[Helga's POV - Yartar, River's Rest]
Flashback...
I should've known the moment he handed it to me.
Fin stood there, arms stiff at his sides, like the letter had burned just being in his pocket. He didn't meet my eyes. Didn't say anything for a second too long. Then, without a word, he offered it to me.
A letter. Wax seal. No markings.
I didn't move. Not for a full ten seconds.
Then, slowly, because something in my gut twisted the moment I looked at it, I sat up straighter and reached out.
"Wait," he said.
I froze, hand hovering just above the envelope.
He still wouldn't look at me.
"I haven't opened it," he said. "I figured you should."
My fingers hesitated.
And then, and only then, did I glance at him. He wasn't fidgeting. He was too still for that. That weird kind of calm kids get right before they cry or break something.
I nodded once. Nothing else needed to be said.
Good. That meant it was up to me to deal with.
I picked it up carefully, like it might bite. Peeled the wax seal back. No scent. No magic I could feel. It didn't sing, didn't hiss, didn't burn through the desk.
But the moment I saw the first line?
My stomach dropped.
Even before I whispered it—"Shit."
I forced myself to keep reading, even though every word pressed heavier than the last. I read it once. Fast. A sweep for danger. Then again, slower. Word by word. Line by line. Letting it all sink in.
By the time I was done, my jaw had locked so tight I could feel my molars grinding. I pressed my thumb hard to the bridge of my nose, not because of a headache, but because it was the only way to keep my composure. To not let Fin see the war starting in my chest.
Because I knew the name at the bottom.
And I knew the place it mentioned.
And I sure as hell knew I didn't want Fin anywhere near either of them.
Flashforward...
[Yartar, Reina's Apartment]
Reina set the empty glass down with a soft clink, then finally looked up.
Her eyes were sharp, but tired.
"Fuck. You're really fucked now."
I snorted. Didn't smile. Just leaned back in the rickety chair and stared at the ceiling like it might offer some better news.
"You think?"
"In ink. Not blood. Not a code word. Not a third-hand whisper in a market stall. Just… ink. That's a choice."
"She wants me to know it's real." I tapped the letter lightly.
"She wants you to know she still exists. That she remembers. That she's watching." Reina warned.
I didn't reply. Not right away.
Outside, some drunkard was shouting two streets down, and somewhere under the floorboards, something scratched at the wood. Typical Yartar. Still loud. Still dirty. Still pretending not to care about anything until it was too late.
"She's summoning you."
"Yeah."
"To her office."
"Uh huh."
"Which is—"
"—in the dungeon level. Yeah, I caught that part."
She leaned back, arms crossed, giving me a look like I was the world's worst poker hand. Not folding, but not winning either.
"She's pissed, Helga. If it were anyone else… if it were me, I wouldn't walk through that door without at least three exit plans and a will."
"She wouldn't kill me."
"You sure about that?"
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was… I wasn't.
Yorz wasn't like the other guild leaders. She didn't play politics the same way. When I left the Hand, when I disappeared into that twisted little cult chasing dead gods and false promises, I hadn't exactly sent a postcard.
She'd trained me. Backed me. Shielded me when no one else would. She took a chance on a reckless girl with fists and rage and a chip the size of a mountain on her shoulder.
And I threw it all away.
Reina kept watching me
"She's not calling me in just to catch up over wine."
"No. But if she wanted you dead, she'd send a blade, not a letter." Reina noted.
That... was something. I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the table.
"So she wants something, perhaps she wants to just reconnect?"
"Or she wants to see how much of the old Helga's left," Reina remarked.
I stared at Reina for a second. Then let out a breath through my nose, sharp and humourless.
She just leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers tracing the rim of her now-empty glass. Her eyes were darker than usual. Not tired. Just… wary.
She picked up the letter again and flicked it once with her nail.
"She never sends letters."
I raised an eyebrow. "She sent this one."
"Exactly." Reina's mouth twisted. "That's what worries me."
The silence that followed was the kind we both knew too well, thick, deliberate, full of old wounds we didn't talk about often. The kind that belonged in alleys and empty training halls after everyone else had gone home.
Finally, Reina sighed. "She didn't even write it like a trap."
"Nope."
"No riddles. No posturing. Not even a veiled threat. Just a request."
"A request," I said, "to meet. In her office. In the goddamn dungeon level."
Reina gave me a look, flat and sharp all at once. "Which you know she only uses when she wants to make a point."
