We left before sunrise.
No words. No nod. Just movement. Cynthia packed like it was second nature, fire gone before the sun even crested the horizon. I followed suit. We didn't talk much during the early hike—didn't need to. Some people need conversation to fill the void. Cynthia wasn't one of them. Neither was I.
We'd been walking for maybe an hour when she said, "What Pokémon do you actually want? Like—not just what you'll take. What you want."
I glanced over. "You're allowed to ask real questions now?"
"Don't get used to it."
I thought about it. "Something Ghost-type. Something hard to train. The kind of thing that looks at you and makes you think twice."
Cynthia nodded like that made sense. "Gible was passed down. Not caught. He's the only one left from my grandfather's line—his Garchomp was a Champion's ace. Gible's egg was the last he ever bred before he died. I raised him from nothing." I didn't hatch him. I earned him."
She looked ahead like she wasn't seeing trees anymore.
"He wasn't easy. Hatched mean. Greedy. He bit hard when he didn't get what he wanted. But I kept showing up. Every day. Even when he hated me for it."
Her voice didn't waver. "He listens now because I earned it. Not with force. With time."
Then, more quietly, "He's not a memory. He's a legacy. And I'm not done building around him."
"Like a fossil that bites back," I muttered.
She smirked faintly. "But one isn't enough. I don't want a team that all plays by the same rules. I want things that clash on purpose—things that challenge each other. Things that force me to think."
She shifted the weight of her pack slightly. "I want a team that contradicts itself. Power that doesn't overlap. Things that make each other sharper through tension."
"Like what?" I asked.
"Like something fast and violent next to something slow and elegant. Something unpredictable beside something loyal. Pokémon that would never travel together in the wild—but learn to fight beside each other because they don't get a choice."
I nodded slowly. "So conflict on purpose."
"Exactly," she said. "If I have to carry a team, I want one that pushes back."
That killed the conversation for a while, but it didn't feel awkward. Just... unfinished.
Midmorning, the air shifted. Luxio stopped walking. Cynthia's hand twitched toward her belt.
And then the trees cracked open.
It wasn't loud, but it was deliberate. From opposite sides of the path, two figures emerged—mine first: Tyrunt, having let himself out, head swinging slightly, eyes locked forward like he'd been tracking something we hadn't noticed.
Cynthia's Gible followed half a second later.
They saw each other instantly.
Tyrunt went still.
Gible tilted its head.
Then, like magnets pulled from opposite ends of a map, they both stepped forward.
Cynthia didn't stop hers. Neither did I.
The two Dragon-types circled each other, quiet. Curious. No growls. No teeth yet.
Just... recognition.
I wasn't sure what to expect. Tyrunt wasn't exactly known for his diplomacy. And Gible? From what I knew, they were territorial, twitchy, and fast to bite.
But for once, neither acted out.
Tyrunt gave a short grunt and lowered his head slightly. Gible didn't mimic it—but didn't reject it either. Just stood there, solid, watching.
Cynthia finally spoke. "They're testing each other. No threat yet."
"Yet," I echoed.
Gible circled again. Tyrunt held still.
Then, unexpectedly, Gible let out a soft bark and nudged Tyrunt's shoulder.
Tyrunt jerked back like someone had shocked him.
Then stepped forward again.
Just two dragons on a forest path, measuring weight and presence, and deciding—for now—not to fight.
"They'll fight eventually," I said quietly.
"Good," Cynthia said. "Better here than somewhere that matters."
She recalled Gible without a word. I did the same with Tyrunt.
We walked on.
Later that day, when we stopped to eat, Cynthia unwrapped some trail rations and said, "Ghost-type, huh?"
"Yeah."
"You think you can handle one?"
"Eventually."
She nodded. "Then you should start looking. We'll be near ruins soon."
"You offering help?"
"No. Just stating facts."
I smirked. "Didn't peg you as a tour guide."
"You're not that interesting."
"Good."
She tapped her fingers against the side of her water flask. "You ever think about how your team fits together? Not just strength, but intent."
"Like types and roles?"
"No. Like friction. Purposeful tension. A team where each one brings something completely different to the table—even if they hate it. Something graceful beside something brutal. Stable next to volatile. I don't want harmony. I want pressure."
I didn't answer that. Cynthia already knew how I operated—basic survival, forward motion, no frills. But maybe it was time to stop repeating that like a broken record.
She didn't push it. Just refocused on the fire, her expression unreadable again.
We ate in silence.
When we moved again, the trail narrowed. No one said anything for a while—not because there was nothing to say, but because the quiet wasn't uncomfortable anymore.