The streets of Cindralis were a little less tense than a week ago. The blood had long since dried in the cracks between the stones, though the scent of smoke still clung faintly in the air like an old ghost. Merchants hawked wares with voices too loud, desperate to force normalcy back into a city that had flirted too closely with ruin.
Darius walked with measured steps, his ribs still tender beneath the bandages hidden under his cloak, but his gait was steady again. Beside him, Iris moved with that same quiet grace she always had — a kind of weary poise, eyes sharp and tired all at once. Gaius, ever the brute of their little family, was the one to finally break the silence.
"Y'know," Gaius began, arms folded behind his head, "if someone had told me when we formed Crimson Vow two years ago that we'd be S-ranks… slaying dragons… toppling cults… I'd have called them mad."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "And now we're rich."
Iris snorted softly, the corner of her mouth twitching. "If someone told me this two years ago, I'd have laughed in their face. I thought we'd spend our days hunting bandits and chasing rogue wolves."
She shot Darius a glance, her crimson gaze reflecting the early morning light. "Trouble came the day Leon, Sylva, and Velis showed up."
Darius gave a small grunt, as though weighing the thought. His hand rested on the hilt of his old blade, the same way it always did when his mind drifted.
"The hero who refuses to play his role in this world," Darius muttered. "The slave girl with hollow eyes who's finally beginning to feel again. And the child… a girl with no name, no origin, and power no one her age should possess."
He said it with no venom, no disdain. Just fact. As though reading aloud from a record of debts and dues.
Iris, however, corrected him with a quiet firmness. "Sylva's no slave anymore. Leon freed her the day he accepted her as more than a tool."
There was a long pause. Then, a shared breath of half-laughter between them, like they couldn't believe the words even as they said them.
"Aye," Gaius grinned. "That's our lot now. A band of misfits and half-broken things. Hell, what kind of story are we walking into, old man?"
Darius allowed himself a small, rare smile — something thin and weathered but no less sincere for it. "The kind that doesn't end well."
They shared no argument to that.
Ahead, the wagon merchant's lot came into view — weathered carriages, sturdy draft horses, and the sharp scent of oiled wood and leather. A few words, a heavier purse, and a wagon changed hands before the midday sun reached its peak.
As they turned back toward the heart of the capital, toward the friends they never expected to gather… none of them said it aloud, but they all felt it.
The road ahead was darker than any they'd walked. And yet, it was theirs.
* * * * *
The tavern hall was silent in the early morning, save for the lazy scrape of sunlight as it poured through half-drawn curtains, slicing the dust-heavy air into slow-drifting beams. Leon's head throbbed dully, a distant echo of the chaos from the night before. His footsteps, sluggish but steady, carried him down the hallway to the room Sylva had tasked him with visiting.
He hesitated at the door, a hand raised, palm pressed flat against the wood. The muffled sound of shifting blankets inside made him sigh. He'd faced monsters, cultists, and a dragon—but this, this was somehow worse.
Leon pushed the door open.
Sunlight bathed the room in a muted gold, catching on pale skin and dark strands of hair. The sight froze him where he stood.
Selene sat on the edge of the bed nearest the window, the silken strands of her long, midnight-black hair spilling down her back in a shimmering waterfall, fading to violet at the tips. The morning light caressed the smooth curve of her shoulders and traced the outline of her bare skin, her generous figure half-covered by the thin, rumpled sheets clinging to her hips. Her violet eyes, still hazy with sleep, met his for a moment, unfocused but striking.
Leon felt his throat tighten. There was a stark, statuesque beauty to her, made all the more dangerous by the fact that Selene, even in such a disheveled state, carried an aura of raw, unspoken power.
He was still staring when another voice chimed in from the second bed.
"Well, look who it is. The hero himself, come to wake us up."
Lyra.
Leon's gaze snapped toward the voice, and if his heart hadn't already been stumbling over itself, it was well and truly wrecked now.
