The first step into the dungeon sent a thrill down my spine.
The air was damp and sweet with old magic, the stone beneath my boots marked with the scars of countless parties before us. Even so, I breathed in like it was the first time.
It was, for me. My first sanctioned dungeon dive. And the Vault of Whispering Roots—so often picked clean and scouted for decades—still held secrets.
I could feel it humming beneath my skin.
Our instructor warned us to stay on the known paths. "The Vault has been thoroughly mapped," he said. "Focus on applying the techniques you've learned. This is not a day for heroics."
But I never needed to seek trouble. It always whispered to me.
"Are those... crystal burrowers?" I knelt beside a cluster of softly glowing mounds. Their shells shimmered with iridescent scales, their pincers twitching as they tunneled in rhythmic pulses beneath the moss. "I thought they only hatched during lunar convergences!"
One of my group members—Darrin, a noble's son with a talent for traps—crouched beside me, squinting. "They're smaller than the ones in the bestiary... You think they adapted to this dungeon?"
I beamed at him. "Let's document it."
My excitement infected them quickly. We didn't just march through the Vault—we explored it. We traced sigils carved into roots that hadn't been noted on maps. We discovered a room behind a collapsed column that our party mage, Eline, identified as a residual mana well. It was supposed to be a dead end. We found a way through.
When we emerged—dusty, grinning, and slightly bruised—we weren't just another class assigned to a routine dive.
We were the ones who'd rediscovered something long buried.
By nightfall, instructors whispered our names. Other students glanced our way—some with interest, others with barely-veiled bitterness. Whispers followed us to the main hall, where food and music welcomed the victorious return of every team.
I offered a small, gracious bow to those who congratulated me.
I thanked the faculty, who smiled knowingly.
And when my group invited me to the after-party, I offered a small shake of the head and a smile. "I have someone I'd rather talk to tonight."
I beat Albert back to the dorms, as usual. I stripped off my boots and left my armor half-polished on the desk, then flopped backwards onto the couch with my legs hanging over one arm.
The excitement still buzzed in my fingertips. I wanted to talk. To share. Every inch of the Vault was still burning in my mind's eye, vivid and wondrous.
The door creaked open.
Albert stepped inside, the light from the corridor painting a gold outline around him. His hair was tied back in a quick knot. He looked tired, flushed from exertion, and glorious.
And he held a paper bag steaming at the top.
"I smell meat buns," I declared, sitting up at once.
He laughed and tossed the bag onto my lap before collapsing onto the opposite chair with a sigh of exaggerated exhaustion.
"Now, Sister," he said, gesturing with one hand while the other plucked a bun from the bag, "fire away."
I grinned, tore open the paper, and launched into my tale—how the burrowers nested under a false mana signature, how Eline accidentally activated a long-dormant light trap, how I noticed the way the roots curled too precisely to be natural and found the hidden path. Albert listened, rapt and smiling, eyes bright in the dim dorm light.
We shared stories until our voices softened with sleep and the buns cooled on the table.
And though the dungeon's whispers were behind us, the promise of discovery—the real kind, not of maps and monsters, but of each other—still echoed between us.
And that, perhaps, was the most precious treasure of all.
One day, because of my popularity, some people seemed to circulate some rumours that I looked like the commander of the Black Dragon legion of Terah, which was actually true, so I did not rebuke them when they asked about it.
Which happened to cause some trouble.
They cornered me at the sparring rings just past midday.
It had rained that morning, and the flagstones still glistened with the thin sheen of dew. The scent of steel and fresh earth hung in the air, sharp and invigorating. I was just about to leave, to meet Albert for lunch, when a group of students—upperclassmen, mostly—stepped in my path.
At their center stood a tall boy with raven hair bound by golden clasps. His tunic bore the sigil of Adur's military academy: the roaring lion over a trident.
"Lord Albert," he called, voice loud enough to draw a crowd. "There's a rumor you've been allowing to circulate unchecked."
I stopped and turned slowly, arching an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
He stepped forward, the tip of his practice sword resting against the ground. "You've been claiming to have commanded the Black Dragon Legion of Terah during the Siege of Umbra Pass."
A few murmurs broke out around the crowd. My shoulders relaxed, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. So that's what this is about.
"I've made no claims," I replied. "Only truths."
The boy's jaw tensed. "That's impossible. The commander who halted our Empire's advance was a seasoned warrior, rumored to have defeated three imperial generals in a single campaign. He vanished after the siege. There's no way you—a new academy student barely past your youth—could be him."
