---
Milo's party returned from the log structure contest, still laughing about Nico's frustrated scowl when Aden suddenly stopped mid-sentence. His voice cut off into a stammer.
"M-Milo… look."
Milo blinked, following his friend's trembling finger toward the central firepit. His eyes widened, breath catching.
Standing there—radiant, casual, impossible—was Princess Neptis of Aqurelle.
The party froze like statues. Rhea dropped her spear outright, her pink hair falling into her face as she stammered in disbelief. Aden nearly lost his balance and stumbled back, glasses sliding crooked as his voice cracked:
"T-that's—! T-that's the Princess Neptis! The sovereign of the tides—the holder of Undine itself!"
The stoic rogue with black hair actually fell to one knee instinctively, an uncharacteristic slip of reverence. The muscular fighter was the only one still standing tall, though his jaw clenched and his eyes betrayed the same awe.
Milo just… froze. For all the battles, for all the strange encounters, for all the supposed luck, this was beyond anything he could process. He swallowed hard, mouth dry, hands clammy.
Neptis tilted her head at the commotion, sipping her Elyspirit Water as if this scene played out often. Her eyes flicked over Milo and his group once, unimpressed, before settling casually on Oliver.
Oliver, who was scratching the back of his brown hair, still very much lost in all this.
"She… does seem like a big deal, huh?" he muttered under his breath.
"'A big deal?!'" Sorrel practically hissed from his shoulder, his whiskers twitching, tail puffed up in exasperation. The otter straightened his glasses and hopped forward, bowing deeply in practiced formality. His voice took on a princely authority Oliver had rarely heard.
"Princess Neptis, it is an honor. I am Sorrel of the Riverine Courts, second son of King Marivale. Allow me to extend due greetings on behalf of my companion here."
Oliver blinked. "Wait—you're a prince?!" he whispered, earning a curt "Not the time, Oliver," from Sorrel.
Neptis's cool gaze softened faintly as she studied Sorrel's bow. She gave a half-smile. "Formality. Haven't seen that in years." Then her eyes slid back to Oliver, lingering.
"So this is the Traveler Rosemary mentioned. The one with the Salamander."
Oliver froze, pointing at himself awkwardly. "…Me?"
"Yes, you," Neptis replied flatly. Her tone wasn't cruel, but casual—so casual it made Oliver more nervous than shouting would've. "Not many Travelers get help from princesses. Fewer still earn Rosemary's praise. She called you 'unusual'."
Oliver's mouth opened, closed, opened again. He didn't know how to answer without sounding dumb. Thankfully, Sorrel stepped forward again with a graceful bow. "Her Highness Rosemary can be… impulsive. But her word carries weight."
Neptis chuckled faintly. "Impulsive is generous. Childish is more accurate." She tipped back her water bottle, then walked past Oliver without further explanation.
As Riven led her deeper into the camp, Milo's group scrambled. Milo himself, usually shielded by absurd luck, was now red-faced and frozen stiff. When Neptis paused by him, his breath stopped entirely.
"So… you're the 'hero'," Neptis said. Her piercing eyes studied him like one might study a strange artifact. "Impressive. Very few Travelers draw the attention of two Arch Lords. Beauty and Harvest, no less. That's… rare."
Milo's voice broke into a jumble of stutters. "Y-y-yes, I—I mean—uh—thank you—Your Highness—ma'am—uh—" His party stared, equally tongue-tied.
Neptis smirked faintly, then turned away. "You'll need more than luck if you want to keep their favor."
The entire camp buzzed with hushed murmurs as she disappeared with Riven toward the command tent.
---
On the outskirts:
Garrick stood with his arms folded, lips pursed, eyes low. He chuckled once, but there was no humor in it. Everyone's moving up but me.
Oliver rubbed his neck. "What… do I even say to her?"
Milo stared at the ground, mortified at his fumbling.
Nico flared a burst of flame from his palm. "That. Was. AWESOME! Did you see her? She didn't even blink! Totally amazing~."
Patchouli slipped gracefully between Oliver and Milo, patting both on the back with her trademark smile. "You two. You're both amazing adventurers. Titles don't change that."
For once, Oliver and Milo shared the same expression—half-embarrassed, half-determined.
---
The camp smelled alive with Hale Eryndor's cooking. Steam and spice drifted in the twilight air as voices murmured over glowing phones, shadows of laughter and arguments mixing with the clatter of spoons.
Zack leaned against the post nearest the fire, half in shadow, half out, arms folded. His eyes tracked everything, but his expression betrayed nothing. He hadn't touched a plate.
At the long tables, Milo's party had already clustered together. Rhea sat close at his side, posture stiff, gaze cutting like an icicle whenever Oliver approached. She handed Milo his bowl of Phoenix-inspired noodle stew—a wide crimson broth flecked with peppers and firefruit oil, the noodles shimmering faintly with Vita heat.
Oliver hesitated, then sat across from Milo anyway. The steam fogged his face as he stirred his own portion, trying not to notice Rhea's glare.
Milo flinched at the intrusion, hand pausing over his spoon, but then he brushed a hand through his blonde hair, regaining his calm. His voice steadied.
"Something on your mind?"
Oliver nodded, leaning forward. "Yeah. I wanted to ask about your class. You're… what, exactly?"
Milo exhaled once, then set his bowl down. His gaze lifted, lit faintly by the fire.
"I'm a Hero class," he said simply. "Chosen by the Light itself."
Oliver's brows rose. "The Light…? You mean like… elemental?"
Milo nodded slowly. "Not exactly an element the way fire or water is. Light's different—it isn't something you're born with. It's something bestowed. Where I come from… I was distant. From my parents, my village, everything. Nothing tied me down. Then, one day, she came." His voice softened. "The Arch Lord of Beauty. She placed the Light in me. Said I'd been seen. Chosen. That's how it began."
For a moment, Oliver forgot the food between them. He studied Milo carefully. The boy didn't sound arrogant; if anything, he sounded burdened.
Before Oliver could ask more, Aden's voice cut across the table, animated and bright:
"Milo! Milo! You gotta hear this—we found a new underground biome, lush caverns full of glowing flora! It's wild!"
The hero blinked, collected his bowl, and stood. "I should see this." He gave Oliver a polite nod before turning to follow his party.
And just like that, Oliver sat alone again.
He prodded his stew quietly until the bench creaked beside him. Garrick plopped down, a bowl of mushroom forest stew steaming in his hands. His blonde hair stuck out at odd angles, and he already had broth on his chin.
"Evenin'," Garrick said between slurps. He stirred his wooden spoon through the dark earthy broth, mushrooms bobbing up and down. "How was your day?"
Oliver blinked, then smiled faintly. "It was… great, actually."
Garrick nodded, blowing on a spoonful. "Good. You deserve a good day." He slurped loudly, unbothered. "Place feels kinda crowded, doesn't it? All these princesses, Arch Lords, and lucky heroes running around. But, eh. As long as Hale keeps cookin', I'm happy."
Oliver chuckled, shoulders easing for the first time since sitting down. The fire cracked nearby. For a moment, with Garrick at his side, it felt less like politics and Arch Lords—and more like dinner with a friend.
---