Charles didn't mind at all, just grinned. "Turns out I've got connections with the dwarves too. Next time, I'll bring you a few barrels of their strongest spirits!"
Torun felt a secret surge of anticipation, though he kept his words tough. "Forget that—if you can bring some heavy weapons, that'd be even better."
"I can bring both—booze and blades. Once we take down the demons, we'll throw a party and drink 'til we drop!"
"…Alright, we'll have ourselves a real blowout then!"
Their conversation flowed and the mood gradually grew warmer. Charles and Torun swapped a few dwarven jokes, and before they knew it, the hour was late and the wine was in their heads.
Just then, a confused female voice called out from behind them. "Priest Charles? Torun?"
Both men turned simultaneously, seeing Willo—dressed in a robe the color of fallen leaves, a simple medical kit slung over her shoulder—gazing at them in bewilderment. "You two… drinking together?"
Charles flashed a big grin. "Yep! Just hanging with my bro, catching up and bonding."
Torun laughed too. "Pity the booze isn't stronger—guess our new friendship's still got a long way to go!"
Both burst out laughing, and seeing them like this, Willo relaxed, a gentle smile settling on her face.
As expected—there's nothing like sharing a drink to bring men together.
That was the thought in her mind, right before a minotaur matron bellowed in the distance, "Who's out there, laughing like hyenas in the middle of the night! Some people are trying to sleep!"
Clearly, their boisterous laughter had woken a few folks up.
Charles and Torun fell instantly silent, acting like scolded kids. Willo, however, just smiled softly and didn't scold them harshly. "Not too much to drink and don't stay up too late. We've got a busy day tomorrow, so get some rest."
"Ah, yes, ma'am!" Charles quickly packed away the glasses and wine into his Bag of Holding. "Let me walk you back, Matriarch Willo. See you tomorrow, Torun!"
Torun exhaled long, feeling all the gloom in his heart finally dispersed. "Tomorrow then, Charles."
And with that, Charles and Willo left the minotaur camp together.
Once they'd gotten a ways away from Torun, Willo suddenly turned, asking, "What's going on with you two? You're suddenly drinking and calling each other brother? Weren't you at each other's throats earlier?"
Charles shrugged. "Gotta patch things up with allies, right? Otherwise, if we can't trust each other when we face the demons, we'll get our butts handed to us."
Hearing this, Willo looked both moved and a little tired. In the moonlight, she gazed at Charles's profile, the lines of responsibility on his shoulders finally relaxed, and all the days' exhaustion caught up with her. Suddenly, her knees buckled, and she nearly collapsed.
Charles instantly grabbed her shoulder, face full of concern. "Willo? Are you alright? Need help?"
But as soon as he spoke, he realized he was dizzy himself. Turns out, the wine had a heavier kick than he thought, and he'd definitely overdone it.
Willo closed her eyes, then gently shook her head. "I'll be fine. Let me just lean on you for a second and rest."
She slipped sideways, her head resting on Charles's arm, breathing deep to steady herself.
And as she did, her proud chest rose, slow and generous, catching Charles's eye despite himself.
But Willo didn't seem to notice. She was still half stunned from fatigue. The past days had been nothing short of overwhelming.
That sense of duty refused to let her slow down, but the truth was her body had reached its limit long ago.
Only now, when she let her guard down for a moment, did exhaustion nearly swamp her.
Seeing she wasn't going to recover in an instant, Charles simply lifted his arm, drawing her wholly into his embrace, letting her rest against him, offering a firm shoulder to lean on.
And, if he was being honest, helping himself steady against the wine as well.
He drew a deep breath, trying to stay clear-headed, while the soft, earthy scent of herbs drifted from Willo's hair, tangling around his senses. The closeness was different, somehow, from anything he'd felt before.
Willo was, truthfully, not very tall—about five-foot-two, not much different from Hattie. Charles had shot up this year, past five-foot-seven, and right now he could enfold her easily, letting her rest against his chest.
Compared to any girl he'd ever met, Willo was—softer. Not in body alone, but temperament, too, everything about her was yielding, almost boneless.
Especially right now, with only a thin robe to guard her, that softness was even more apparent, and Charles couldn't help wanting to just gather her up, hold her close, savor this gentle peace.
But it wasn't only softness—there was a heat to her body too. It was the dead of winter, and she was dressed so lightly that by all rights, she should've been freezing.
And yet, maybe thanks to druidic nature magic, her body held a steady, perfect human warmth—normal in theory, but in this icy night, it felt like something you'd never want to let go.
At least, Charles didn't want to let go—wine warming his blood, all cares forgotten, lost in Willo's softness and warmth, simply wanting to relax and enjoy this rare moment of tranquility.
What he didn't know was Willo, right then, was savoring his warmth just as much, craving the solid comfort of his chest, drinking in that almost sunlike safe haven that belonged to men alone.
Charles's Constitution score was sixteen—maybe not the greatest in the world, but certainly elite, even among the strongest.
Even for Highmountain minotaurs, few could outclass him in resilience. Thanks to that, he was plenty warm enough with just a thick sweater, offering Willo a perfect, irresistible source of comfort.
Willo was weary and vulnerable, nearly despairing before, but this embrace, this comfort wrapped her up—and how could she not get a little lost in it?
Her arms circled Charles's waist, subconsciously hoping time would slow down, that she could savor this escape a little longer, freed from all those crushing responsibilities.
Bathed in moonlight, the two simply stayed there, holding each other, no longer supporting so much as softly clinging, caught in a rare and private moment. The deep of night was totally silent; all that remained were their breaths, growing slow and heavy.
Then, suddenly, a high-pitched shout broke the spell: "What are you doing?!"
Startled, both of them jerked apart, immediately turning to see Adele—also carrying a medical kit, wide-eyed and stunned.
"You… what are you two doing here?"
Face utterly calm, Charles replied, "Matriarch Willo was overworked and almost fainted. I just helped her, that's all."
Willo's face turned crimson, a sheen of sweat on her brow as she nodded. "That's right, Adele, it's not what you think, don't get any ideas—it's nothing!"
Adele's eyes flashed. She ground her teeth for a second, then rushed over and grabbed Willo's arm. "I get it. But mom, seriously—you need to take care of yourself! Stop pushing so hard, you're going to wear yourself out."
"Come on—I'm taking you to rest in the tent, now."
Willo tried to protest—there was still so much to do, she couldn't rest yet—but Adele wouldn't take no for an answer, quickly leading her mother away.
Charles stood there, watching the two women leave, feeling nothing but gratitude and hope. Thank the gods—there are still people in this world who care about the big picture. The mountain tribes might just have hope yet.
He was lost in thought when Adele suddenly turned and shot him a death glare. At the same time, his Sending Stone buzzed. Charging it with magic, Charles immediately heard Adele's voice echoing in his mind: "Charles, you playboy bastard. Don't you dare mess with my mother. Not one funny idea, or else!"
His eyebrows shot up. Fueled by the wine, indignation bubbled up inside. A wild thought crossed his mind.
So, this little lamb thinks I'm the one seducing her mom?
Heh…
Honestly, until now, all he'd ever felt for Willo was respect—she was a true public servant. He'd never harbored any blasphemous thoughts, even felt put off when he'd first heard Theresa's plan.
But now… well.
Sorry, Adele. You forget—I'm barely sixteen. This is my rebellious age!