Adlet walked alone through the dunes.
The Sand Graveyard lay behind him now, but it had not released its grip so easily. Each step away from that place felt heavier than the last, as if the desert itself were reluctant to let him go.
He moved slowly.
Not because he lacked strength—but because his body demanded it.
Fatigue lingered deep in his muscles, dull and persistent. His skin still burned faintly where heat and friction had gnawed at it. Sand clung to him no matter how often he brushed it away, grinding against joints, seeping into boots, stealing just enough balance to remind him how close he had come to collapse.
He had nearly died.
Not in a blaze of glory.
Not overwhelmed by power alone.
But worn down.
Heat. Thirst. Exhaustion.
An environment that stripped away precision and punished hesitation.
Adlet exhaled and let his green Aura flow.
The familiar sensation spread through him—cooler, gentler than the others. Muscles relaxed. Micro-tears closed. Bruises faded beneath the steady pulse of regeneration. It didn't erase his fatigue, but it softened the edges, allowing him to keep moving.
He focused on the rhythm of his steps.
On the fact that he was still here.
The image of the Manticore surfaced unbidden—its presence alone enough to tighten his chest. Not the fight. Not the pain.
The certainty.
The way it had looked at him.
As if his existence had been… optional.
Adlet clenched his jaw and pushed the thought aside.
By the time Savar's sandstone walls came into view, the desert had loosened its grip. The air felt marginally cooler. The dunes gave way to firmer ground. Sounds returned—voices, carts, distant calls.
Civilization.
He passed through the gates without incident and headed straight for the Protector Guild.
The familiar hall greeted him with its controlled chaos—merchants negotiating, Protectors resting between assignments, notices being torn down and replaced. It felt strangely small now.
He made his way to the inner offices.
The guild official looked up as Adlet entered.
A flicker of surprise crossed the man's face—followed quickly by approval.
"So," he said, folding his hands. "You're back already. Congratulations on completing your first mission in the Sand Graveyard."
Adlet frowned.
"…What?"
The official raised an eyebrow. "The Fortress Elephant. Rank four. Eliminated."
Adlet stiffened.
"That's not right," he said carefully. "I didn't defeat it. I didn't even bring back proof."
The man leaned back in his chair. "Soren Horus reported that the Elephant died during your engagement with it."
Adlet's brow furrowed deeper.
"But he's the one who—"
He stopped himself.
"…If anyone deserves credit, it's him."
The official studied him for a moment.
"Did Soren defeat the Fortress Elephant?" he asked.
Adlet didn't answer immediately.
Images flashed—sand, blood, wings, a shadow falling over everything.
"No," he said at last.
"Then," the man continued evenly, "did the Elephant die during your battle with it?"
Adlet exhaled slowly.
Framed that way… it was impossible to deny.
"…Yes."
He explained what had happened after. The Manticore. The intervention. The escape.
The official listened without interruption.
When Adlet finished, the man nodded once.
"These are the realities of high-rank missions," he said. "Unpredictable variables. Interference. Survival over formality. The merit stands."
Adlet nodded.
In truth, he didn't care.
He only wanted to move again.
To fight.
To erase the memory of helplessness carved into him by that encounter.
"Then give me another mission," he said. "As soon as possible."
The official shook his head.
"None available at the moment."
Adlet's shoulders tensed.
"You should rest," the man added firmly. "Not later. Now. You pushed your limits, whether you acknowledge it or not. Ignoring your condition is how Protectors disappear."
Adlet held his gaze for a long moment—then looked away.
"…Understood."
Adlet left the guild without another word—but his legs didn't carry him straight to a bed.
Outside, Savar's air felt different from the Sand Graveyard's: cooler in the smallest ways, heavier with smells that weren't just dust and heat. Stone held onto the night's lingering chill. Voices bounced between buildings. Somewhere, metal rang against metal—someone repairing gear, someone preparing for the next departure.
