"Help you clean?"
Sophia blinked in disbelief. She had steeled herself for the worst—grueling, dangerous experiments, the kind that could scar both body and mind. Instead, Zatiel's request was… housekeeping?
"You're the one who said this place looks like it was robbed," Zatiel replied with an almost teasing glint in his eyes. "So, those are the conditions. Do you accept?"
She hesitated. "I… won't be involved in any dangerous experiments?" Her voice carried a note of suspicion, as though waiting for the real catch to reveal itself.
"What are you suggesting?" Zatiel's tone was mildly amused. "I am a runemaster. You couldn't possibly assist me in my experiments. And as for testing my runes—well, I could mention them to the apprentices downstairs and have hundreds lining up to risk their lives for the chance."
Sophia exhaled slowly. Her shoulders loosened, the tension leaving her posture for the first time since they'd met. "Sorry… I overthought." A faint smile ghosted across her face. At last… a chance. A beacon of hope.
"But," Zatiel continued, "there is one condition. This place gets dirty quickly because of my work. You'll have to live here if you're to keep it clean."
Sophia stiffened. Cohabitation itself wasn't the problem—her appearance was. She knew what she looked like under the bandages, and she knew the reaction it provoked in others. "Do you really want someone like me living with you?" Her voice was soft, tinged with self-loathing.
"If I allowed something as shallow as appearance to matter to me," Zatiel said with quiet sincerity, "I would have gone mad a long time ago." In truth, few things could be more revolting than the visage of a Mane, and he had endured far worse.
"Even if you don't mind," Sophia murmured, "the other apprentices will spread rumors." She was used to isolation, her life defined by whispers and avoidance.
"When has a dragon ever cared for the gossip of lizards?" Zatiel's expression hardened. "If they irritate me, they die. Enough excuses. Are you staying or not?"
"Yes, I will!" This time, her smile reached her eyes. For the first time in years, she felt… almost normal.
"Good. Then begin immediately—this place is a dump." Zatiel turned his attention to the diagram for Transfiguration, already half-lost in his work.
Sophia set to cleaning, and though her hands moved mechanically, there was a quiet joy to her movements.
Zatiel noticed. He understood. That yearning for normalcy, for a place to belong—it was something he too had once desired, back in his earliest days as a demon. Keeping her close was also strategic; it ensured the secrecy of the laboratory's location without resorting to threats or force.
Within days, a routine formed. Sophia cleaned and cooked while Zatiel crafted runes. Her cooking, though unnecessary to him, became part of the rhythm of the household. What puzzled him was her insistence on keeping her face covered even when eating, but he decided against prying. People had their own ways of guarding their pain.
Far above, in one of the upper floors of the Sinux Tower, a different kind of conversation unfolded.
A middle-aged man of refined bearing sat in a high-backed chair, his posture effortlessly commanding. Before him, kneeling on the polished floor, was Old Hal. Sweat dripped from the older man's brow; his pale complexion spoke of the crushing pressure he was under.
The middle-aged man didn't look at him. His focus was fixed on two parchments in his hands—parchments bearing runes. They were the same runes Zatiel had entrusted to Old Hal for publicity.
"Are you certain you've told me everything about this runemaster?" The man's tone was even, but the weight of his presence pressed down like an iron vise. Though his eyes remained on the parchments, Old Hal felt as though a predator's gaze was piercing his very soul.
"Yes, Lord Magus! I swear I've shared everything I know," Old Hal stammered. The fame of Zatiel's work had spread quickly, reaching the ears of this influential figure, who now demanded answers.
The Magus was only Rank 1, but to Old Hal—a mere Rank 2 apprentice—the man's magnetic force field was suffocating.
"You are dismissed," the Magus said at last. "These runes will remain with me. Take this as compensation for your troubles." Without glancing up, he flicked a small vial across the floor.
Old Hal caught it instinctively. His eyes widened as he recognized the contents—a vitality potion. For a Magus of Rank 1, it was a trivial item, but to him, it was a treasure worth months of labor.
"Thank you, Lord Magus. I'll take my leave." He bowed deeply and left as quickly as dignity allowed. Relief warred with anxiety—how would he explain to Zatiel that the runes were gone?
But the truth was, Zatiel had wanted them to reach a Rank 1 Magus.
"So, Jhon," a voice spoke from the shadows, "what have you learned?"
A figure emerged—the same middle-aged man, Jhon, now bowing his head respectfully to the newcomer. The newcomer's presence filled the room without movement, his expression unreadable.
"Lord Clive," Jhon said, "I've gathered all available information on the runemaster." He recited the details carefully, omitting nothing.
Clive, a Rank 2 Magus, listened in silence. His face gave nothing away, but there was a calculating stillness in his eyes.
Jhon hesitated before adding, "If I may, my lord… I suspect he possesses some kind of artifact—something that enhances his crafting skill. If we—"
"There is no artifact," Clive interrupted, his voice cutting through the air. "I've reviewed the tower's surveillance of his crafting. What you see is innate talent, nothing more."
Greed still flickered in Jhon's eyes, but he said nothing further.
"Proceed with the plan," Clive continued, rising from his seat. "And deal with Arthur's master as we discussed."
As suddenly as he had appeared, the Rank 2 Magus was gone—leaving behind the lingering sense of a predator.