Lyra lay on her side, one arm propped beneath her head, her short auburn hair tousled and catching the sunlight like copper threads. Her bare shoulders glimmered faintly, and his gaze involuntarily swept down. She wore little more than a thin, dark bra and a pair of snug, low-cut shorts—scars scattered like pale ink across smooth, porcelain skin, and a slender, compact build with the faint trace of a sculpted six-pack on her toned stomach. Where Selene was softness and curves, Lyra was sharp lines and defiant grace.
And she was grinning at him.
Leon's mind blanked. He opened his mouth, then shut it. He had no words for this. No preparation. No armor.
Lyra raised a brow, clearly still half-drunk. "You gonna stand there all day, or you planning to fetch us something strong for this hangover?"
His face burned, and he spun around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet.
"I—I was told to check if you two were ready to leave soon," Leon stammered, glaring at the wall like it had personally offended him.
From behind him, he heard the low, husky sound of Selene's laugh.
"Oh, we're awake now, Hero," she murmured, her voice a lazy, silken drawl.
"I swear, this party is going to be the death of me," Leon muttered under his breath as he fled the room, the door clicking shut behind him and the sound of their amused laughter following him down the hall.
* * * * *
The sun was a bleeding smear on the horizon, its last light staining the sky in shades of bruised violet and burnt gold. Cindralis stood silhouetted against it — jagged spires of stone and soot-blackened walls, the faint murmur of a city nursing its wounds carried on the cool evening breeze.
Leon strapped his katana to his back, the weapon cold and familiar against his spine. The room he left behind felt like a ghost, heavy with things unsaid and dreams that clung like cobwebs. He pushed the door closed behind him and made his way down the creaking staircase of the inn, each step thudding in quiet finality.
Outside, the Crimson Vow was gathered by the freshly loaded wagon, their laughter and voices a warmth against the encroaching night. Velis was up to her usual antics, tugging at Lyra's cloak with a mischievous grin, earning a sharp but weary rebuke from her surrogate sister. Iris and Selene spoke in hushed tones, heads bent together in quiet conversation. Darius leaned against the side of the wagon, arms crossed, while Gaius and Kieran traded stories that earned occasional dry chuckles.
It was the first time in days Leon felt the weight in his chest loosen.
As he stepped into the fold, the group wordlessly acknowledged his arrival. No grand declarations, no sentimental greetings. Just the subtle shift in posture that came with the awareness of family, forged in blood and fire.
The wagon creaked as Darius gave the command to move out.
But as they neared the city's gate, a group of figures waited. Six of them, each marked by the lean, dangerous ease of seasoned adventurers. The dusk painted their faces in half-shadow, but Leon caught enough detail to feel unease prickle along his spine. He didn't know them — but someone here did.
They introduced themselves one by one:
Krevic of the Hollow Blades — a wiry man with ash-blonde hair and storm-grey eyes. Sarn the Whisperer — a slender woman with a voice like smoke and a dozen hidden knives.
Beran of Black Hollow — broad-shouldered, gruff, a maul strapped to his back. Naraine Quickstep — twin daggers and a grin too sharp to be harmless.
Jorik Flintbone — a scarred giant with arms like tree trunks.
Kaelith Varn — a shadow-eyed man, too quiet for Leon's liking.
"We'll be escorting you to Solmaria," Krevic announced, his voice low and steady.
A beat of stunned silence.
Leon glanced at Darius, who frowned, and then at Lyra, who mirrored it. No one had hired them. But the look passed between the adventurers and two specific people in their group spoke louder than any accusation.
Velis and Kieran both looked away, beads of sweat dotting their temples.
Iris opened her mouth to speak, but Sylva beat her to it, voice as calm and cold as moonlight. "They owe me a debt."
Velis's head snapped toward her, silver eyes wide, and Kieran's jaw dropped, but neither of them protested. In unison, they gave the tiniest of nods.
Darius grunted. "Good enough."
No one else questioned it.
Sylva's gaze lingered on the two culprits, promising retribution. Velis, ever the actress, pulled an exaggeratedly innocent face, while Kieran gave a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his neck.
Without further words, they crossed the threshold of the gate, leaving Cindralis to the night.
Leon took one last glance back. The city, a distant blur against the darkening horizon, its towers smudged by dusk, was a chapter closing. One war survived. Too many still ahead.
The last light died. And so they rode on.