The sun dipped low over Duskhollow, painting the sky in bruised streaks of purple and orange. Arin collapsed onto the wooden bench outside the guild, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. His hands still trembled from the fight with the Stone Beetles.
He looked down at his sword—its once-shiny edge now dull, chipped, and streaked with beetle ichor.
This blade won't last long at this rate.
Lyra leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her silver-gray eyes scanning him critically. "You're sloppy with your footwork. Too heavy on your swings. You waste energy when you panic."
Arin winced but didn't argue. She wasn't wrong.
Then, unexpectedly, she tossed him a small leather pouch.
He caught it, frowning. "What's this?"
"Your share," she said simply. "Seven Silver Marks. I keep five."
Arin blinked. "Wait—you're taking less?"
Lyra shrugged. "I'm higher rank. I don't need the coin as desperately as you. You should be putting money into better gear. If your sword breaks mid-quest, I'll have to carry your dead weight. I'd rather avoid that."
Her words were blunt, but Arin caught the hidden meaning: she was investing in him.
The Blacksmith
That evening, they found themselves in a forge tucked between taverns, its walls glowing with the light of smoldering coals. The blacksmith—a burly, scar-faced man named Doran—grunted when Arin laid his battered sword on the counter.
"This thing's more cracked than a drunk's skull," Doran growled, inspecting it. "Barely worth reforging. You want somethin' proper?"
Arin glanced nervously at the weapons displayed along the wall. Gleaming steel, curved blades, heavy axes. Each one looked far beyond his coin pouch's weight.
"How much for a replacement sword?" he asked.
Doran smirked. "Cheapest blade here'll cost you one Gold Crown."
Arin's heart sank. That was a hundred Silver Marks. He barely had seven.
Lyra stepped forward. "He can't afford that. Give him something sturdy, cheap, but workable. He's a rookie, not a noble."
Doran eyed her, then snorted. "Fine. I've got a training steel. Not pretty, but it'll hold an edge. Twenty Silver."
Arin opened his pouch, hands shaking. He had to use nearly all his coin, but Lyra quietly slipped the last few Silver onto the counter without a word.
When Arin glanced at her in surprise, she only smirked. "Consider it an investment in not dying next time."
Training in the Wilds
The next few weeks blurred together. They hunted beasts in the forests, tracked goblins along riverbanks, and delivered supplies to mining camps. Each day was the same rhythm: wake sore, fight hard, eat poorly, collapse exhausted, repeat.
But slowly, Arin changed.
He learned to read Lyra's signals in battle—the way her eyes flicked before she moved, the sharp whistle she gave before striking. They moved like two halves of the same blade.
In return, Lyra began to trust him with her back. At first, she barked orders and corrected every mistake. But gradually, her tone softened. She still criticized, but she no longer looked at him like dead weight.
One night, as they camped beneath the stars, Arin asked the question that had been gnawing at him.
"Why did you become an adventurer?"
Lyra stared into the crackling fire for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was low.
"…Because I don't want to be weak anymore."
Arin frowned. "Weak? You're already strong."
She shook her head. "Strong compared to you, maybe. But compared to the real monsters out there? Compared to the Rank Fives, Sixes, Sevens? I'm nothing. My father… he was an adventurer. He died because he wasn't strong enough."
Her hand tightened on the hilt of her blade.
Arin swallowed, then said quietly, "Then… I'll get strong too. Strong enough so you're never alone against those monsters."
Lyra's eyes flicked toward him, and for once, her smirk was gone. She simply stared at him for a moment, then looked away.
"…Idiot."
But there was a warmth in her voice.
A Fight Worth Remembering
Two months later, they took on a quest to clear out a wolf pack that had been harassing merchants.
The battle was brutal. The wolves were faster than rabbits, smarter than beetles, and fought as a pack. Arin barely kept his footing as fangs snapped inches from his throat.
But then he saw Lyra surrounded—three wolves circling, waiting for her guard to slip.
Without thinking, Arin charged, shoving her aside as one of the wolves lunged. Its jaws clamped down on his arm, teeth piercing through flesh. Pain exploded, white-hot, but he roared and rammed his sword into its throat.
The beast collapsed, blood soaking the ground.
Lyra was at his side in an instant, her blade flashing as she cut down the other two. She knelt by him, eyes wide with something Arin had never seen before—fear.
"You idiot!" she snapped, voice trembling. "Why would you do that?!"
Arin gritted his teeth, clutching his bleeding arm. "Because… I said I'd watch your back."
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then, to his shock, Lyra actually laughed—a sharp, shaky laugh that quickly broke into a grin.
"You're reckless," she muttered, tying a cloth around his arm. "But… maybe not useless."
Arin smiled weakly, despite the pain.
And in that moment, something changed. They weren't just partners. They weren't just teammates. They were friends.
Friends who would bleed for each other.