The doors of the guildhouse swung shut behind them, cutting off the rowdy cheers of adventurers and the rhythmic thud of the recruitment stamps. Outside, the evening air of Aerilis was crisp, carrying the scent of rain and distant ozone from the mana-currents.
Rysa stopped at the edge of the fountain square, the golden light of the streetlamps reflecting in her ruby eyes. She looked down at the heavy pouch of silver and the single, gleaming gold coin tucked into her belt.
"Well, Aiven," Rysa said, her voice dropping its usual boisterous edge for something more sincere. "I guess this is where we split. Thanks for the quest. And more importantly, thanks for the payout. That bonus was more than I expected to see in a month of D-rank grinding."
She then turned her gaze toward Virelle, who was currently floating horizontally a few feet off the ground, watching a stray cat with idle curiosity. Rysa's expression softened into a look of genuine respect.
"And you," Rysa said, addressing the silver-haired mage. "Thanks for the save. I've been in tight spots before, but that... thing in the pit was different. I owe you one. Probably more than one."
Virelle didn't even look away from the cat, though her translucent sleeves fluttered with a slight, satisfied shimmer. "The gratitude is to be expected," she said, her voice like a cool silk ribbon. "Master's safety is my primary concern, but I suppose ensuring the survival of his temporary vixen assistant falls under my jurisdiction as well."
Aiven winced, stepping forward to bridge the gap. "Virelle...'" He looked at Rysa, his face flushing with the familiar stress of trying to explain away a legend. "Rysa, about back there... the way she fought, and the things she can do... I know it's not exactly—"
Rysa raised a bandaged hand, cutting him off with a sharp, knowing look.
"I know," she said quietly. She looked around the square, ensuring no eavesdroppers were near. "Look, I've got a lot of questions. Probably enough to fill a library. I've been around a few high-tier mages, and I know that what I saw down there doesn't happen with anyone."
She paused, seeing the tension in Aiven's jaw.
"But I also know that you saved those miners. And you didn't have to follow me down into that hole, but you did," Rysa continued. "So, I don't need the answers right now. I'll keep my mouth shut about what really happened back there. Whatever you're hiding, I figure you've got your reasons for it."
Aiven felt a massive weight lift from his chest. The fear of being reported to the Bureau or the High Council receded, replaced by a surge of gratitude. "Thank you, Rysa. Seriously."
"No problem," Rysa smirked, tossing her top-knot and adjusting her gear. "By the way, that invitation for swordsmanship training still stands. You've got a lot of power in your corner, but you look like you'd trip over your own scabbard in a real duel. If you're interested, you can find me at the guildhouse most Mondays and Fridays. I'm usually the one at the back table scaring off the rookies."
Aiven nodded, feeling a spark of genuine interest. "Mondays and Fridays. I'll remember that."
"Good. See ya around. And try not to die anytime soon," Rysa called out over her shoulder as she vanished into the evening crowd, her red hair fading into the twilight.
Virelle watched her go, then rotated in the air until she was upright again, landing lightly on the cobblestones beside Aiven. She let out a long, theatrical sigh.
"Finally," she groaned, her prismatic orb chiming a weary, hungry note. "I thought she would never leave. It is remarkably late, Master, and I find that saving commoners and arguing with vixens is an incredibly draining activity."
She looked at Aiven, her violet eyes sparkling with a mix of exhaustion and expectation. "I am quite famished. And I need something tasty as compensation for my restraint today."
Aiven managed a small, tired smile. The adrenaline was gone, and the heavy pouch of gold was a physical reminder that for the first time in years, he didn't have to count his coppers for a meal.
"I know just the place," Aiven said, gesturing toward a side street that led away from the bustling main square toward a row of glowing lanterns. "It's a bit of a walk, but they have the best honey-glazed bread and spiced skewers in the district."
"Honey-glazed?" Virelle's eyes widened, her pout vanishing instantly. She began to float again, circling around Aiven with a sudden burst of energy. "Well, why are we standing here in the dark? Lead the way, Master! If the honey-glaze is subpar, I might have to recalibrate the chef's career path into something more suitable, like professional screaming!"