I leaned back in the chair, the old wood creaking under me. "That's generous. Last time someone got summoned to her 'office,' they left without kneecaps."
"Yeah, but they owed her a debt."
"So do I."
Reina went quiet.
She didn't argue. She didn't need to.
Because we both knew it was true.
I glanced toward the window. Rain was starting to patter lightly against the glass, the kind of steady drizzle Yartar specialised in, miserable enough to soak you through before you noticed.
"She was hurt," Reina said after a moment, softer now. "When you left. Out of everyone… Yorz took it the worst."
I closed my eyes for a second. Let the guilt settle.
"She had a right to be."
"Yeah," Reina muttered. "She did."
We sat there, the silence this time more resigned than heavy.
"She used to talk about you," Reina added. "After you were gone. Not a lot. Not like she missed you or anything dramatic. But… her silence changed. Got harder. She stopped taking on new girls. Stopped trusting recruits. Stopped trusting me, for a while."
"She thinks you knew where I went?" I questioned.
"No," Reina said. "She thought I let you."
That hit harder than I expected. I rubbed my temples.
"She's not the type to forgive, is she?"
Reina snorted. "Forgive? No. But she might offer you a rope if she thinks you're worth dragging back up."
"And if I'm not?"
"She'll watch you fall. And she won't blink."
The fire crackled low behind us. The air in the room had gone cold, but I hadn't noticed until just now. My shoulders ached. My chest felt tight.
Reina poured herself another drink. Didn't offer me one. She knew I wouldn't take it.
"She signed it," I murmured.
"She never signs things."
"That's what scares me."
Reina looked at me, dead serious. "So what are you gonna do?"
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was, I already knew.
Tomorrow, at dawn, I'd walk through the old guild doors, down the narrow stairwell past the records and weapons storage, through the double-locked gate that only opened for Yorz's key. I'd step into that old stone office with the rusted chandelier and the floor that sloped just slightly to the left.
And I'd sit across from the woman I once would've died for.
The same woman I betrayed.
"Helga."
I looked up.
Reina's voice was quieter now. Not warning. Not teasing. Just tired.
"Be careful."
I nodded once.
But I wasn't sure I could.
End of Flashback...
[Helga's POV – Early Morning, Helga's Home]
The stew pot still sat on the stove, half full. Cold now. The fire underneath had long since burned out, leaving only ash and a faint, smoky scent that clung to the walls.
He was sitting at the table, spinning a spoon between his fingers.
Faster than before.
Balanced just right. Flick. Catch. Twist. Flick again.
I buckled my boots and pulled the last strap of my pack closed. The weight on my shoulders wasn't heavy, not in the physical sense. But it still made my spine ache.
He hadn't said a word yet.
Not since I came down the stairs.
I adjusted the leather bandolier across my chest. Checked the daggers at my hip.
The spoon clinked once against his thumb.
"You sure you don't want help?" he asked.
Voice light. Casual. Like it was just a thing he said to be polite.
But he didn't stop spinning the spoon.
Didn't look at me either.
"I can tag along," he added, like it was nothing. "Just give me a hand. Carry things. Open doors. Maybe stab a guy."
I looked at him.
His hair was still tousled from sleep. He hadn't changed out of his tunic yet. But his posture was alert. That coiled sort of tension that only came from someone who was waiting for a fight that hadn't started yet.
And gods help me… I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to bring him.
Because I could feel it, he was changing.
Not in the awkward, clumsy way kids grow into their limbs and stumble through too-big boots.
This was different.
He moved differently now. His eyes tracked things faster. His balance had shifted. His instincts were sharper. Feral, almost. Like a knife that had finally been sharpened after years of just being… metal.
I didn't know how. I didn't know what had changed.
But something had.
And it scared me.
Not because I didn't trust him, but because I did.
And that was the problem.
I turned back to the door, fastening the last clasp on my cloak.
"I told you already," I said quietly. "This isn't the kind of errand you can tag along on."
"I can handle myself."
I nodded. "I know."
"Then why not let me come?"
The spoon stopped spinning.
He was looking at me now.
And it hurt. Gods, it hurt to see the frustration in his eyes. Not anger. Not rebellion.
Just… disappointment.
I closed my eyes briefly, then stepped toward the door.
"It's not you I don't trust."
"Then who?"
I hesitated.
"Her."
That silenced him.
I could feel it in the stillness behind me. He knew who I meant. He might not know the name, but he knew the weight.
