Chapter 110: Unwanted Shadows and Unanswered Questions
The Guild Master's pronouncement landed like a stone in a still pond.
"You will not be going alone."
Valerius's words were absolute. I'd just begun to wrap my head around the solitary, desperate sprint ahead of me, a one-man infiltration into a cursed war-grave. The idea of allies had been a line in a System analysis, a theoretical problem. Not an Immediate, grating reality.
"Given the primary ingress to the Defal region skirts the northern Edelmere," Valerius continued, his pale eyes flicking to the map, "and the known dangers of that terrain, the guild cannot, in good conscience, sanction a solo C-Rank expedition with this level of strategic importance. A team is mandatory."
My heart sank. I knew what was coming before he said it. I felt it in the smug shift of posture from the corner of the room.
"Lashley and Neralia will accompany you."
"What?" The word tore out of me, sharp with disbelief. I looked from the twins' suddenly alert, calculating faces back to Valerius. "With all due respect, Guild Master, that's a terrible idea."
Lashley's face flushed with immediate outrage. "You dare…"
"I dare," I cut him off, turning my full attention to Valerius and Boromir, ignoring the twins completely. "This mission requires discretion. Subtlety. Moving fast and quiet. They are…." I gestured vaguely in their direction, "They're a parade. They announce their presence with their posture and their perfume. They'll get us spotted, or killed, arguing over who gets to polish the relic first."
Neralia drew herself up, her voice a venomous hiss. "We are trained. We are capable C-Rank adventurers, unlike some gutter-born pretender who stumbles into power. Our family's honor…"
"Is a liability," I finished flatly. "This isn't about honor. It's about surviving a place that eats honor for breakfast and shits out bones. They don't listen to me. I can't work with people who look at me like I'm something stuck to their boot."
"They will follow your lead in matters of the mission objective," Valerius said, his tone brooking no argument. It was clear this was non-negotiable, a political sop to the City Lord, a way to give his children a taste of "real" glory under controlled(ish) circumstances. "Their combat skills and knowledge of noble houses, which you may need to identify rival parties, are assets. Your… unique skill set and proven survivability are the primary assets. You will manage."
Manage. He made it sound like herding cats. Rabid, entitled, heavily armed cats.
Boromir rumbled, his eyes on his children, a warning in his gaze. "You will follow Kaizen's operational command in the field. This is not a pleasure outing. Your purpose is to support the mission and return with the asset. Is that understood?"
The twins exchanged a look, a silent, furious communication. Swallowing their pride visibly choked them, but the weight of their father's and the Guild Master's combined will was too heavy. They gave stiff, synchronized nods. "Understood," Lashley gritted out.
Neralia's nod was barely perceptible, her eyes promising me silent, seething vengeance.
"Fine," I said, the word tasting like ash. My two "allies." The System's analysis had said 0-2. It hadn't specified they'd be the two people in Torak I'd least want at my back in a fight. My survival probability didn't feel like it had gone up; it felt like it had developed a whole new category of risk.
"You depart at first light," Freya said from her post by the door, her voice pulling me from my grim calculations. She'd been so silent I'd almost forgotten she was there. "From the east gate. All supplies and the compass will be delivered to the Mikaelson before dawn."
First light. The clock read 319:15:48. Less than a day of this world's long night to prepare.
There was nothing more to say. The audience was over. I was dismissed. I gave the room a final, sweeping glance, the Guild Master's unreadable intensity, the City Lord's stern resolve, the Duchess's cool appraisal, the twins' smoldering resentment and then turned on my heel. I didn't look at Freya as I passed her, pushing the heavy oak door open and stepping back into the silent stairwell.
The walk down the four flights felt longer than the walk up. The weight of the mission, the countdown, the unwanted companions, it was a physical pressure on my shoulders. But as I descended, a quieter, more persistent thought pushed its way through the operational clutter.
Freya.
Why her?
Yes, she was striking. All sharp angles, raven black hair, and defiant black eyes. And yes, there had been that one night, a frantic collision of adrenaline and leftover fear after the beast horde's first wave was repelled. It had been more about feeling alive than about feeling anything for her. A messy, desperate tangle in a dusty storeroom, a mutual scratching of an itch born from surviving the unsurvivable. We hadn't spoken of it since. It existed in a pocket of time, separate from the wary respect and heated arguments that defined us.
But why was she the linchpin?
Mission 2: Keep Freya Mikaelson alive. Not "keep the city safe," or "defeat the Beast Tamer." Her specific survival had been the primary objective. The System had woven my fate directly to hers for ninety hours. And now, Mission 3 explicitly forbade her as an ally. 'Due to existing obligations and Royal Guard protocols.'