Aiven led the way through a series of narrow, winding streets until they reached a corner stall that seemed to be vibrating with noise. Steam billowed from oversized iron pots, and the air was thick with the scent of charcoal-grilled meat and sweet glaze.
Inside the eatery, the chaos was overwhelming. People were practically stacked on top of one another. Laborers coming off the night shift were pushing past weary messengers, and everyone seemed to be shouting their orders at the top of their lungs to be heard over the sizzle of the grills.
Virelle hovered near the entrance, her expression one of utter disbelief. She pulled her translucent sleeves closer to her body as a sweaty man carrying three mugs of ale stumbled past her.
"Master," she whispered, her voice strained. "These people... they seem even more feral than the ones we encountered this morning. Is it a custom in this district to behave like a pack of hungry wolves?"
Aiven chuckled nervously, shielding her from a group of boisterous miners pushing their way toward a table. "Dinnertime tends to be a bit more... merry. Everyone's exhausted and hungry." He glanced at the packed benches and the sea of shouting patrons. "Look, the seats are full anyway. I'm going to fight my way to the front and order for takeout. Why don't you wait in that corner by the window? It's a bit quieter there."
He paused, giving her a pointed, pleading look. "And please, Virelle... try your best not to cause a scene. We're almost home."
Virelle let out a long, suffering sigh and drifted toward the designated corner. "I shall try my best, Master. But if one of these brutes spills grease on me, I make no promises regarding the structural integrity of this establishment."
Aiven disappeared into the fray.
For the next ten minutes, Virelle stood in the corner, looking like a misplaced goddess in a den of thieves. She was a magnet for attention; despite the chaos, dozens of glances were directed her way. Some were wide-eyed with awe, others were squinted with suspicious curiosity, and a few were uncomfortably bold.
Virelle met every gaze with a lethal, icy stare. When a particularly drunk laborer tried to stumble toward her with a crooked grin, she narrowed her violet eyes and released a microscopic pulse of mana that made the air around him turn frigid. He shivered, blinked, and decided his ale was suddenly more interesting than the silver-haired girl. She looked away with a visible expression of disgust, her fingers twitching as she held herself back from simply blowing up the entire noisy room.
Finally, Aiven emerged from the crowd, looking slightly disheveled but triumphant. He held two steaming, rectangular boxes wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.
"Got it," he panted. "The honey-glazed bread is still hot. Let's head back."
The walk home was much quieter. The residential district was draped in shadows, the distant sound of the central island's hubs fading into a low hum.
Back in the apartment, the atmosphere shifted instantly. Aiven set the boxed meals on the small wooden table. As he unwrapped the paper, the sweet, rich aroma of the glaze filled the room.
Virelle sat in the single chair, her eyes fixed on the spiced skewers. She took a bite, her expression immediately melting from a defensive pout into one of pure, unadulterated delight.
"Oh," she breathed, her cheeks pink with excitement. "This is...remarkably sophisticated for something served in a box." She then took a bite of the honey-glazed bread, her prismatic orb chiming a jubilant, sweet note. "Your taste in culinary matters is as reliable as always, Master."
Aiven sat on the edge of his bed, eating his own portion. He watched her enjoy the meal, the soft lavender glow of her presence making the tiny, cramped room feel warmer than it ever had before.
"I'm glad you like it," he said quietly. "There's a branch at Hearthport too. If there were night deliveries, I used to go there with—"
The words caught.
His tongue froze around the next syllable. For the briefest moment, it felt like the air itself resisted him. His fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the table as a familiar name pressed against the inside of his chest, heavy and unspoken.
With a slow breath, he looked away.
"…Well. It's a good place," he finished, voice lower now—careful, controlled.
Virelle had noticed.
Of course she had.
But she didn't tilt her head or poke at the silence. She didn't smile knowingly or ask questions that would hurt more than they helped. She simply watched him with those bright violet eyes, seeing the shape of the words he hadn't said—and choosing to let them remain unsaid.
Then she smiled.
Not her usual smug, teasing grin. Not the sharp, mischievous curve she wore when the world amused her.
A real smile. Soft. Warm. Grounding.
"It is a very good place, Master," she said gently, taking another bite of her food. "And tomorrow…"
Her eyes gleamed just a little, that familiar spark returning—hopeful rather than playful.
"…we shall find an even better one."