"Yorz?"
I nodded once. Just once.
"She's not like the people you've fought before," I said, my voice steady but low. "She's not a bandit or a demon in the woods. She's worse."
"Worse, how?"
"She trained me."
He didn't reply to that. He didn't have to.
I reached for the latch, fingers curling around the worn brass handle. The wind howled faintly outside, cold and sharp like it always was before the rains hit.
"I'll be back soon, don't stay up too late, and if you don't see me "
He stood.
"You sure you don't want me to walk you to the road at least?"
I glanced back.
He was still holding the spoon. Still standing there like a soldier waiting to be dismissed.
I smiled, faintly.
"No. You'd just try to follow me."
He didn't deny it.
I opened the door.
The wind hit first, crisp, biting, full of morning dew and pine.
I stepped out without looking back.
But as the door shut behind me, I heard the faintest sound of metal hitting wood.
The spoon, dropped onto the table.
And I felt the ache of it down the road.
...
Fin's POV
The spoon clattered against the wood.
I didn't mean to drop it.
But I didn't pick it up either.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the house felt… quieter. Not empty, exactly. Just off-kilter. Like something had been removed, and the rest of the space hadn't caught up yet.
Ali's voice broke the silence, unimpressed as ever.
"You could've said something more."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. "Like what?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said sweetly. "'I love you,' maybe? That tends to land better than awkward spoon spinning."
I scoffed. "She'll be back tonight."
A pause. Then I muttered, "Probably."
Ali was quiet for half a beat. Then:"Mm. Yes. And I'm sure if she doesn't come back, you'll feel great about your final contribution being awkward silence and vague teenage scowling."
"Not helping," I grumbled.
"I wasn't trying to help. I was trying to guilt you."
I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. "Just… drop it."
Ali didn't press. Just gave me that faintly amused silence she always used when she knew she was right and was graciously choosing not to rub it in.
I stood up, stretching until my back popped.
"Whatever. She's probably fine. She's Helga. She's built like a godsdamned siege engine."
Ali hummed neutrally.
"Anyway," I said, louder now, changing the subject, "I should do something today."
"Yes," she said. "Because moping will not improve your stats."
I headed toward the door, grabbing my cloak. "Anything on the System radar?"
A faint chime echoed through my ears, followed by a soft blue shimmer of text at the edge of my vision.
[Available Activities – Daily System Bounties]
[Deliver Supplies to North Ward Inn](Simple courier task. Minor risk of foot pain.) – 10 PP
[Clear Rodents from the Bakery Cellar](Low-level extermination. Caution: Biting.) – 15 PP
[Assist Local Healer with Herb Collection](Herbs located along the wolf-prone trail. Mild danger.) – 20 PP
[Help Recalibrate Magical Lanterns near the Aqueduct](Involves minor magic tuning. Requires cursed energy control.) – 25 PP
[Shipyard Request: Retrieve Lost Anchor Rune from Underdeck Storage](Requires stealth, lifting strength, and minor puzzle-solving.) – 50 PP
I whistled low. "Anchor Rune?"
Ali responded crisply. "It slipped into a crack beneath the dock planks. Captain Lorran's crew has been spooked by a series of 'minor magical accidents' and would like it recovered discreetly."
I grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter and bit into it. "So basically, sneak under the dock, grab the thing, don't get caught, and hope the thing doesn't explode?"
"Correct. Moderate risk, moderate reward."
"Sounds like a good warm-up."
I slung the cloak around my shoulders and stepped out the door. The wind had picked up slightly, ruffling the treetops and bringing with it the distant scent of saltwater and smoke.
The city was waking up.
And I needed the distraction.
"Let's go earn some points."
...
[Fin's POV – Yartar Shipyard, Late Morning]
I stepped out from beneath the dock, soaked from the knees down, one hand clutching the anchor rune and the other covered in what I hoped was just seaweed.
"It's done," I muttered, flicking gunk off my fingers. "We are never doing that again."
Ali chimed in, all business. "Task Complete. [Shipyard Request – Retrieve Anchor Rune]: 50 PP added."
A soft blue shimmer rippled through my vision. The numbers ticked up. Not bad. I could feel the cursed energy in me respond ever so slightly, more fuel for later.
"I still hate that puzzle," I grumbled, stretching my back. "Who hides a rune key behind a rotated sigil wall with a pressure plate sequence based on sailor tattoos?"
