The farewell at the Waygate was brief but heavy.
King Aerion and Ancestor Gaia stood by the swirling vortex of the portal. There were no grand speeches this time, only quiet nods of respect. Gaia handed Nyx a small pouch of seeds, not world seeds, just simple Elven herbs for tea and healing. It was a grandmotherly gesture that felt more significant than the royal treasures.
"Be safe," Gaia whispered, touching Nyx's arm. "And remember... a bridge connects."
"I will remember," Nyx promised.
"Don't hesitate to use my name if that old dragon or the little girl give you any trouble" Gaia said.
"I will remember it." Nyx nodded.
He stepped into the vortex. Briar and Lyra followed, their hands firmly in his.
The world twisted. The cool, fragrant air of the Elven forest vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by a blast of dry heat and the roar of a million voices.
They stumbled out onto a stone receiving platform on the outer rim of the Sacred Grounds.
The sensory overload was instant. The sky here wasn't the gentle blue of the forest, it was a harsh, dusty azure, baking under the midday sun. The air smelled of roasting meat, unwashed bodies, exotic spices, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel.
Nyx blinked, his golden eyes adjusting to the glare.
Below them lay the Tent City. It was a sprawling ocean of canvas and wood, stretching for miles around the central arena. It was chaotic, loud, and vibrant. Flags of a thousand minor clans and mercenary companies snapped in the hot wind.
"Welcome to the pit," Briar muttered, adjusting the strap of her new Phoenix Scabbard. She looked around, her hand instinctively checking her surroundings for threats. But then she relaxed. No one was looking at them.
Here, they weren't Royals. They were just three more dust-covered travelers in a sea of adventurers.
"Masks up," Lyra whispered.
She touched her Whisper-Crystals. A ripple of mana washed over them.
Briar's fiery red hair faded into a nondescript, sandy brown. Her striking features softened, making her look like a common soldier who had seen a few too many tavern fights. Her royal armor shimmered and dulled, looking like battered, second-hand leather.
Lyra's silver hair darkened to a mousy black. Her fine robes turned into gray, patched travel gear. She pulled a pair of cracked spectacles from her pocket and perched them on her nose, instantly transforming from a high-mage into a hedge-wizard.
And Nyx...
Nyx felt the illusion settle over him like a cloak. His midnight-blue robes turned into a dusty, travel-worn trench coat. The silver circlet on his brow vanished. His golden eyes faded to a muddy, unremarkable hazel. The overwhelming, god-like beauty that usually made people stop and stare was dampened, leaving him looking like just a tall, weary swordsman with a very large sword on his back.
"How do I look?" Briar asked, checking her reflection in a puddle of spilled ale near the platform.
"Like you charge ten gold coins for a goblin," Lyra critiqued, adjusting her glasses. "Perfect."
"And Nyx?" Briar turned to him. She squinted. "You look... rugged. Like a stray dog that bites."
"I prefer 'mysterious wanderer'," Nyx deadpanned, running a hand through his illusion-altered hair.
"It suits you," Briar grinned, reaching out to fix his collar. Her fingers lingered on his neck, her thumb brushing his pulse. "Even with the disguise... I still know it's you."
Nyx covered her hand with his. "Keep your hand there," he said softly. "I like the anchor."
Briar flushed, pulling her hand back but smiling. "Come on. If we're going to be the Iron-Root Mercenaries, we need to register. And I need a drink to cool down. This heat is killing me."
"Aren't you used to fire though?" Lyra mumbled as they walked.
They descended into the Tent City.
Walking through the crowd was an experience Nyx had never had. Usually, people parted for him. They bowed. They stared.
Here, he was shoved.
A massive Orc carrying a crate of ale bumped into his shoulder.
"Watch it, stick-legs!" the Orc grunted, not even looking back.
Nyx stopped. His instinct, the instinct of a God, was to crush the insect that dared to touch him. The First Shackle hummed, offering him the strength to flick the Orc into the sun.
But then he felt a small hand slip into his.
Lyra squeezed his fingers.
"Ignore it," Lyra whispered, looking up at him through her fake glasses. "Ordinary people get bumped, Nyx. Ordinary people just keep walking."
Nyx looked at the Orc's retreating back. Then he looked at Lyra.
"I am learning," Nyx murmured. "Being ordinary is... loud."
"It's freedom," Briar said, walking on his other side. "No one cares who we are. Look."
She pointed to a food stall. A group of humans and beastmen were sitting together, laughing and eating spicy kebabs. There were no politics. No racial tension. Just hunger and food.
"Let's get registered," Briar said. "Then we find an inn. I refuse to sleep in a tent if I can help it."
They found the Registration Tent. It was a chaotic mess of shouting clerks and impatient warriors.
"Name of Company?" a bored human clerk asked, not looking up from his ledger.
"Iron-Root," Briar said, leaning on the counter.
"Members?"
"Three. A Vanguard, a Mage, and..." Briar looked at Nyx and smiled. "A Heavy Hitter."
The clerk looked up. He eyed Nyx's massive, wrapped sword.
"Big sword," the clerk grunted. "Compensating for something?"
Nyx leaned over the counter. He didn't use magic. He didn't use the Void. He just stared at the clerk with a flat, unamused expression.
"It's for chopping vegetables," Nyx said.
Briar snorted, turning it into a cough. Lyra bit her lip to keep from laughing.
The clerk blinked, then shrugged. "Whatever. Entry fee is five gold. Open Bracket starts in two days. Don't die before then."
He handed them a wooden badge carved with a crude fist.
