Chapter 5

My boots clicked against the stone floor as I adjusted the weight of my pack, the straps creaking softly with each step toward the dorm door. The air outside was tinged with twilight, and the sky—painted in streaks of gold and bruised lavender—only encouraged the thrill settling in my veins.

I glanced back as Al emerged from our shared study space, a pen still tucked behind his ear and ink smudged on his knuckle. His brows rose the moment he saw me fully geared.

"Wait. You're leaving now?" he asked, incredulous. "It's barely past dinner. Classes just ended."

"Exactly," I said, grinning as I rolled my shoulder to test the weight of my pack. "All the more reason to go. I want the dungeon before it's too trampled by guildlings and curious enchanters sniffing for loose relics."

He crossed his arms. "Sister, you have class Monday morning. And that new dungeon appeared just last week. Near the mage tower in the east, right? You're seriously heading there already?"

"I finished all my assignments," I said with smug satisfaction. "Every last one—annotated and color-coded."

He groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Of course you did."

"And I left notes for my swordsmanship partner. And I arranged for people to take notes during magical theory and dungeon protocol. I'm a responsible adventurer-scholar."

"Oh?" he said, narrowing his eyes with playful suspicion. "And who, exactly, are these noble volunteers?"

I coughed. "My... minions."

"Sister."

I laughed. "Fine. Friends. Friends who owe me favors."

He gave me a look—half amusement, half exasperation—and stepped closer, brushing an invisible speck off my collar. "You're unbelievable," he said softly. "But... have a safe journey, alright?"

I nodded and ruffled his hair in return. "Always."

He smirked. "Don't forget to bring back some interesting trinkets. Or a cursed amulet. Maybe even a sentient spoon. Something entertaining."

"Oh, and grill meat," he added with a grin. "I'm developing high standards now."

"Demanding," I said with mock offense, swinging the door open. "But fair."

The cool evening wind greeted me as I stepped out, the hum of campus life softening into distant murmurs. I tugged my cloak tighter and glanced back once more.

He was still there, watching from the doorway, arms folded but eyes fond.

I gave him a short wave. "Don't worry. I'll send a magical pigeon if I nearly die."

"You'd better," he called back. "Or haunt me with a sarcastic ghost."

I turned and walked away, heart light and feet sure. Eastward to the mage tower. To the newest mystery unearthed by this restless world.

Because what was a weekend if not the perfect time to conquer ancient ruins, dance around danger, and maybe—just maybe—find a story worth telling when I returned with soot-stained boots and something half-sentient in a bottle?

Adventure awaited. And I intended to make it remember me.

The inn sat modestly at the crossroads where the wind from the high plains met the old trails snaking toward the eastern mage tower. Cozy enough to pass for charming, but quiet enough to attract adventurers who didn't want their sleep interrupted by bard songs or wandering minstrels. The scent of stew hung in the air, heavy with spiced root vegetables and something like venison. I took a seat near the hearth, peeled off my gloves, and ordered something hot while I eavesdropped—discreetly, of course.

The murmurs were all the same:

"Only fifteen got in so far."

"No pattern. Not even bloodlines or guild affiliations."

"Mages tried using resonance markers and even divine divination. Nothing stuck."

"One of 'em was a silent farmer girl. Another was a half-ogre florist. It makes no sense."

I leaned back, one boot crossed over my knee, the firelight catching in the polished metal buckle of my sheath. My brows furrowed. So entry wasn't based on strength or magic, lineage or rank… even gender seemed irrelevant. That was rare.

"Maybe it's the dungeon choosing the entrants," a scholar in dusty robes whispered from a nearby table. "Like a sentient gate. Or a trial of will."

That made my gut twitch with something between excitement and dread. I didn't come all this way to wait outside a door.

If I couldn't get in, I'd be annoyed.

Deeply annoyed.

But I couldn't dwell on it for long.