It should've felt safe.
Instead it felt… exposed.
In the dunes, danger had been honest. Here, the quiet came in corners. In blind spots. In moments where you realized you'd stopped listening.
Adlet walked anyway, letting the city guide him without thinking too hard about where he was going. His pack sat wrong on his shoulders. Not because it was heavier—because his body finally understood it was allowed to be tired.
He passed the crowded streets near the guild first. The lanterns there were brighter, the noise constant, the people too close. His instincts flinched at every brush of fabric, every laugh that rose too suddenly. It was irrational.
He'd just fought something that could have ended him with one clean motion.
And yet, a stranger's elbow in a narrow street made his muscles tense like a drawn bow.
He turned away from the center.
Toward the edge of Savar, where the buildings thinned and the stone paths gave way to quieter lanes. The city walls weren't far—Savar's perimeter felt like a hard boundary in its own right, a smaller echo of the world's stone limit out in the desert.
And there, tucked near the outskirts, he found it.
An inn with warm light behind thick windows. A simple sign. No shouting. No crowded terrace. Just a steady glow that made the night feel less sharp.
Adlet stopped in front of it, breathing once, slow.
Then he stepped inside.
Warmth hit him first—real warmth, not the Sand Graveyard's pressing heat. The smell of cooked food followed, then the low murmur of conversation that didn't carry the edge of negotiation or competition. A fire crackled somewhere. The floorboards were worn, but clean.
For a moment, his body didn't know what to do with that.
The instinct to scan didn't vanish. It just… softened. Like a fist loosening after being clenched too long.
Adlet approached the counter.
The innkeeper looked up—an older man with steady hands and eyes that didn't miss much. His gaze slid over Adlet's clothes, the dust ingrained in every seam, the way his gear sat on him like something lived-in rather than worn for show.
And he understood immediately.
"A Protector," the innkeeper said, not quite a question.
Adlet nodded. His throat felt dry. He cleared it once.
"How much for a room," he asked, "and a meal?"
The innkeeper's brows lifted—not in surprise at the question, but at the fact Adlet had asked it seriously.
"You're not from Savar," he said.
Adlet's mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it.
"No."
The innkeeper sighed like he'd heard this before.
"Room's upstairs. Second door on the left," he said, then waved the question away with one hand. "And you don't pay."
Adlet blinked.
"…What?"
The innkeeper tilted his head. "Protectors don't pay. Not here."
Adlet stared at him for a beat, slow to accept something that simple.
The man's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Let me guess," he said. "You've been in the desert long enough to forget what 'normal' looks like."
Adlet didn't answer.
Because he didn't know if it was true.
But something in him reacted to the word forget.
Normal.
Like it had been a life he'd set down somewhere and hadn't picked back up.
The innkeeper's tone eased.
"You take missions, you keep the worst things out there from coming closer," he said. "Savar feeds you. Gives you a bed. That's the arrangement."
Adlet's fingers tightened once around his pack strap, then loosened.
"…Understood," he said quietly.
The innkeeper nodded and gestured toward a long table near the back.
"Sit. I'll bring something."
Adlet moved like he didn't fully trust the floor to hold him.
He chose a spot with his back to a wall out of habit, then realized he'd done it and almost corrected—almost forced himself to sit differently, like it mattered.
He didn't.
He let his body have its habits. Let it be what it was.
The room wasn't empty. A few people ate in silence. A pair of travelers murmured to each other. A Protector sat with his hood down, staring into a bowl like he'd forgotten how eating worked.
Adlet understood that look too well.
When the food arrived, it was simple—bread, stew, something salted and filling. Not elegant. Not memorable.
Perfect.
The first few bites were mechanical. Chew. Swallow. Breathe.
Then warmth began to spread through him in places that had been hollow for days.
He realized, with a faint, almost unsettling clarity, that he hadn't truly eaten calmly since a while.
Since before the Manticore.
