, his nose tucked neatly into his fluffy tail.

  Milli straightened up, a hint of excitement creeping into her voice. "Well, like I said, you had a point about us needing to get stronger. Sure, the troll was a mess, but we survived."

  "Yeah," I said, gesturing toward Andrew, "because Josh, Fiona, and Andrew were there to save our asses."

  "Don’t get me wrong—I never want to face down another troll either," Milli continued, undeterred. "But we need to start thinking about clearing the northern road."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Okay... Go on?"

  "Yesterday, when we were picking out quests, I saw that the adventuring guild posted a recon mission. They want someone to gather intel on the goblins up north—numbers, defences, that kind of thing." She avoided eye contact, her fingers fidgeting nervously.

  The ring on my finger felt impossibly heavy, as if the implications of my Morph Form skill were finally pressing down on me. I hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Sharla, though I had used my ability to speak goblin on multiple occasions. I’d never used Morph Form before, and even if I had, I doubted it would be much help. Still, the possibility gnawed at me. Opening my bestiary, I saw options for goblins and wolves under the skill, while entries for trolls and ogres were greyed out. I closed the menu quickly, unsettled by the thought of volunteering for something I didn’t fully understand.

  "Do you have any solid ideas so far?" I asked, keeping my tone casual.

  "I was toying with the idea of all five of us running interference while someone sneaks into the encampment..." Milli trailed off, her voice losing confidence.

  "Which is a fucking horrible plan, for the record," Andrew interrupted, giving her a pointed glare.

  "I’m with Andrew," I added. "Feral goblins are one thing, but everything I’ve heard about the ‘civilised’ ones is that we should avoid getting outnumbered by them at all costs."

  Milli’s shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I didn’t have much hope for that plan, but at least I’m trying to come up with solutions."

  An awkward silence hung in the air. I cleared my throat and stood up. "I’m gonna take a shower. Training left me gross." It was partly true—I did need to clean up—but mostly, I wanted an excuse to check my notifications in peace.

  Once in my room, I sat on the edge of my bed and opened my interface. The notifications were piling up: I got one achievement from the troll fight, a quest completion, and a skill level-up. I started with the achievement.

  Achievement:

  The Long Way Around

  Description:

  Your party has defeated a troll without exploiting its elemental weakness. I don’t know if that’s impressive or just plain stupid, but either way—good for you, guys.

  Reward:

  1 Troll Anatomy Poster

  I groaned. So I had guessed wrong about its weakness. We were luckier than I’d initially thought.

  Next, I checked the skill notification, hoping it was my Quarterstaff Mastery finally hitting level 3. Instead, it was an update to my Hazard Hunter skill. That must have been from this morning, I realised, feeling a flicker of excitement. It now had a chance to trigger nearby hazards causing them to combo together.

  Finally, I opened the last notification, my stomach tightening with excitement.

  Quest Complete:

  Out of the Rut

  Description:

  Am I a fucking joke to you? I tell you to kill something new to stave off my premature death by boredom, and you let some other random assholes do it for you while you nap? You may have ‘technically’ completed the quest, but I’m not happy. Show some backbone, or I’ll find someone who isn’t a spineless little shit.

  Reward:

  A new quest has been assigned.

  I blinked at the notification, reading and rereading it.

  “Wha—WHAT?!” I shouted, my voice echoing off the walls. After everything we’d just been through, nearly dying against that troll, and it still wasn’t good enough? My heart pounded as I opened the new quest.

  New Quest:

  Solo Play

  Description:

  You’re going to march down to that quest board and pick one out. No friends or party to help you, and if you so much as think of bitching out on me, there will be hell to pay.

  Reward:

  You’ll be back in my good graces.

  Penalties:

  Just try me.

  I stared at the words, disbelief and anger bubbling up inside me. This was complete bullshit. We’d fought tooth and nail against that troll, nearly died, and it still wasn’t enough? My first instinct was to tell Samantha to find someone else to torment, but her voice echoed in my mind:

  I have other ways to entertain myself with my toys.

  That dream… It couldn’t have been real. She wasn’t real. Just a voice—an incredibly nice voice, but still just a voice. Right?

  My hand instinctively touched the ring on my finger. What if I was wrong? What if she really could do something? Blow my head off or hit me with some horrifying penalty for disobedience? I’d seen other players suffer for failing quests—none of them came away unscathed, and their penalties were far worse than just losing a reward.

  I swallowed hard, a pit forming in my stomach. I’d already gone too far with this; her claws were in me. Backing out now felt… impossible.

  I left my room, pulling myself together as best as I could. Milli and Andrew were sitting on the couch, talking in low tones. They stopped when I entered.

  “I’m gonna go for a walk,” I said casually, “try to think of something for the recon quest.”

  Milli nodded but gave me a warning look. “Don’t leave the settlement without us, or Sharla’s going to pop a blood vessel.”

  I waved her comment off with a faint smile and headed downstairs, the weight of the ring on my finger impossible to ignore.