"It was a test of lateral thinking," Ali said flatly. "One you failed. Multiple times."
I shot a glare at the empty air in front of me. "I stepped on the right tiles."
"You stepped on them in the wrong order. Repeatedly."
"Yeah, well, maybe if someone had helped instead of giving vague hints like 'Consider the historical relevance of maritime iconography—'"
"I was being pedagogical."
"You were being a dick!"
I shouted it a little too loudly.
Everything around me froze.
Dockhands loading crates paused mid-step. A guy walking a seagull on a leash, don't ask, stared. A whole crew of fishmongers turned, blinking at me like I'd grown a second head. Someone dropped a crate. A gull squawked, offended.
I stood there, fists clenched, dripping wet, red in the face, screaming at what looked like thin air.
"…Right," I muttered.
A beat.
Then I laughed.
Just once. Quick. Sharp. The sound of a man watching his dignity light itself on fire.
I clapped a hand over my face and turned away, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
"Fuck you," I mumbled into my palm.
Ali's voice was smug. "Apologies. I am currently being pedagogical."
I groaned into my hand. "I swear to the gods, if this is what growing stronger feels like…"
"Then you're well on your way to becoming unstoppable."
"Or institutionalised."
I shoved the anchor rune into the hands of the Captain and yanked the pouch of gold, my payment, and started walking away, boots squelching with every step.
Still, even as I sulked, a tiny grin tugged at the corner of my mouth.
This was better than sitting around waiting for Helga.
At least for now.
The crowd thinned the farther I got from the shipyard. Just the usual mix of carts and shouting and seagull poop. My boots still squelched with every other step, and the rune clinked faintly in my satchel, but otherwise, things had finally started to feel normal again.
Which, of course, is when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
I froze mid-step.
Observation Haki bloomed in my chest like a second heartbeat, quiet, low, but urgent. My senses narrowed.
Footsteps behind me. Too quiet. Light, fast. Someone was moving through the crowd, weaving expertly, not hesitating like a local. Getting close. Too close.
I didn't think.
I moved.
My body shifted sideways, just enough. The figure lunged where I'd been, arms outstretched.
I caught them mid-lunge, twisting around and planting my foot behind theirs in a clean counter. My cursed energy surged to my fingertips, ready to blast whoever it was through the nearest fish cart.
"Try again, asshole—!"
My voice caught.
So did my fist.
Because I recognised her.
She stumbled back, wide-eyed, hands up, but not in fear. More like someone caught mid-prank.
"Woah, woah, relax! Gods, Fin, do you always react like someone's trying to assassinate you?"
I blinked.
"…Stephanie?"
She grinned. "Took you long enough."
I took a step back, arms still half-raised, brain trying to reconcile what I was seeing.
She looked… different.
Taller, for one. Sharper jaw. Tanned skin and a pair of silver-threaded gauntlets at her hips that hadn't been there when we were kids. Her hair was cropped shorter now, just under the ear, tied back loosely with a red band. There was a thin scar just under her left cheekbone that hadn't been there before either.
But the smile?
That crooked, daring, I-did-the-thing-even-though-I-was-told-not-to grin?
That was pure Stephanie.
I stared at her.
"You've gotta be kidding me."
She winked. "Miss me?"
I stared at her.
"Stephanie, what the hell are you doing in Yartar?"
She gave me that look. The one I remembered. Half, "isn't it obvious," half "I dare you to try and stop me."
"What, not happy to see me?"
"Answer the question."
She rolled her eyes, but there was a weird sort of tension in her shoulders. Even under the grin, she looked tired. Like someone who hadn't slept easily in weeks.
"Six months ago," she said, "your house burned down. Everyone in town thought you and your mother were dead."
I felt my jaw tighten. "We weren't."
"Yeah, I figured that part out." She stepped closer, lowering her voice a bit. "But nobody else did. The guards blamed bandits. Some said demons. A few people said your mom had been involved in something shady. But me? I knew something was off."
I said nothing. Just listened. Her voice had changed. Not in pitch, just in weight. Like she'd lived a little more than she meant to.
"I waited," she continued. "Weeks. Thought maybe you'd come back. I even rode out to the woods a few times. Then…"
She scratched the back of her neck. "Then I heard this story. Some caravan guards were swapping rumours at the estate. One of them was talking about this mission that went south. Some merc group got wiped out near the northern hills..."
"The Ravagers," I muttered.
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine. "Yeah. That's the name."
I swallowed.