Because I felt it—that prickling sensation between my shoulder blades. A gaze. Lingering. Intent. Not curious like the scholars. Not envious like some of the locals.

Hungry.

I stood, cloak pulled loose over one arm, and exited casually through the side door. My senses sharpened like drawn wire. The chill evening breeze met my skin as I rounded the edge of the stable, stepping into shadow. The gaze followed.

Still behind me.

Persistent.

I took a hard left into the treeline.

Still there.

I darted between thick brush and low-lying limbs, using every trick I'd learned in my courtly hunts and field missions. But the presence behind me didn't falter. Didn't hesitate.

Enough of this.

I stopped.

Drew my sword.

Let the wind settle, my breath syncing with the world around me.

"Come out," I said. Calm, clear, and absolutely done playing games.

And they did.

Steel hissed as a pair of blades answered mine, slashing through the air toward me in a blur.

I parried the first cleanly, stepped into the second with a twist of my shoulder, letting it pass too close for comfort but wide enough to miss.

A dark figure, lean and wrapped in worn travel gear, surged toward me with twin daggers glinting in the dusk. Their stance was trained. Their movements—unmistakably professional.

An assassin? Or a bounty hunter?

I didn't wait to ask.

My blade met theirs again, the ring of metal sharp in the silent trees. Sparks jumped. My cloak snapped as I spun low, knocking one dagger free. The attacker hissed, retreating a step—but not running.

"Impressive," they muttered. "Didn't expect the queen's little warhound to react so fast."

Ah. So they knew.

I smiled coldly, heart steady. "You're not the first to make that mistake."

They lunged again, but I was faster. A feint, a pivot, a well-placed strike across the ribs. Not fatal—but enough to end the encounter. They dropped to one knee, gasping, bleeding.

I pressed my blade to their throat.

"Who sent you?"

They coughed a laugh. "Wouldn't you like to know…"

"Wouldn't you like to keep your throat?"

They stared up at me, and in their eyes was something familiar—resentment, yes, but also… awe.

"Guess the rumors weren't exaggerated," they rasped.

I narrowed my eyes. "If you know who I am, then know this: I don't tolerate being stalked."

I stepped back and let them collapse fully.

"Tell whoever sent you they'd best not waste my time again. I'm in a good mood this weekend, and I'd prefer to keep it that way."

I sheathed my sword as their consciousness slipped, and left them there—alive, breathing, but humiliated.

And as I turned back toward the inn, a single thought crossed my mind.

If this dungeon truly chooses its own… then let it choose me. I'm ready for more than steel.

The second inn sat nestled against the dark bones of the forest—quiet, humble, almost forgotten by time. No roaring fires or boisterous laughter here, just the low hum of cicadas and the occasional rustle of leaves. The kind of place a tired traveler might stumble into and vanish for a night or a month, undisturbed.

I was only a few dozen steps from its door when the air changed.

Not the wind.

Not the scent.

Something... aware.

A presence, sharp and cold, yet not malicious. Curious. Probing. Heavy like the weight of an appraising hand on the back of my neck.

I slowed my stride, eyes narrowing, and shifted course—slipping into the thicker patch of woods just off the path, where moonlight filtered through in ghostly shafts and the underbrush muffled every step like velvet.

My sword stayed at my side.

But my senses stayed sharp.

The gaze didn't vanish—it followed. Measured. Calculated. Familiar.

"Show yourself," I called out, voice steady, firm, resonant with my commander's cadence.

The leaves rustled. A soft crunch of boots.

And then—he stepped out.

Wearing simple traveler's garb, a hood half-pulled back, strands of silver-blond hair catching the faint light.

I recognized him instantly. Even without the imperial armor or the sneer he wore like a second skin during battle.

My frown deepened. "You."

General Zeriel Alcatraz.

The Adur's Emperor's favored blade.

The one who gave me hell for an entire year on the southern frontier.

Every tactic I devised, he countered.

Every trap I set, he anticipated.