More eyes were turning toward us now. Swords paused mid-swing in the other sparring circles. I sighed softly and set my satchel down.
"I assume you're not here just to ask for my bibliography," I said, walking toward the ring.
"No," he answered. "I challenge you. One-on-one. Let's get the facts straight."
He was fast. Trained. Confident in the heavy grip of his Aduran blade.
But I was faster.
I flowed around his strikes like water around stone—each step measured, each parry a quiet conversation in the language of war. He tried to overwhelm me with brute strength and textbook formations. I answered with elegance, with a smile, with an old, commanding calm that reminded several watching that this wasn't a duel between students.
It was a clash of pride, pride of one's own country.
And when I disarmed him—his blade clattering across the ring, his chest rising and falling with disbelief—I merely stepped back and lowered my own sword.
"The Siege of Umbra was three years ago," I said coolly. "The Empire of Adur pushed through the Pass to invade our ally, the Kingdom of Shanom. A key trade route. A cultural bridge. And my kingdom does not turn a blind eye to such ambitions."
My voice echoed now, steady and firm.
"I was there—in the frontlines of the Black Dragon legion, cloaked in ash and blood. I led the skyfire raids that shattered your front lines. I ordered the strike that forced your generals to retreat. You were still in training then, weren't you? You wouldn't have known."
He looked stunned—confused even—but didn't argue.
I lowered my sword and gave a slight, respectful bow. "When it comes to Terah, I do not let rumors grow unattended. Even passing statements left unchallenged can fester. Especially in places where strength earns silence."
The crowd was utterly still.
I turned without flourish, picked up my satchel, and left the ring—my back straight, my steps unhurried.
Later, Albert found me in the courtyard under the magnolia trees.
"They're talking about you again," he said, amused. "Some of them are convinced you're a ghost from the last war sent here to scare the ambitious ones straight."
I smiled faintly. "Let them guess. It's not their favor I need to win."
Albert leaned his head against my shoulder with a tired sigh. "You know you could've let it slide."
"I could have," I said, sipping from the tea he brought me. "But the name of Terah rides with me—so I ride tall."
And with that, I watched the blossoms fall from the branches above us, silent and drifting like memory.
No matter the face I wore, the fire I carried was the same.
I thought academy life would be easy and just fun compared to my duty-filled days, but…
By the gods, they were everywhere.
Invitation letters fluttered out of my desk drawer like startled doves—some sealed in gold wax, others perfumed so heavily I swore the scent clung to my soul. Duels, dances, tea parties, private sparring sessions. Some even proposed joint "intellectual discussions" that I highly suspected were thinly veiled attempts at romantic interrogation.
All because I found a new tunnel in a centuries-old dungeon and trounced an Aduran with a reputation twice his size. I couldn't so much as drink my tea without someone sidling up and asking, "Lord Albert, would you consider attending—?"
"No," I muttered, dodging a giggling pair of students as I fled down the back corridor of the Academy.
If these were the "husband materials" my aides wanted me to consider, then I needed to change the battlefield.
And so, I headed down the steep street that led past the stone walls of Escarton Academy, toward a place blessedly unbothered by noble titles and family lineages: the Adventurer's Guild.
The guild was built into a renovated stone hall, humming with warm firelight and seasoned chatter. Swords clinked against leather belts, and posters of quests lined every available wall. The scent of roasted meat and old parchment hung in the air like a welcome.
"First time, love?" the receptionist asked as I approached the desk. She was an older woman with a scar running from her temple to the corner of her mouth, and a grin that made you feel seen.
"First time," I answered, offering a polite smile and the alias under which I'd registered. "Averan Nightrune."
"Pretty name for a pretty boy," she teased, sliding over a registration sheet. "You'll start as a Bronze Rank. First-timers usually take on herb-gathering or small beast culls. You can rank up through standard accumulation—or," she leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially, "compete in the Weekend Clash. Winners jump straight to Silver. It's brutal, but clean."
"I'll consider it," I said, genuinely intrigued.
She waved toward the board behind her. "Pick your first mission, then hand it to me for stamping. Come back with proof, and we'll log it."
I chose one of the simplest available—"Slime Culling near the Whispergrove Trail." Easy. Quick. And best of all, far from the social sharks.
