The three walked away from the aftermath of the chamber, the air still heavy with the acrid scent of spent mana. Dust settled slowly, catching the faint glow of the remaining torch sconces.
Fern spoke first, voice quiet but clear, the way someone speaks when they've learned not to waste words.
"We were separated from our third member. My master." She hesitated, still wary of the mage before them. Fern's gaze dropped to the cracked stone floor. "She went ahead to scout a deeper passage. Then the trap triggered."
Percia regarded her in silence. The pause was loud. She could have asked. Could have prodded at the hesitation. She didn't.
Instead she exhaled, soft and faintly exasperated.
"You two," she said, addressing them both without quite looking at either, "should stop causing so much trouble. I came here to study this place. Every glyph, every mechanism, every lingering thread of ancient spellwork. If you keep blundering through like this and bring the whole ruin down on our heads, my work ends prematurely. That would be inconvenient."
Stark rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish despite the drying blood on his cheek. "We didn't mean to—"
Percia lifted a hand, cutting him off without heat.
She stepped closer. Her fingers brushed the air above Stark's torn shoulder; pale light bloomed, delicate and precise. Torn muscle knit, fractured bone steadied, the worst of the bleeding staunched in moments. Stark blinked, startled, flexing the arm that had been trembling minutes earlier.
Fern watched, wide-eyed, as Percia turned to her next. No touch this time—just a small, almost careless gesture. A thin ribbon of mana flowed from Percia's palm into Fern's staff, then into the girl herself. Fern's shoulders straightened almost instantly; color returned to her cheeks, and the faint tremor in her hands vanished. Her mana pool refilled like a spring refilling after drought.
Percia was turning away already, "Try not to waste it."
She started toward the shadowed corridor that led deeper—or upward, toward one of the lesser-known exits she had mapped weeks ago. Her robes whispered against stone.
A small hand caught her sleeve.
Fern's grip was light but determined, knuckles pale. She didn't look up at first; her eyes stayed fixed on the fabric she held, as though letting go would cost more than she could afford.
"Please," Fern said. The word came out quieter than her usual calm tone. "Help us find her. My master. I can't feel her through the walls for some reason."
Stark shifted behind her, clearly torn between backing Fern up and not wanting to impose further. His mouth opened, closed again. He settled for looking at Percia with the same stubborn, earnest hope that had gotten him between Fern and a pack of monsters earlier.
Percia stared down at the hand on her sleeve.
Nothing good ever came from meddling with humans.
She looked up at Fern's stubborn gaze. The way those lilac eyes bore into her stubbornly. The way the boy squared his shoulders and stood by Fern's side. Perhaps it would be easier to get this over with.
"Fine," she said at last. "I will help you find this master of yours. But only until she is located. After that, you leave me to my work. No more traps. No more collapsing ceilings. No more… staring."
Fern's fingers loosened, but didn't quite release. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Stark exhaled in visible relief, shoulders dropping. "Thank you. Really."
Percia didn't acknowledge the thanks. She gently disentangled her sleeve from Fern's grasp—careful, not unkind—and started walking again.
"Keep up," she said over her shoulder. "And try to step where I step. Some of the pressure plates still have teeth."