Every inch of ground was bought with sweat, blood, and sleepless nights. Even when I took on my brother's form—stronger, faster, sharper—he never backed down.

He was a nightmare I had learned to respect.

"I thought shadows clung to forests," he said with that smooth, unreadable voice of his, stepping closer. "Imagine my surprise when they wore your face."

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. "And here I thought ghosts only haunted the empire."

"You wound me, commander."

"You're not even supposed to know I'm here."

"Neither are you." He gave a wolfish smile. "So what's the queen's prized warhound doing sniffing around this curious new dungeon?"

"None of your business," I shot back. "Unless you're here to collect herbs or humiliate yourself again."

"Ah, but that wasn't humiliation." His voice dipped lower, a hum of nostalgia laced with challenge. "You forget our duel was cut short."

"Convenient," I said dryly. "Just when I was about to put your face in the dirt."

He laughed. A genuine, low laugh that echoed between the trees like the echo of a blade drawn in delight.

"We were equals, then."

"We were never equals," I said sharply. "I had orders to end the war, not entertain it."

A flicker crossed his face. Not anger. Not offense.

Something closer to longing.

"So," he said, brushing past me just enough that our shoulders nearly touched. "Shall we settle it now? No politics. No ceasefires. No masks."

I tilted my head. "What, a duel under the stars?"

He turned, meeting my gaze full-on, the moonlight turning his eyes a fierce silver-blue. "A race. Into the dungeon. First one to reach the heart of it and bring something back—wins."

I smirked. Felt the old fire stoke awake inside my chest.

"It's not even guaranteed I'll be let in," I said, brushing a leaf off my shoulder. "There's some mysterious criteria, remember?"

"Oh, I have no doubt you will be allowed," he said, voice almost soft. "You're far too interesting to be left outside."

I sheathed my sword and stepped back onto the forest path.

"I accept."

"Good," he said, his smile widening into something dangerously sincere. "I've been waiting three years."

"Then you'll wait one more day," I replied over my shoulder, already walking toward the inn. "Try not to die before I humiliate you again."

He gave a mock salute.

I didn't look back.

But deep inside, where strategy and heart often wrestled, I felt that familiar spark crackle back to life.

Zeriel Alcatraz

My rival.

My shadow.

And perhaps, the one man on this continent who'd ever truly seen me—even if he still believed I was someone else.

Let the dungeon choose us both. Let it test us.

And this time?

Let it finish what was started.

I awoke before dawn, the scent of dew and the creak of wood beams in the inn greeting me like old friends. The air was cool—tinged with the damp edge of the forest. My sword was already slung at my side before I'd even fully sat up. Old habits.

As the sun began to claw its way into the sky, I descended the narrow stairs and sat quietly in the farthest corner of the inn's modest tavern. The innkeeper's daughter, barely awake, served me a bowl of thick stew and some hard bread. I ate quickly but not messily—still in the skin of the composed, quiet commander I wore like armor.

Still in the skin of him.

My brother.

The false persona that had earned me fear, respect, and a terrifyingly persistent rival in General Zeriel Alcatraz.

I left a few silver coins on the table and stepped out into the waking world.

By the time I reached the dungeon, the sun was painting the sky in blushing orange and gold, and the crowd had swelled like a restless ocean. The dungeon's jagged entrance loomed ahead, like a gaping maw torn into the hills, ringed by vines and mist that shimmered faintly in magic-laced air. Dozens of people were already gathered—adventurers, scholars, hopefuls, and the utterly deluded.

I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders and slipped through the press of bodies.

Muttered curses filled the air.

"—again! I felt the damn thing push me out—!"

"—it's not power-based, I swear! My brother's a C-rank and he got in! I'm B and nothing!"

"—it's personality, I tell you! That dungeon wants something specific—something weird."

I listened. Always listen.

Famous names were mentioned. A silver-ranked mage with a bloodline traced to the Seraphim. A beastmaster girl who raised wyverns on her parents' orchard. And others—seemingly average, even fragile people—who'd passed through without issue.