She kept going.
"They said only one person made it out alive. Some kid. Seven years old. Killed a dire wolf on his own after the whole party was slaughtered. Everyone thought it was bullshit. A story to scare recruits."
"But you didn't," I said.
She smiled again, smaller this time. "Of course I didn't. You were the only seven-year-old I knew dumb enough to fight something like that and win."
I rubbed the bridge of my nose, half-laughing despite myself. "So what? You just packed up and ran?"
"Not packed. Escaped."
That made me stop.
She shrugged, trying to make it sound casual. "My father wanted me married off. Some idiot from Westmere. Didn't like that I kept hanging around with commoners and asking questions about you."
I stared at her.
"So… you ran away. Across half the damn region. On a hunch."
"On you," she corrected. "I ran away on you."
There was a pause.
The dock wind blew through between us, tugging her hair loose from the red band.
I sighed, shaking my head.
"You're insane."
"Takes one to know one."
"…How the hell did you even find me?"
Stephanie smirked. "Well, turns out, you're terrible at laying low."
We didn't talk much at first.
Stephanie walked just a half step behind me, arms crossed behind her head like she was out for a stroll and not, y'know, casually following the not-dead kid she thought was gone forever. The streets of Yartar bustled around us, vendors shouting over bread prices, wagons creaking by, someone on the corner yelling about a miracle tonic that most definitely smelled like fish guts.
It was weirdly peaceful.
I still didn't trust it.
She tilted her head as we passed the bridge over the aqueduct.
"So… what's it like? Being a big, scary forest mercenary or whatever you are now?"
"I'm not a merc."
"No?"
"Too many rules. Too many bath schedules."
She snorted. "Sounds about right."
I glanced sideways. "You really dropped everything and ran off just to find me?"
She shrugged. "I didn't exactly have a lot tying me down. Besides, I did say we'd get out of that place together."
I remembered.
The fountain. That dumb plan she drew in the dirt with a stick. "Step one: steal a horse. Step two: steal another horse."
She grinned, clearly thinking the same thing.
"Never stole the horses," I muttered.
"Well, one of us got out, so I count that as a partial success."
We kept walking. The crowds thinned as we reached the edge of the trade district, where the houses gave way to cobbled paths and tall grass. Beyond that: the treeline, the road, and home.
She slowed a little when the house came into view.
"This yours?"
"Mine and He-..Mom's."
It felt weirdly normal saying Mom now.
The door creaked open as I pushed it, the familiar scent of ash, herbs, and stew clinging to the air inside.
I waved her in. "Make yourself at home. Just don't touch the sword rack. One of them's cursed. I think."
She raised an eyebrow. "Which one?"
"That's the fun part. I don't know." I chuckled
We dropped our packs. I poured water. She flopped into the chair I usually claimed at the table.
"So," she said after a long sip, "you gonna tell me the real story now, or do I have to beat it out of you?"
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
"Not much to say," I lied. "Things got bad. I ran. Got stronger. Killed a dire wolf. Ate like five rabbits."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You always were a terrible liar."
"And you always sucked at fighting."
Her mouth dropped open. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"I let you win!"
"Uh-huh. Sure."
"I did!"
"Oh, so when you tripped and face-planted in the pig trough, that was strategy?"
She shot up, pointing a finger. "That pig was aggressive!"
I was already heading toward the back door. "C'mon."
"Where?"
"Forest. You wanna talk with your fists so bad, prove you're not still the little noble brat who cried when she chipped a nail."
She growled. "That never happened."
"Then come prove it."
She stomped after me, muttering curses under her breath.
The clearing was still.
No birds. No wind. Just the soft crackle of distant leaves and the low hum of tension building between us.
Stephanie stood across from me, feet planted wide, body loose, cocky grin twitching at the corner of her mouth like she was holding back a joke.
I raised a brow. "You sure you wanna do this?"
She rolled her shoulders, the red band in her hair catching the light. "Why? You scared I might knock you on your ass?"
I shrugged, slowly unsnapping the bracer from my wrist. "Just figured I'd give you the chance to surrender now. Save you the embarrassment."
"Oh please," she said, drawing her shortsword in a clean arc. The metal sang. "You had, like, one cool kill and now you think you're some kinda warrior poet."
I exhaled. Low. Controlled.
Then let the soul weapon form.
The black cutlass spiralled into my hand in a whisper of shadows and light, pulsing once like it recognised the tension.