  Out on the street, the town bustled with the sounds of merchants setting up stalls and adventurers preparing for the day. I toyed with the ring as I walked, its faint shimmer catching the light. Maybe I could give it to someone else. Maybe they could do the recon mission instead. But the idea was foolish. If they got killed—or worse, captured—the guild would lose its best chance at sneaking in.

  I thought of Milli’s idea. Could we pull it off with more people? No. The thought of throwing lives away made me sick.

  I reached the quest board and stared at the swirling mass of overlapping notes and parchments. I made a show of scanning them, pretending to deliberate. But I already knew what I was going to do.

  I accepted the recon quest.

  The rest of the morning was spent in an abandoned warehouse, experimenting with my Morph Form skill. When I activated it, a shimmering haze enveloped me, and I found myself looking out of unfamiliar eyes. My hands were no longer mine—clawed and scrawny, they were a goblin’s hands. The illusion was flawless, as far as I could tell. I moved around, testing the body’s limits, but my coordination was shot. All the experience I’d gained with my staff was useless in this new form.

  Curious, I tapped myself lightly with the staff. The illusion shattered instantly, the shimmer dissolving around me. I waited out the 40-second cooldown before trying again. A cough, a scratch—anything that could be interpreted as "damage" was enough to break the transformation. That was a problem. I dedicated the rest of the day to exploring the illusion's bounds. It was ineffective for combat, and despite no inherent abilities, I endured all its weaknesses.

  Evening fell as I walked back to the tavern. My confidence in the skill was shaky at best, but at least I understood its limits now. The illusion didn’t include my clothing, which meant my gear would stand out like a neon sign among goblins. I didn’t have time to figure out a disguise. This was going to have to work as is.

  When I entered the apartment, Sharla and Milli were sitting at the table, talking in hushed tones. Sharla looked up and immediately came over, pulling me into a hug.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

  I hugged her back tightly, the guilt of the past few days weighing heavy on both of us. “It’s fine,” I said. “It’s been a rough few days for everyone.”

  "Milli and I were talking, and you're right about getting stronger. We can’t just keep spinning our wheels," Sharla said, her tone firm but laced with understanding. "I’ve been trying to protect you two, but if I shelter you too much, you won’t be able to look after yourselves if I’m not around. We’re going to work together and figure out this goblin circus craziness."

  “Y-yeah, together,” I repeated, nodding as I let go of her.

  We ate dinner and talked strategies. Andrew had already returned to his party, leaving just the three of us. Neither Sharla nor Milli had been able to come up with a viable plan for the recon quest, and we decided to revisit it tomorrow with fresh minds. I excused myself from the table, claiming I needed to turn in early, a move they didn’t question since I’d added evening callisthenics to my routine.

  But I wasn’t heading to bed.

  Instead, I prepared for my solo expedition. I carefully stocked my coprolite bombs and left my backpack behind, transferring anything unnecessary into it to save on weight. My cloak was draped loosely over my shoulders, hood drawn low.

  I waited for nearly three hours, listening as the apartment fell silent. Milli and Sharla’s soft murmurs faded, then the occasional thud of footsteps, and finally nothing at all. Certain they were asleep, I slipped out of my room. Moving as quietly as possible, I took off my shoes and shuffled across the floor. When I reached the door, I eased it open and slipped out, holding my breath.

  The tavern below was alive with laughter and the clink of mugs, a cacophony of voices rising and falling in boisterous conversation. Keeping my cloak wrapped tightly around me, I pulled my shoes back on and walked through the crowd, avoiding eye contact. No one paid me any mind.

  Outside, the streets were quiet, the usual hustle replaced by an eerie stillness. At night, the roads were mostly abandoned, save for the occasional hooded figure darting between alleyways. I stuck to the main thoroughfares, avoiding the shadows, and reached the northern gate without incident.

  The gate loomed before me, its imposing wooden beams locked with a heavy iron padlock. My heart sank.

  “Shit. I didn’t think of that,” I muttered under my breath.

  I tugged at the lock experimentally, and it rattled loudly against the bolt. I froze, listening for any sign that someone had heard, but the streets remained silent. I thought back to a series of YouTube videos I’d binged about breaking locks with brute force, but the idea seemed reckless. Drawing attention now would be a death sentence.

  Then I remembered Milli’s Multi-Tool. I pulled the small, burnished rod from my inventory and tested its size against the lock’s arch. It fit perfectly. A small smile tugged at my lips.

  “Here goes nothing,” I whispered.

  With a soft ‘click’, I activated the tool, and it extended rapidly to about a foot in length. The lock gave a sharp ‘clang’ and fell open. I caught it quickly, slipping it into my inventory before it hit the ground. Sliding the heavy bolt aside, I pushed the gate open just enough to slip through.

  Beyond it lay the forest, cloaked in inky darkness. The air was heavy, the faint scent of damp earth and moss wafting toward me. My heart thudded in my chest as I stared into the void ahead.