I thanked her with a slight bow and made my way out, the weight of the guild tag in my pocket feeling more honest than all the ribbons and accolades back at the academy.
The trail beyond the dungeon fringes was quiet, save for the squelch of slimes dissolving under my blade. I finished the quota with casual precision, then lingered—observing moss that pulsed in response to ambient magic and small, silver-winged insects that nested beneath rock crevices. I knelt beside a glowing mushroom, brushing its cap gently.
"That's a Spindleglow," a voice said behind me. "It weeps light when threatened. Very poetic, really. Like a sobbing lantern."
I turned—and nearly dropped my blade.
A tall, impossibly youthful man leaned against a crooked tree, arms folded with studied ease. Tousled sable hair, green eyes flecked with mischief, and a half-grin that practically oozed complication.
And that voice.
"…Duke Layton, dear 'old' cousin," I said slowly. "Sure is a great surprise to meet you here."
He laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You recognized me faster than your mother did at the last coronation ball. I was hoping to keep the disguise longer."
"You're fifty-seven, Layton."
"Fifty-eight, technically. But thank you for your kindness," he said with a wink.
"You look younger than Albert."
"Yes, yes, well… forbidden alchemical anti-aging elixirs and dragon's blood tonics tend to do that," he replied, as if explaining why he wore mismatched socks. "But in truth, I'm just here for research."
"In a slime field."
He held up a vial of what looked like condensed slime core resin. "For potion studies. You?"
"Hunting for husbands and avoiding my suitors."
He cackled, then, seeing Feria's pin that signifies that she's a student of the Escarton academy commented. "Ah. So the Academy's elite couldn't hold your attention? How tragic. I thought for sure you'd be halfway to a scandal by now."
I smiled thinly. "Give it time."
He approached and crouched beside me, eyes catching the faint light of the mushroom I'd been studying. "You know," he murmured, quieter now, "you're walking a narrow path pretending to be your own younger brother. It's not a game."
"I know," I said, gently flicking the mushroom. It blinked faintly. "But it's my game. My rules."
"And when someone smart enough—or dangerous enough—figures it out?"
"I'll be ready," I said simply. "As always."
He regarded me in silence for a breath before grinning again. "Well, Cousin Feria—or should I say, Lord Albert—let's see how long you can keep your mask on. I'd offer help, but I'm far too fond of watching chaos unfold."
I rose, sheathing my sword. "Good. Because if you blow my cover, I'll report you to the Alchemist Guild for aging fraud."
Layton gave a dramatic gasp, clutching his heart. "Oh, cruel blood of mine! But fair enough. You owe me tea for this ambush, though."
"I'll bring poison," I promised sweetly.
And with that, I walked back toward the trail with the proof of my mission in hand—slightly annoyed, slightly amused, and more certain than ever that this was exactly the kind of intrigue I signed up for.
The Weekend Clash couldn't come fast enough.
The moonlight fell through the arched window of our shared dorm suite, casting pale slivers across the polished floor. Albert sat at the window seat, legs tucked up beneath him, cradling a cup of jasmine tea I'd brewed.
I sprawled lazily across the low couch, one boot off, the other dangling. My coat hung from the armrest, still flecked with slime essence from my earlier outing.
"Al," I said softly, breaking the companionable silence, "I think the academy might not be the place to hunt for a husband after all."
He turned his head slowly, brows lifted. "Bold confession from someone who was gifted a dozen courtship letters just this week."
I groaned and flopped dramatically onto my back. "Yes, yes, I'm dreadfully popular, I know. But I've looked. Truly. There are good candidates here—bright minds, strong hearts, even a few with remarkable cheekbones. But…"
"But?" he prompted, sipping his tea.
I rolled my head to look at him, thoughtful. "The younger ones are promising, but they're still boys playing at adulthood. Their dreams are brilliant, but their paths don't lead to thrones. And the older ones—well, they're often so deeply rooted in their research or academic callings that I'd feel like a villain yanking them away just to marry into duty."
Albert studied me for a moment, his expression softening.
"I don't want someone who'll resent the weight of the crown," I continued. "Nor someone I'll resent for needing my attention while I rule. I want—someone who can walk beside me. Not behind, not ahead. Beside. And that's… not easily found in structured courtyards or curated dances."
"Ah," he said, setting his cup down. "So naturally you joined the adventurer's guild."
I grinned. "Naturally."
He snorted a laugh. "Let me guess—you're hoping the man of your dreams is halfway through slaying a hydra or debating tactics in the middle of a cursed tomb?"