It was chaos.

Controlled chaos.

And it was fascinating.

My eyes scanned the crowd—and stopped.

He stood like a sentinel against the sun. Zeriel, in simple garb again, but unmistakable. He was watching the dungeon entrance casually, arms crossed, confidence radiating from him like a second cloak. Then his gaze shifted—

—to me.

And he smirked.

The bastard smirked like he'd already won.

I arched a brow, straightened my spine, and pushed toward the front of the line. The moment I stepped across the misted threshold, a pulse of strange warmth tingled over my skin.

Testing me?

I pushed forward—

—and the mist parted.

No resistance.

No rejection.

Only a curious hum in the back of my skull and a chill down my spine like something unseen had just nodded.

I stepped in.

And the world twisted.

The stone beneath my boots changed, shaped by magic older than the trees, older than kingdoms. The dungeon's interior wasn't dark. It glowed faintly, the walls etched with sigils that pulsed like heartbeats, and the air smelled of old incense and steel.

And I wasn't alone.

A sound behind me—quiet but familiar—made me close my eyes for a long, annoyed breath.

"Of all the people in the world…" I muttered.

"I told you," said a too-satisfied voice. "Fate wants us to finish what we started."

Zeriel leaned against a pillar beside the entrance, arms crossed, lips curled in amusement. A faint shimmer hovered above us both—words written in old runes that only those trained in dungeon script could read.

"Trial of Balance: Pair Chosen. Progress together or fall alone."

"…Trial of Balance," I read aloud, deadpan.

He grinned. "Sounds intimate."

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

The dungeon pairs people.

Of course it does.

Out of all the hundreds in line… him.

I looked at the glowing runes again. They pulsed once, then faded, the dungeon's path ahead yawning open, and the faint echo of footsteps from others whispered through the passage.

"Well," I muttered, stepping forward. "Try not to get in my way."

"Oh, I won't," Zeriel said, falling into step beside me. "I plan to enjoy the view."

I didn't dignify that with a response.

But I walked beside him.

Because I had no choice.

Because the dungeon demanded it.

And because deep down—deep, deep down—a part of me was ready to finally see what would happen when we stopped dancing around war…

…and started facing it side by side.

The dungeon's air grew heavier the deeper we went, thick with ancient magic and laced with a hum that pulsed with every step we took. I didn't have to say a word—Zeriel moved in step beside me, like he'd fought beside me for years, not as a rival, but as… something far too close for comfort.

Every trap we encountered demanded more than instinct—it demanded trust.

Pressure plates that reset within seconds unless both were triggered simultaneously. Floating runes that only dimmed if two voices chanted at matching intervals. Even a puzzle that summoned twin mirror beasts who could only be slain by striking their reflected weaknesses at the exact same moment.

We made it through without a scratch.

I hated it.

Not because it was hard.

But because it was too easy—with him.

He caught my glance during one of the quieter moments, a smug curl at the corner of his mouth. "You know," he said, brushing a fleck of ghostvine dust from his sleeve, "I don't think you're giving me enough credit."

"I'm giving you just enough not to stab you in the back."

He laughed. "You do realize, it's because of me we've breezed through this?"

I halted. Turned to face him.

"We breezed through this because I'm adaptable."

"You mean because I adjusted to your tempo."

"My tempo is correct."

"Which I read perfectly." He grinned.

My eye twitched. "You are insufferable."

"And you're adorable when flustered."

"Keep talking and I'll ensure you're buried under the next floor."

But he only chuckled, satisfied.

We reached the final chamber—two massive doors of obsidian inlaid with veins of light that pulsed like a heartbeat. As they creaked open, a strange warmth swept out, neither sinister nor benevolent. Just… expectant.

Inside was nothing like the brutal arenas of old dungeons.

This chamber was beautiful.

