By floor forty-four, Zeref and I were somehow moving like a functioning duo. Which, considering our usual dynamic of "he flirts, I threaten to stab him," was progress.
He'd yell "Duck!" and I'd already be rolling.
I'd swing, he'd burn whatever I missed.
Teamwork, or chaos, depending on perspective.
We were also running on fumes. Between mobs, we'd take turns napping in the corridors. I crashed first, sitting against a wall while Zeref muttered something about watching my back.
When I woke, it was his turn, sprawled out on the cold floor, cloak half over his face.
He looked weirdly peaceful. Which irritated me for reasons I refuse to unpack.
By the time we hit floor forty-eight, the dungeon air was heavy. Thicker. Mana clung to the skin like mist.
"Feels… different," I muttered.
"Yeah," he said, staff pulsing faintly. "Mana density's off the charts."
"Translation: we're screwed?"
He smiled. "You said it, not me."