Was it just politics? Was she secretly more important than a knight-captain's daughter? The Duchess had called her "Dame Freya" with a particular emphasis. Was there a title, a lineage, a destiny I was too clueless to see?
Or was it… me? Did the System see some connection I didn't? Was she a trigger for my growth, a focal point for its cruel curriculum? Protect her, then be denied her. Learn to need someone, then learn to stand without them. It felt like the kind of twisted lesson the Administrator would love.
The questions swirled, unanswered, a mystery buried beneath the more immediate mystery of the Philosopher's Stone. Maybe I'd find out in time. Or maybe she was just a piece on the board, and I was another, and our paths had been crossed by a player with a sick sense of narrative.
I pushed through the 'GUILD PERSONNEL' door back into the warm, raucous noise of the common hall. The buzz of adventurers, the clank of tankards, the smell of cheap ale and ambition, it was a slap of normalcy after the rarified, deadly air upstairs.
My feet carried me automatically toward the long reception counter. Gwen was there, finishing up with a pair of hopeful-looking E-Ranks. She saw me approaching, and her professional mask slipped just enough for a flicker of concern to show in her green eyes.
The E-Ranks moved off, bickering about who would carry the tent. I leaned on the counter, the polished wood solid and real under my palms.
"So?" she asked, her voice low. "What was the summons? Are you being exiled? Promoted? Something dreadfully boring involving paperwork?"
I forced a grin, but it felt tight. "A bit of column A, a bit of column B. Let's call it a 'special assignment.' Out of town for a bit."
Her eyes narrowed. She could see through the bravado. "How out of town? And how 'special'?"
"East. And 'potentially fatal' special," I admitted, dropping the act. There was no point lying to Gwen. Not about this.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She glanced around, then gestured with her chin toward the quieter end of the counter. We moved down. "Silas Vane?" she whispered.
"Worse. Royal politics and cursed ruins." I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I leave at first light. With… chaperones."
"Chaperones?"
"The twins."
A laugh burst out of her, sharp and surprised. She quickly covered her mouth. "Gods. You're serious? Lashley and Neralia? On a stealth mission? Who's idea was that? A comedian's?"
"The Guild Master's and the City Lord's. I think it's punishment for both sides."
Her laughter faded into a look of genuine worry. "Kaizen… that's a disaster waiting to happen. They'll get you killed out of sheer spite."
"I know." The two words were heavy. "But I don't have a choice. The mission… it's important. And it gets me out of Silas's immediate reach."
She studied my face for a long moment, reading the fatigue, the frustration, the underlying dread I couldn't fully hide. Her expression softened. Her hand reached across the counter and covered mine, her fingers cool and sure. "You'll figure it out. You always do. Against goblin chiefs, beast hordes, shadow monsters… you've got a knack for surviving the impossible."
Her touch was an anchor. In a world of shifting loyalties, political games, and System-generated doom, Gwen was a constant. Sharp, funny, unimpressed by pretense, and solidly in my corner.
I turned my hand under hers, lacing our fingers together. The simple connection sparked something, cutting through the chill the upstairs meeting had left in me. The memory of her kiss in the storage room, the promise of more, the sheer normal human need amidst all the supernatural chaos, it roared back to the forefront.
"Gwen," I said, my voice dropping. "Come back to the Mikaelson with me."
Her eyebrow arched. "Oh? Finally cashing in that rain check? I was beginning to think you'd lost the ticket."
"The ticket's looking a little worn, but it's still valid. And I'm leaving at first light." I squeezed her hand. "I don't want to spend my last night in this city thinking about cursed forts and pompous idiots. I want to spend it with you. Doing what we should have done weeks ago."
A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. It was a smile that held promises of its own, a welcome distraction from death-clocks and impossible quests. She glanced around once more, then leaned in close, her scent of ink and lavender cutting through the ale-smell of the hall.
"I get off my shift in one hour," she murmured, her breath warm against my ear. "Your room?"
"Mine's closer. And has a lock."
"One hour," she repeated, pulling back, her professional mask sliding back into place, though her eyes still danced. "Don't be late. And try not to get into any more trouble on the way."
I pushed off the counter, a real, if weary, smile finally finding its way to my face. "No promises. But I'll be there waiting."
As I walked out of the Guild Hall into the cool night, the countdown still glowed: 318:52:11. The mission was a mountain. The twins were a landslide waiting to happen. Freya was a riddle wrapped in an enigma.
But for the next hour, none of that existed. There was only the anticipation of a warm room, a locked door, and the fierce, wonderfully mundane comfort of Gwen. It wasn't much. But in a world that kept trying to grind me into paste, it was everything.