A floating platform of marble glowed beneath our feet, suspended above a pool of glistening starlight. No monsters. No puzzles.

Just music.

Soft and ancient, like the whispers of a long-dead world echoing through the void.

"Final Trial: Unity of Soul."

The inscription shimmered across the air.

Below it: "Dance, and reveal the harmony of your hearts. Fail, and return."

I blinked. "You've got to be kidding me."

Zeriel blinked once.

Then smiled slowly.

"Oh. This is perfect."

"No," I snapped. "Absolutely not. I'd rather fail."

"You? The great Commander of Terah?" he said mockingly. "Backing out at the finish line? I'd be disappointed."

I growled. "This is not combat."

"It's more than combat. It's trust. Flow. Synchronization." He stepped closer, offering a hand. "You and I? We've already danced through death traps. This is just… slower."

"More humiliating."

"More intimate," he teased with a wink.

I glared daggers at him.

Then he said, voice dropping just a little, "Think of your kingdom. Of what it means if we pass. This dungeon is no mere trial. Something deeper watches from beyond. If we finish this, you earn not only prestige—but insight."

I clenched my jaw.

He wasn't wrong.

Dammit, I hated that he wasn't wrong.

"Fine," I hissed, snatching his hand. "But I'm leading."

"Of course," he said smoothly. "I'll follow your tempo."

The music shifted as our hands connected.

It recognized us.

I let my breath slow. Felt the tension in his grip—not too tight, not too soft. Balanced.

We moved.

I started with practiced grace, steps honed from mandatory royal galas and ambassadorial balls. He followed—not perfectly at first, but quickly, so damnably quickly that within half a minute it felt like he'd been born dancing with me.

We spun and swept through the air. Our boots barely touched the glowing marble. My pulse quickened—not from exertion, but from something warmer, more dangerous. His eyes were locked on mine.

When the rhythm surged, he lifted me—flawlessly.

Too flawless.

The light flared around us, runes igniting as the platform trembled—then stilled.

A final hum rolled through the chamber, like a sigh of satisfaction.

"Unity: Achieved."

I broke the stance immediately and stepped away, cheeks flushed.

He, of course, had the gall to bow dramatically.

"Well danced, partner."

"Don't."

"I think I'm in love."

"Don't."

He chuckled as the chamber began to open a path forward, revealing ancient stairs downward into unknown depths.

But before we descended, he leaned in.

"You know… that was the first time we weren't trying to kill each other. Maybe we should try it again."

I gave him a look.

Then walked forward without answering.

And he followed, smiling.

____________________________________________________________________________

The relic pulsed in my hand.

Elegant. Filigreed. Beautiful, in that ancient, arrogant way relics tended to be—like a crown that had no business being worn. A cool warmth seeped into my skin, curling like silver vines around my wrist. Then the dungeon's magic whispered directly into my mind:

"Relic: Heart's Oath."

Function: Will heal your beloved, fated partner from the brink of death, without limit, so long as your heart ardently wishes it.

Bound to soul."

I stared at the thing.

Then gagged.

"Absolutely useless," I muttered aloud, shaking the glittering pendant like it might break if I just jostled it enough. "Fated partner? What am I, a tragic romance heroine from a back-alley playhouse?"

Zeriel snorted. Then outright laughed. And not the mocking kind, no. This was the real thing—ugly, breathless, hunched-over laughter, like he'd just seen the most ridiculous divine joke of his life.

"What," I snapped, turning on him.

He was bent at the waist, one hand against the obsidian wall of the exit tunnel, the other holding up a pale, shimmering chain that glinted with runes. It pulsed too—sickeningly in sync with mine.

"What is that?" I demanded.

Zeriel wheezed between fits. "A relic."

"No—really."

He held it up like he'd just caught the world's most inconvenient fish. "Soulbound necklace that lets me see the location of my fated partner anywhere in the world."

My eyebrows rose.