They walked out of the tent, officially mercenaries.
"Now, food," Briar declared. "Real food. Not fruit. I want meat."
They found a tavern near the edge of the camp called the Broken Shield. It was basically a large tent with wooden floors and too many tables crammed inside. It smelled of roasted boar, cheap ale, and sweat.
It was perfect.
They found a small table in the corner. Nyx sat with his back to the wall, Requiem leaning against the bench next to him. Briar and Lyra sat opposite him.
When the serving girl brought a platter of ribs and three tankards of ale, Briar looked like she might cry with joy.
"Civilization," Briar sighed, taking a long drink.
Nyx watched them. He watched the way Briar attacked the ribs with messy enthusiasm, licking sauce off her fingers cutely. He watched the way Lyra carefully cut her meat, analyzing the texture before eating.
He realized he wasn't eating. He was just watching them.
"You're staring again," Briar said, pointing a rib bone at him. "Eat, Nyx. You need to be full."
"I am full," Nyx lied. "I am feeding on the atmosphere."
"That's creepy," Lyra smiled, stealing a fry from Briar's plate.
"Hey!" Briar protested, but she let her take it.
The tavern grew louder as the sun went down. A bard in the corner started playing a bawdy song about a Dragon falling in love with a sheep.
Nyx felt a tap on his boot.
He looked down. Briar's foot was resting against his under the table. It wasn't accidental. She pressed her ankle against his, a secret point of contact in the crowded room.
Nyx looked up. Briar was drinking her ale, looking pointedly at the bard, but her cheeks were pink.
Then he felt a knee press against his other leg.
Lyra was reading her grimoire, pretending to ignore the world, but her leg was pressed firmly against his thigh.
Nyx smiled. He shifted his legs, trapping theirs between his own.
Both women faltered. Briar choked on her ale. Lyra dropped her quill.
Nyx took a sip of his drink, his expression innocent.
"Is something wrong?" Nyx asked.
"You..." Briar coughed, wiping her mouth. "You play dirty."
"I am merely securing my position," Nyx repeated his words from the horse ride.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over their table.
Three mercenaries stood there. They wore the colors of the Golden Hawk company, minor nobles playing at war. They smelled of expensive cologne and entitlement.
"Well, hello there," the leader said, leering at Briar and Lyra. He ignored Nyx completely. "You two look far too pretty to be sitting with a gloomy giant like him. Why don't you come join us? We have wine imported from the Capital."
Briar sighed deeply. She put down her rib.
"Here we go," she muttered. "The downside of being ordinary. Idiots think they have a chance."
"I'm busy," Briar said flatly. "Walk away."
"Feisty," the leader laughed, reaching out to grab Briar's arm. "Come on, darling. Don't be-"
His hand never reached her.
Nyx's hand shot out. He caught the man's wrist.
He didn't break it. He didn't crush it. He just held it.
But he felt a tiny sliver of the Third Shackle unknowingly leak out.
Just a drop.
The air around the table turned freezing cold. The noise of the tavern seemed to fade away for the three mercenaries. They looked into Nyx's hazel eyes, and for a second, the illusion flickered for them. They didn't see a mercenary. They saw a pair of golden, vertical slits staring into their souls.
They saw a predator looking at food.
"She said she is busy," Nyx whispered. His voice wasn't loud, but it vibrated in the bones of the men standing there.
The leader turned pale. Sweat beaded on his forehead instantly. He tried to pull his hand back, but Nyx's grip was like iron.
"I... we... mistake," the leader stammered.
Nyx released him.
"Go," Nyx said.
The three men scrambled away, knocking over a chair in their haste to get to the other side of the tavern.
Briar was somewhat startled.
"Okay, that was hot," Briar murmured, looking at Nyx with dilated pupils. "You didn't even stand up."
"Statistically," Lyra noted, adjusting her glasses to hide her own blush, "intimidation is more effective than violence in 89% of tavern encounters. But... yes. That was very effective."
Nyx picked up his ale.
"I do not like sharing," Nyx said simply.
Briar kicked his leg under the table again. This time, it was harder.
"Stop it," she hissed, leaning across the table. "You're going to make me do something stupid in public."
"Like what?" Nyx challenged.
"Like kiss you in front of a hundred drunk mercenaries," Briar whispered fiercely.
Nyx leaned forward. The table was small. Their faces were inches apart.
"I don't see anyone else here," Nyx said smiling.
Briar's breath hitched. She glanced at Lyra.
Lyra didn't look away. She didn't look jealous. She looked... curious. Waiting.
Briar closed the distance.
It wasn't a deep kiss. It was quick, tasting of ale and spices. But it was electric. Her lips were soft, warm, and demanding.
She pulled back, her face flaming red.
"There," she said, sitting back down abruptly. "I did it. Now eat your ribs."
Nyx touched his lips. He looked at Briar, who was aggressively chewing meat to hide her embarrassment. He looked at Lyra, who was smiling behind her book.
He picked up a rib.
"It tastes better now," Nyx said.
Briar groaned, hiding her face in her hands. "You are impossible."
They stayed in the tavern until late, listening to the music, watching the brawls, and existing in their own little bubble of warmth.
For tonight, there were no Ancient Dragons. No Parasite Gods. No dying universe.
There was just a man, two women, and the promise of a fight in the morning.
But as they walked out into the cool night air to find their inn, Nyx looked toward the center of the valley. Toward the Dragon Spire rising like a black claw against the moons.
The vacation was truly over.
Tomorrow, they would walk into the lion's den. But tonight... tonight he held their hands, and that was enough.