With a breath, I let it shift, shrink, mimic.
Metal hissed as it shortened into a mirror of Stephanie's own blade: same length, same curve, same weight.
She blinked.
"Are you copying me?"
I gave her the smuggest grin I could muster.
She growled. "That's cheating!"
"Adapt or lose."
Then we moved.
She came at me with a burst of raw speed, kicking off a moss-slick rock and driving her blade toward my shoulder. I twisted under it, pivoting on my back foot, catching the strike edge-to-edge in a flare of sparks.
The impact rang through my bones.
She didn't hesitate. Her next strike came from below, a tight upward slice meant to catch my ribs, but I slid backward just in time, heels scraping dirt, cloak fluttering.
Fast. Cleaner than before. Her stance was low, grounded. She wasn't some noble girl flailing with a practice stick anymore.
I grinned.
Good.
I darted in, sweeping low with my mimic blade, feinting for her ankle. She stepped over it and twisted into a horizontal slash at neck level.
Clang.
I caught it one-handed, cursed energy crackling faintly along the edge.
Her eyes widened. "You've gotten stronger."
"You've gotten predictable."
She snarled and pressed harder.
We broke apart, circling.
Leaves kicked up beneath our feet. Every breath between us was calculated, silent. She came in again, this time with a flurry. Left-right-left-high feint, then a twist and a stab.
She's baiting.
Observation Haki flared.
I didn't swing.
I read.
Her weight shifted, ankle tension, shoulder tilt, a muscle twitch.
I weaved.
Her blade sang through the air, carving space where I'd been half a second earlier. I moved like water, ducking, side-stepping, letting her own momentum drag her off-centre.
"What—!" she gasped mid-swing. "Stop dodging and fight!"
I leaned forward, grinning. "This is fighting."
She lunged again, furious now.
But I was already gone.
Half a step back. Quarter pivot. My blade met hers just as it arced too far left. I hooked it, twisted, and yanked.
She stumbled.
Not far. Just enough.
I could've struck.
I should've.
Instead, I stopped the blade just shy of her collarbone.
She stared at me, panting, blade lowered, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and something dangerously close to excitement.
"Showoff," she muttered.
"Loser," I shot back.
We both grinned.
Then she swung at me again without warning.
I didn't expect her to cast.
One second, I was grinning, holding my blade an inch from her collarbone.
The next Stephanie shoved off with a growl and spun back, chanting under her breath.
A flick of her wrist, a shimmer of silver-blue arcane light,
And the air around her twisted.
"What the hell—?"
A hum vibrated through the clearing like a struck chord. The wind stilled. Her eyes lit up, not glowing, not inhuman, just focused. Like the world had narrowed down to the space between her blade and mine.
Ali's voice slid smoothly into my head.
"She's activated Bladesong."
I blinked. "Wait. What? Like in 5e?"
"Correct. Stephanie appears to be a Level 5 Bladesinger. Elven combat tradition, recently been adopted in human circles. Arcane speed. Defensive enhancement. Precision casting. Martial finesse."
Stephanie's foot snapped forward, and she blitzed across the clearing.
She was fast before. But now?
Now she was blurred.
I raised my sword just in time, clang! Sparks exploded as our blades collided. Her follow-up came immediately, a flurry of strikes too quick to count.
I reeled back. Defensive, not panicked. Barely.
"Ali, what the fuck?! She's a noble's daughter!"
"Apparently a well-educated one."
Another spell flicked from her free hand, green fire rippling up the edge of her sword like a living serpent.
Green-Flame Blade.
I twisted away, narrowly avoiding the main swing, but a flash of emerald fire jumped off the blade and singed the sleeve of my cloak.
"Okay! Okay, ow!"
Stephanie grinned. "Still wanna call me predictable?"
I lunged low, trying to catch her exposed leg, but she vaulted off a root with dancer's grace, spun midair, and came down hard with a downward strike.
I blocked with both hands. The impact drove me to one knee.
"She's added Mage Armour," Ali supplied. "No obvious signs of Shield yet, but brace for it."
I hissed under my breath. "So this is what noble education gets you?"
Stephanie dropped low, driving an elbow toward my ribs, but I tucked and rolled, twisted back, repositioned, re-formed my stance.
"Magic and swordplay? You couldn't just pick one thing to be good at?"
She smirked, circling me. "What, and miss the chance to humiliate you twice as hard?"
Another flick, this time a subtle gesture of her fingers, and a shimmer rippled across her skin. Her outline blurred.