"Wait for it," he said, gasping, a grin splitting his infuriatingly handsome face. "It also allows me to teleport to them—but only if they offer a drop of their blood onto the gem. Willingly."

I blinked. Then burst out laughing.

"Fated partner blood offering? Seriously? Who wrote this, a drunk oracle?"

Zeriel wiped his eyes. "I was hoping to give it to the emperor—he's got a dozen mistresses and probably one poor soul fated to him out there somewhere."

"But…?"

"Soulbound." He dangled it with mock reverence. "It's mine forever. Just like your tragic healing pendant."

I looked down at the softly glowing relic in my hand.

"You think I could pawn this off to my sister? She's into tragic love stories."

"Nope. Soulbound."

"Maybe I can melt it into a spoon," I muttered.

"You'd probably still find yourself healing someone through soup."

That made me laugh again, louder this time. The tension from the dungeon trial eased like mist lifting from my shoulders.

"I'm glad," I said, smugly, "that you got a useless romantic relic too."

He smirked. "Fitting, isn't it?"

I held mine up. He held his.

Two soulbound artifacts meant for hearts and longing.

We stared at each other for a beat too long, silence stretching.

Then I rolled my eyes. "Let's get out of here before the dungeon tries to throw wedding bands at us next."

He grinned as we stepped through the exit portal, side by side—each bound to a relic neither of us wanted.

I slipped out of the dungeon just as the morning mist began to lift, my cloak fluttering behind me like I hadn't just trudged through traps, monsters, and one very dramatic synchronized dance. My boots barely made a sound against the stone as I ducked around the crowd still grumbling near the entrance—cursing fate, soulbound nonsense, and whatever cruel force decided who got in.

Let them wonder. The dungeon didn't even spit me out looking scuffed.

I made it back to the quiet inn before noon. The innkeeper, a soft-spoken elf with sharp eyes, looked up from polishing a wooden goblet and gave a small nod.

"Only two days passed," he said. "You're right on time."

"Only two days, huh?" I muttered, pressing a hand to my chest. That dungeon felt like a fever dream wrapped in weapon traps and metaphorical heartburn.

After grabbing a quick meal, I made my way to the local adventure guild. The building had a familiar bustle, with quest boards filled with fluttering papers and adventurers arguing over bounties near the ranking desk.

I drifted to the silver-ranked board, eyes scanning the listings.

Mission: Purge of Miasma-Affected Moolywooly Herd.

Location: South Grassline Ridge.

Objective: Cull the affected herd before stampede.

Reward: 10 gold per head. Bonus for purified meat retrieval.

Perfect. Straightforward. No traps. No soulbound embarrassment. No warhound general.

I took the quest, flashed my badge, and headed out.

South Grassline was bathed in golden light as the sun dipped low—warm and pleasant, if you ignored the eerie stillness threading through the wind.

Then came the baas. Garbled, aggressive, warbled.

Wild Moolywooly sheep, soft like giant walking clouds, but these… their eyes glowed with unnatural red and their wool pulsed like corrupted fog.

"Poor babies," I whispered, drawing my sword.

They charged.

But I was ready.

I moved swiftly, striking with clean precision, releasing their bodies from the miasma's grip and harvesting their wool and meat before it could turn foul. Each one that fell purified left behind delicious, slightly sweet meat—perfect for grilling.

I'd just packed my fourth satchel when the air shifted.

Something sharp crackled behind me. Low. Deep. Wrong.

I spun just as a Drakling—bigger than any I'd seen, its scales edged in black with miasmic veining—lunged at me with a jagged screech.

"Draklings?" I hissed, parrying hard. "You're not part of this quest!"

Another landed nearby. Then another. This wasn't just a wandering drake. This was a surge.

I grit my teeth, ducked a claw swipe, and rolled beneath the second drakling's strike, slicing across its underbelly before kicking off a nearby rock.

I needed to warn the guild. This wasn't standard miasma corruption.

Then—

"Albert!"

A familiar, vexing voice.

Of course.