"Exactly," I said, throwing an arm over my eyes. "Someone with calluses and common sense. Or at least a healthy respect for enchanted traps."
There was a pause. Then: "Are you going to leave the Academy, then?"
I peeked at him through my fingers. "Not yet. I can manage both. I've already arranged my schedule to leave weekends open for adventuring, and some classes offer field credit for real-world applications."
He blinked. "You're going to keep taking combat theory, arcane logistics and dungeon expeditions—while crawling through slime nests and chasing down rumors of cursed relics on your days off?"
I sat up, grinning. "Bold of you to think I have days off."
Albert laughed outright now, warm and disbelieving. "Feria Avelia Nightreign, queen of Terah, academy top-scorer, dragon commander, slime hunter, and husband-seeker. Truly, I weep for your aides."
I joined him in laughter, the tension in my shoulders loosening. He always had that effect—quiet steadiness in a stormy sea.
"You'll find him, you know," Albert said softly after a moment. "Wherever he is. You have a way of bending the world just enough to reach what others believe unreachable."
I looked at him then, heart touched by the fierce loyalty in his gaze.
"I hope you're right," I murmured. "But in the meantime, I'll keep my sword sharp, my lectures attended, and my eyes open."
He lifted his teacup in a toast. "To the boldest hunt of all."
"To the one that actually matters," I replied, and clinked my cup against his.
The moon hung full and high above us, casting a silver glow over the quiet courtyard below. And I felt—oddly content. Ready. The academy wasn't the end of the road, merely a fork in it.
Somewhere out there—perhaps in a dungeon, or a remote outpost, or even a back-alley guild hall—he was out there.
And I would find him.
The sun beat down on the amphitheater, gilding the stone floor with a honeyed glow. The stands were roaring—some cheering, some screaming, a few even sobbing dramatically when their favorites lost. I, however, stood at the center of the ring, sword in hand, a lazy grin curling at my lips and a fresh cut on my cheek that stung wonderfully.
The Weekend Clash was no fancy court sparring session. Here, adventurers of every ilk tested their mettle. Magic clashed with blade, strategy danced with brute strength. And I relished every heartbeat of it.
I had fought warriors cloaked in shadows, monks who bent fire with their fists, and one very enthusiastic spear-wielding chef who smelled like garlic and victory. I met them all with the same enthusiasm I reserved for rare artifacts and well-made boots.
By the time I made it to the finals, my coat was singed at the hem, and my knuckles ached, but stars above, I felt alive.
My opponent was a half-giant arcanist with enchanted gauntlets and a charming stammer. He hit like a crashing wave. I moved like the tide that pulled it back. My Stardust Cats flickered at my side, graceful shadows of light and shimmer. They didn't even need to land a claw—just distract long enough for me to flip his weight against him.
Victory came with a stunned silence.
Then, thunderous applause.
I was Silver Rank now. And frankly, I wanted grilled meat and a nap.
"Sir Averan," said one of the guild representatives afterward, as I nursed my bruised shoulder with an ice rune. "Your performance was exceptional. We'd be honored if you accepted our invitation to the Capital Clash—next month, main guild base, Empire of Adur."
I blinked. "That's... sudden."
"Winners of Escarton's Clash are automatically short-listed. We'd like to see how you fare against the best in the continent."
I inclined my head, pleasantly vague. "I'll think about it."
And I would. But not today.
I needed something simple after all that excitement.
So I picked a solo field mission involving moolywooly sheep. Yes. Real name. Magical creatures native to the northern hills, their wool could be spun into anti-curse thread. They were also hypnotic. Literally.
I spent half the afternoon blinking myself out of trance-stupors after staring too long at their fluff. Mesmerizing.
Still, the job was straightforward—gather wool clippings, tag the herd with enchanted ribbons, and make sure they weren't getting hunted by poachers or, say, feral mushroom badgers. (Those were real. I learned that the hard way.)
And after a long day of dodging hypnotic gazes and ankle-high stampedes, I decided I earned dinner.
I grilled some moolywooly—well, an injured one that had passed earlier. I wasn't cruel. I salted the meat with the last of my wildroot blend and added forest tubers for a savory glaze.
The smell drew attention, of course.
But not from humans.
Tiny creatures—no taller than my knee—peeked from the bushes. Cotton Fuzz. Silken balls of fluff with round ears and button eyes, they twitched with curious hunger. Some even floated in mid-air, carried by their own static fluff.