"Mirror Image!" Ali called out. "Three illusory duplicates."
Three Stephanies appeared.
Each one mimicking the same grin.
I groaned. "Of course, she took Mirror Image."
They all charged at once.
I slashed forward, sliced through one. Poof. Gone. Illusion shattered.
The second swung low; I jumped back, then cut through another image mid-spin.
Only two left.
Real or not, her strikes were sharp, deliberate. No wild flailing here, she moved like a duelist trained in both battlefield chaos and ballroom etiquette.
She stabbed, high feint, low real. I dropped my shoulder, narrowly avoiding it, then kicked out with my boot.
Connected. Just enough to stagger her real form.
I lunged.
She parried, barely, and the last image poofed out.
Just us again.
Sweating. Breathing hard.
Her magic still shimmered faintly around her. The Bladesong still echoed in the rhythm of her steps, like she moved to a tempo only she could hear.
We circled again.
I was grinning now.
For real.
"You're insane."
"You're sloppy," she shot back. "I've hit you three times."
"You scorched my sleeve."
"Same difference."
Ali hummed.
"Would you like to engage seriously now?"
My smile widened.
"Yeah."
I raised my soul weapon.
"I think it's time we stopped holding back."
I let the soul weapon dissolve.
The blade unravelled into smoke and light, curling around my wrist and reshaping into the matte-black bracer I always wore. No more mimic blade. No katana.
Just a bracer.
Stephanie squinted. "You really gonna keep showing off, or do you have a mental problem fighting without a weapon?"
I smiled.
Then vanished.
Flash Step.
The world blurred. I crossed the space between us in an instant, observation haki pinging her every shift, every breath, and my fist crashed into her jaw, cursed energy flaring like a second sun in my palm.
Crack.
She didn't even see it coming.
Her feet left the ground. She flew backward through the clearing like a stone from a catapult, smashed into a tree trunk, then rag-dolled into a thick bush.
Silence.
Leaves fluttered to the ground.
I stood there, blinking, the rush of movement and cursed energy still humming through my bones.
"…Shit."
I was already running toward her, boots tearing through dirt and undergrowth.
"Ali?!"
"Alive," she answered calmly. "Unconscious. Stable vitals. No internal bleeding, mild concussion. Pretty leaf-in-hair situation."
I dropped to my knees beside the bush, pushing branches aside. Stephanie was sprawled on her side, one arm bent awkwardly under her, eyes closed.
Her chest rose and fell steadily.
I exhaled. Deep.
"Might've overdone it."
Ali's tone turned dry. "Might've?"
"She said to take her seriously!"
"You threw a cursed-energy haymaker into her skull."
"She called me mentally unstable!" I argued.
"She wasn't wrong."
I groaned, leaning back onto my heels, scrubbing a hand over my face.
Then I looked at her again.
Mouth open slightly. A twig stuck in her hair. Her expression was somewhere between unconscious and deeply unimpressed.
"…She's gonna kill me when she wakes up."
Ali chuckled. "I look forward to it."
I scooped her up carefully, bridal style. She was heavier than she looked, but nothing I couldn't handle. Her head lolled against my shoulder, breath warm against my collarbone.
"Let's get her back to the house," I muttered.
I started walking.
Leaves crunched beneath my boots.
...
[Helga's POV – Yartar, The Hand of Yartar Guildhall]
The heavy double doors creaked open, and the smell hit first.
Steel, sweat, old wood, and fresh blood.
The Hand hadn't changed.
It was just as loud, just as ruthless, and just as alive as the day I left.
Guild members bustled across the main floor, some sharpening blades, others pinning up job postings, others laughing too hard over mugs that probably weren't filled with anything legal. Dice clattered near the back tables. A half-orc brawler barked at a pair of recruits to "move like they mean it." And above it all, the banners still hung from the rafters, faded but proud, marked with the sigil of a severed hand gripping a crown of thorns.
My boots echoed as I stepped inside.
A few heads turned.
Some recognised me. Most didn't.
But the ones who did?
They went quiet.
Just for a moment.
I kept walking.
Past the pit where initiates sparred. Past the job board with half the postings in code. Past the bar, where an elf I used to know was wiping a dagger cleaner than the glass he served drinks in.
I didn't stop.
Because I could already feel it.
The tension below.
She was waiting.
Yorz never summoned someone lightly. And never from up here.