Zeriel.

He landed beside me like a storm given form, blade already drawn, slicing through a drakling that was a heartbeat from skewering me.

"You—" I ducked and drove my blade through the exposed spine of another. "—used that stupid relic, didn't you?"

Zeriel chuckled, utterly unrepentant, brushing his windswept hair back with his free hand. "What can I say? I missed you so much, I had to teleport through a continent's worth of space just to see your face again."

"Should I stab you now or later?" I asked sweetly.

"Do I get a choice?" He blocked a bite and twisted, cleanly decapitating the drakling.

"You don't," I said, slicing through the last one's throat and wiping my blade on a fallen leaf.

The silence after the battle rang loud and thick. The wind whistled. The miasma began to thin.

"Thanks," I muttered after a beat, catching my breath. "You showed up just in time."

He winked. "You can thank the relic."

I gave him a flat look.

Zeriel laughed again, slinging his sword over his shoulder. "Want to report the sudden drakling surge together?"

I nodded. "Then I'm grilling Moolywooly meat. You help, you eat."

He tilted his head. "That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

"Say that again and I'll feed you to the next drakling," I snapped.

He only grinned wider.

And for some reason… the stupid relic on my wrist felt warm.

The moment I stepped into the adventurer's guild, the comforting clatter of activity greeted me—quests being posted, hunters boasting exaggerated tales, and the smoky scent of some poor overcooked beast wafting from the open kitchen window. But the comfort didn't ease the tight coil in my stomach.

I strode to the counter and flagged down the clerk, a bespectacled man with an ink-stained vest and eyes that had seen too many fools come and go.

"Averan of Escarton, silver rank," I began crisply, laying down the completed mission form. "The wild moolywooly sheep mission is complete, but something serious came up during the task."

He straightened, instantly alert. "Go on."

"Draklings," I said, leaning slightly forward. "Not the usual, barely-out-of-the-egglings. These were corrupted, pulsing with miasma—and stronger. I've fought draklings before. These weren't normal. A surge this close to the city? You'll need scouts out there immediately."

The clerk didn't question me. That alone told me how serious he was taking it. He nodded, already grabbing a parchment from behind the desk.

"The Guildmaster's been monitoring miasma fluctuations. This confirms what we feared. I'll mark this for priority approval—scouts will be dispatched within the hour."

I gave a nod. "Good. I'd hate for that to turn into a full nest." I signed the last bit of paperwork with a flourish and turned on my heel.

My first instinct was to go back early—to check on my brother, maybe grill some meat while teasing him about the 'harrowing hardships' of dorm life. But I hadn't taken two steps outside the guild's entrance when a familiar shadow leaned against the stone archway, arms crossed like he'd been waiting there all along.

Zeriel.

"What now?" I asked, already wary.

He tilted his head and gave me that infuriatingly unreadable half-smile. "I've got a mission. Unofficial. Off the books."

I crossed my arms. "Then why tell me?"

"There's a ruin," he said. "Deep in the Vergewood cliffs. Only the Arduran families know about it. I'm one of them. And rumor says there may be a dragon relic inside." His eyes gleamed. "Maybe even a dragon."

My heart jumped—damn him. He knew I wouldn't walk away from those words.

Still, I scowled. "And you're asking me to help?"

"I'd rather bring someone competent than pay a bunch of mercenaries who'll run at the first roar," he said plainly. "And worse, some might even sell what we find."

I narrowed my eyes. "How do you know I won't betray you?"

He grinned. "You're my fated partner, remember?"

I stepped closer, unimpressed. "Keep saying things like that, and I'll actually leave."

He chuckled. "Fine. I trust your character."

I hated how that earned him a small smirk from me. "Fair enough," I said. "You've got me curious now. Lead the way, General."

He turned and walked beside me, smug as ever. I didn't trust his smile, but I trusted his skill.

And dragons?

Dragons were worth any risk.

Even if it meant being partnered with him.