"Oh," I said aloud. "Aren't you trouble."
I glanced at my side. My two Stardust Cats, ever watchful, had gone stiff.
Their tails twitched. Their eyes glowed. They dropped low in a hunter's crouch, shoulders wriggling with anticipation.
I smirked. "Go on then."
With twin chirps, they bounded after the fuzzballs, who scattered in squealing glee. It was like watching starlight chase puffballs across the twilight hills. The cotton fuzz knew it was a game—none seemed truly afraid. And my Stardust Cats wouldn't harm them. Not unless one dared to sit on their heads.
I leaned back, grilled meat in hand, watching the chase and laughter ripple across the wild field. The stars peeked through the dusky sky, and for a moment, I felt like I wasn't a queen in disguise or a commander in hiding.
Just a swordsman enjoying warm food and good company.
Maybe, I thought with a smile, this is where the real kings and queens are made.
Not in halls.
But in fields.
The moment I stepped through the dorm door, the warm scent of clove tea and ink hit me. Albert looked up from where he sat cross-legged at the low table, his ever-meticulous notes sprawled around him like a court scholar prepping for judgment day. His eyes lit up the moment he saw me.
"Back from sheep-whispering duty?" he teased, then sniffed the air. "And is that...?"
"Grilled moolywooly," I said, dropping a cloth-wrapped bundle into his hands. "Still warm."
He unwrapped it like it was a royal offering. "You divine creature."
"I try."
He took a bite, eyes widening as he chewed. "This... this is delightful. Smoky, tender, sweet with that wildroot finish." He wiped at the corner of his mouth. "I take back all the times I called your seasoning blend overly theatrical."
"I'll frame that and have it etched into stone," I said, lounging on the couch and resting my chin on my palm.
He polished off another piece before I added, "Also, I made it to the finals in the Weekend Clash."
That got his attention. He paused mid-bite.
"You did what?"
"And I won," I added breezily. "They even invited me to the Capital Clash—the main event held in the Empire of Adur. Big crowd. Big names. Big politics."
His body went still, the way a deer stills in the woods when the wind shifts.
"The Empire of Adur?" he repeated slowly.
I nodded, watching him over the rim of my cup.
There it was—that familiar tightness in his shoulders, the flicker of thought behind his careful gaze. He set the food down, chewing the inside of his cheek.
"You're not seriously considering it, are you?" he asked, voice low. "I mean—it's not as though we're at war anymore, but it's only been two years since the treaty. Some people over there still remember the Pass of Umbra. You know how they can be."
I tilted my head, noting the hesitation in his tone. "I am aware that people can hold grudges," I said lightly, "especially when their best-laid invasion plans got wrecked by a certain black dragon and a commander with a flair for dramatic entrances."
"That... was you."
"I know," I said with a grin. "I was there."
Albert sighed and ran a hand through his hair, visibly torn. "I just… I know you're powerful, and clever, and impossibly hard to kill—but it's Adur. I'd rather you not be marching into a lion's den with your name still echoing in their war reports."
I leaned forward, patting his arm. "Relax. I told them I'd think about it. I'm not all that interested in ranking up, anyway. Silver rank already gives me access to solo exploration of newly discovered dungeons, which was the entire point."
His shoulders loosened with visible relief. "Good. Because if you'd said yes, I think I'd have had to chain your boot to the floor."
I chuckled and rose to hang up my coat. "I'm flattered by your concern, little brother."
"You're not that much older."
"And yet wiser by leagues," I said, turning back to him with a cheeky smile. "Anyway, if you like the moolywooly that much, you can take the next collection mission."
He blinked, hopeful. "You think I could?"
I narrowed my eyes.
He grinned too fast. "...What?"
"You just want to hypnotize yourself in a fluff pile again, don't you?"
"No—well—maybe," he said, coughing and pretending to look innocent. "They're soothing. Like fluffy lullabies with legs."
"I should've let one walk off with your boot."
"That was my boot?"
We both laughed, and for a moment, the worries about Adur, politics, husbands, and dragons faded. It was just us again—siblings sharing food and moments of peace stolen between the chaos of the world.
But in the back of my mind, the thought of Adur lingered like a lingering scent of smoke—something I wasn't done with yet. Something unfinished.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I just watched my brother eat grilled sheep and mumble to himself about joining the guild just for the wool-based cuisine.