No, her meetings happened beneath the guild. Past the reinforced doors. Down in the dungeon hall that doubled as an archive, an execution chamber, and her office.
I reached the end of the hallway.
A halfing sentry stood by the stairwell, hand resting on the pommel of their curved blade. Our eyes met, they stiffened slightly, then stepped aside without a word.
I nodded once and descended.
Stone steps curved down into the earth. The noise of the guild faded with every step, swallowed by the cold, by memory, by silence.
The stairwell was flanked by a single figure; tallish, slender, with a crossbow slung loosely at her back and a curved dagger strapped to one thigh. She straightened as I approached, her pale green eyes flicking up to meet mine with a mixture of curiosity and recognition.
Half-elf.
Looked about fourteen, maybe fifteen. But the eyes, too focused, too calm.
She was older than she looked. Late twenties, if I had to guess. Half-elven blood slowed the years, but not the nerves. She still had the guild-brand fresh on her collarbone, inked sharp and red like she'd only earned it a season ago.
"Helga, right?" she asked, voice soft but steady.
I nodded once.
She gestured toward the stairwell with a tilt of her chin. "Yorz is waiting. Said to bring you straight down."
I said nothing.
She cleared her throat and fell into step beside me as we began descending.
The air thickened with every step, stone walls pressing close, torches casting warped shadows that danced with memory. The sounds of the upper guildhall faded to a dull thrum behind us.
"Not a lot of people get called down here," the girl offered after a moment.
I glanced at her.
She pressed on, a little tentative now. "I mean… Yorz doesn't exactly invite people. Most who end up below get dragged. Or dumped."
I didn't respond.
She kept glancing sideways like she was trying to piece together a legend and finding it didn't quite match the stories.
"You know," she said, quieter now, "people still talk about you."
I arched a brow.
"Not all good," she admitted. "But… not all bad either."
"How flattering."
She flushed faintly, but chuckled.
"Sorry. I just—" she hesitated, then shrugged. "Didn't expect you, is all."
"Neither did I," I muttered.
That shut her up for a few steps.
At the bottom of the stairwell, the corridor bent sharply to the left, stone smoother here, darker. No torches. Just faint magical runes lining the walls, pulsing a soft amber glow.
We stopped before a large reinforced door carved with the same sigil that hung above the main hall, a severed hand, fingers curled tight around a thorned crown.
The girl gave me a small look.
Not nervous. Not brave either. Just aware.
"She's waiting."
"I figured."
She hesitated. "...You okay?"
I gave her the same expression I always did when someone asked something too soft.
"I'm breathing."
She smiled faintly.
"Good luck."
I gave the door a push.
And stepped inside.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
Silence. Stone underfoot. Air cold enough to sting the lungs.
The room hadn't changed.
Same old dungeon brick, same barely-lit lanterns swaying from above, and that sloped floor no one ever bothered to fix — always listing slightly to the left like the whole damn place had gotten tired of standing straight.
And at the far end of the room, seated behind the same heavy oak desk that had outlived more knives than kings?
Yorz.
She looked up the moment I entered.
Short black hair, sharp and practical, cut close to the scalp on one side and falling just over the ear on the other. Pale skin that hadn't seen sunlight in weeks, maybe months. Thin-framed glasses rested low on her nose, angled just enough to suggest she didn't need them to see you, only to judge you. Her cloak was still the same: plain, grey, clean. Nothing flashy, nothing suspicious.
Utterly unremarkable.
Deliberately so.
Because Yorz was never the kind of woman you saw coming.
Everything about her, the muted clothes, the still posture, the way she barely seemed to breathe, screamed background. She could walk through a crowd and not turn a single head.
But the eyes?
The eyes never lied.
Sharp. Heavy. Black as pitch, and just as deep.
They locked on to me with a precision that made it feel like the walls themselves were watching.
"Helga", she smiled, "Welcome Home."
...
End of Chapter.
This was a long one, ~6600 words. I hope you've been enjoying it so far, but getting some engagement through your comments has been nice; they help me keep going. In saying that, we are starting to get to the end game of this arc soon, and after this, we'll FINALLY get to Baldur's Gate!
One thing I need to stress is that while I try to remain loyal to the source material of DnD 5e and other series I use, I will make mistakes or misrepresent a certain ability of an item, so please correct me if I am wrong in any way.
As always, I appreciate the comments and feedback; if you're wanting to see something in particular or have any suggestions, I would love to see it!
Cya Later!