His hand paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth.
His mind tried to bring back the shape of it—the wings, the weight of its presence, the way its gaze had made him feel like an accident that hadn't been corrected yet.
He forced the spoon into his mouth anyway.
Swallowed.
Kept going.
Because if he stopped, the desert would come with him into this room. It would climb onto the table, sit across from him, and wait.
When he finished, Adlet sat there a while longer, listening to the low sounds of the inn. Not searching for threats—just letting sound exist without meaning death.
His shoulders sank by degrees.
The innkeeper passed by once, glanced at the empty bowl, and left without comment. No lecture. No praise. No curiosity.
Just space.
Adlet rose and went upstairs.
The room was small. A real bed. Clean sheets. A basin of water. The kind of ordinary that felt almost suspicious.
He closed the door behind him and set his pack down.
Then he began removing his gear.
Not in a rush, not like stripping armor after surviving a fight.
Slowly.
Piece by piece.
As if each strap undone was permission to be human again.
When it was finally off, he stretched his arms and felt the stiffness answer like an old wound. His body complained. His skin still held grit no bath could erase in one night.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
And the silence pressed in.
Not hostile.
Just present.
Adlet stared at his hands, the faint tremor he hadn't allowed himself to notice earlier.
He remembered the moment the Manticore's shadow had fallen over him.
He remembered thinking, So this is how it ends.
His jaw tightened. His throat felt tight too, like something stuck there that wasn't food.
Eventually, he lay back.
The bed accepted him too easily. Like it had been waiting.
He stared at the ceiling.
And felt the world shift.
The clearing greeted him as it always had.
Grass underfoot. The river's constant, quiet motion. Not a place that didn't exist—but a place so distant from his body that it always felt like stepping out of a storm into something that had never known wind.
Pami drifted near the water, ribbons moving with slow patience, presence steady enough to make Adlet's chest loosen.
Adlet sat down heavily.
For a moment, he didn't speak.
Then, quietly:
"I hate that I froze," he said.
Pami's tails swayed once.
"You did not freeze," Pami replied. "You endured."
Adlet let out a breath that was almost a laugh and not at all.
"I endured because I had no choice."
"A Protector rarely has choice in the moment," Pami said. "Only in what they do with it after."
Adlet stared at the river.
The surface moved like nothing in the world could ever truly hold still.
"…I was tired," he admitted. "Not just tired. Worn down. The sand… the heat… it made everything slower. Clumsier. Like my own body was betraying me."
Pami's voice remained calm.
"And you learned."
Adlet's fingers curled into the grass.
"I learned what it feels like to be looked at like prey," he said. "Not by an Apex that's hunting. By something that—" He stopped. Swallowed. "By something that doesn't even need to hunt to kill."
The words hung between them.
Pami didn't rush to fill them.
He let Adlet sit with it, the way the desert had forced him to sit with silence.
Then, softly:
"And yet… you survived."
Adlet's eyes closed.
"…Yeah."
A pause.
Then Adlet spoke again, quieter—not confession, not pride.
Just truth.
"When you spoke to me out there… it felt clearer," he said. "Like the distance mattered less."
Pami's ribbons drifted, almost thoughtful.
"Our bond deepens," he said simply. "That is its nature."
Adlet nodded once.
He didn't say thank you.
But something in his expression eased, like a knot loosening without needing to be acknowledged.
The clearing began to fade, the edges of it softening as his mind reached the limit of what it could hold while awake.
Pami's voice followed him like a hand on his shoulder.
"Rest," he said. "Not to give in—so you can come back clear."
Adlet let go.
Back in the inn, his breathing slowed.
The silence didn't feel unnatural anymore.
It felt earned.
And because his thoughts had finally stopped running in circles—because Pami's steady presence had given the fear a place to settle without consuming him—
sleep came.
Gently.
No alarms.
No wings in the dark.
Just one full night where the desert didn't have his throat in its hand.