Hilda pushed open the door to her room, and Azaros followed with measured steps. The sunlight that slanted through the window had settled upon a small wooden table, casting its glow upon the blue gemstone resting carefully at its center. Azaros approached, extended a gentle hand, and picked it up. With no ceremony, she let the towel fall from her body, then pressed the gem against her bare chest.
A radiant light burst forth — a shimmering blue that began to spiral around her in waves, like the sea come alive. Threads of energy danced across her skin, and slowly, the armor began to form.
It started with the breastplate.
A turquoise gleam emerged, encasing her upper torso in solid, elegant protection — her waist left exposed in deliberate design. The gemstone now sat embedded at the heart of the armor, pulsing faintly, as if breathing. Shoulder guards followed, metallic and regal, adorned with interwoven golden patterns. Their pointed edges lent her the presence of a warrior queen. Bracers enveloped her arms next, sleek and polished, trimmed with soft lines of gold.
Along her hips and thighs, segmented plates took shape — graceful in their function, fluid in their form. The small gaps between each piece allowed brief glimpses of skin, a delicate balance struck between power and allure. Finally came the armored boots, rising to the knees. Their sharp contours and angular lines spoke of strength, while a subtle heel lent her posture a hint of elegance without sacrificing command.
Hilda paused, studying Azaros with unconcealed curiosity. Something thoughtful stirred in her gaze before she turned quietly toward her wardrobe.
The wooden doors groaned softly as she opened them. Her fingers moved over neatly folded garments, weighing each piece with care — a silent deliberation between comfort and function for the journey ahead.
As Hilda remained immersed in her search, Azaros lowered herself onto the bed, her long legs folding one over the other.
Suddenly, Nentu's voice shattered the quiet, surging forth in a crackle of rage.
"What have you done?!"
Azaros arched a brow with studied nonchalance.
"Oh? Is that an existential question? Or just another critique of where I choose to sit?"
Nentu snapped, her tone sharp as a lash.
"You revealed part of your power! In front of some old man — a stranger! In a house we know nothing about. Have you forgotten who you are?!"
Azaros's expression faltered, softening ever so slightly.
"I had no choice, Nentu… He was suspicious, and Hilda had placed her trust in me. I wanted to help them. I just... wanted him to feel safe."
She hesitated, voice lowering.
"I can't walk away from suffering. That's not who I am. It never was."
Nentu's voice came again, colder this time, heavy with reproach.
"And our mission? So easily set aside? If you plan to rescue every soul that groans in this world, then rejoice… We've lost our way before we've even begun."
Before Azaros could form a reply, Hilda turned from the wardrobe, holding a dark brown skirt between her hands. She offered a tentative smile.
"I think I found something fit for the road. What do you think?"
Azaros returned to the present, letting her thoughts with Nentu dissolve into the recesses of her mind. She smiled gently and spoke in a calm tone,
"If you're comfortable in it, that's all that matters. Out in the forest, I doubt anyone will care what you're wearing."
Hilda glanced down at the skirt she had chosen, fingers gliding over the soft embroidery that adorned the hem. It was wide and flowing, falling gracefully just below her knees in a deep, earthy brown. She murmured, almost to herself,
"This pattern reminds me of wildflowers… I used to love watching them."
She lifted her eyes to Azaros.
"At the very least, it'll let me move freely. I'd rather not be tripping every step of the way."
For her top, she had chosen a pale green blouse — a shade that made her light brown eyes glow with warmth. Its design was simple, with a soft collar and puffed sleeves that ended neatly at the wrists. Elegant and practical in equal measure. The fabric was light and breathable, perfect for long journeys. She completed her attire with a plain leather belt cinched around her waist, adding a touch of function without fuss. As always, her signature twin braids remained tightly bound, crimson ribbons woven through her chestnut hair, bold and defiant.
Together, they moved toward one of the rooms on the lower floor. They stopped before a heavy oak door. Hilda reached out and pushed the handle slowly. The wood groaned faintly as it opened, revealing a small workshop that felt more like a hidden sanctuary than a room. Wooden shelves lined the walls, cradling glass jars filled with herbs, roots, and strange ingredients that shimmered in the dim light like relics from a forgotten age. Dried flowers hung from the ceiling beams, their brittle petals still exhaling the faintest perfume. At the heart of the workshop stood a broad wooden table, its surface cluttered with alchemical tools — brass scales, stone mortars, and glass vials from which ghostly vapors curled upward. Yellowed pages lay scattered between the instruments, each inscribed with careful, elegant handwriting — ancient remedies penned long ago.
In one corner, a small stove radiated a soft warmth. Beneath it, the flickering fire illuminated a soot-black cauldron, its surface marked by years of toil. The very walls bore the scars of time — stains, spills, and splashes traced their chaotic history like a mural of trial and discovery. Golden light streamed in from a narrow high window, casting the room in hues that made it feel suspended between the mundane and the magical.
Hilda walked toward one of the corners, where a wooden chest sat in solemn silence. It was carved from polished darkwood, its surface etched with intricate patterns of leaves and intertwining branches. The scent of aged timber mingled with the other fragrances of the room. She reached for it, lifted it with practiced ease, and strapped it onto her back. Though large, she moved with the steady steps of someone long accustomed to its burden.
In two swift strides, Azaros was beside her, hand outstretched toward the chest.
"Let me carry that for you," said Azaros.
Hilda shook her head and smiled with quiet confidence.
"It's all right. I can manage it."
Azaros frowned.
"It looks heavy. Don't overdo it."
Hilda's smile widened, a spark of playful challenge in her gaze.
"Really? Then try it yourself," she said, unstrapping the chest and placing it at her side.
Azaros reached for it and lifted it effortlessly — as if it weighed no more than a feather. Her brows drew together in surprise as she turned it in her hands, inspecting its craftsmanship.
"How?" she asked, her blue eyes gleaming with curiosity as they scanned its surface.
Hilda smiled.
"It's made from the wood of the Vilaron tree — enchanted, light as air, yet strong enough to bear the weight of the world. The forest spirits blessed it."
She paused, as if preparing to share something more remarkable, and added with a casual wave of her hand,
"And it was crafted by the Nilvara dwarves, who live on the plains of Ellaria."
Azaros raised a brow, her curiosity deepening.
"The plains of Ellaria?"
Hilda nodded eagerly and began painting an image with the motion of her hands.
"The plains of Ellaria are vast, endless fields of green. The grass there sways with the wind like a living sea, and dense groves rise like islands scattered across its breadth."
She paused for a heartbeat, then went on,
"The Nilvara have lived there for generations. They are unmatched craftsmen, shaping wood and metal in ways beyond our understanding. No one can replicate their skill — no matter how hard they try."
Azaros smiled faintly, her gaze returning to the chest, now laden with fresh wonder.
"So it isn't just old spirits that dwell in this wood… but the touch of rare artisans as well. No wonder it feels so extraordinary."
She placed the chest gently on the ground, then added with a teasing tone,
"You know… I'm starting to feel like this chest carries more history than I do."
At that moment, a familiar voice broke the quiet — soft and warm as ever.
"These are for your journey," said Mama Dalia.
She approached carrying a small tray, carefully arranged with sandwiches wrapped in coarse cloth. Her smile was comforting as she set the tray down beside the girls.
Then she clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. A quiet chant escaped her lips — old words flowing like a forgotten lullaby, wrapping the room in a hush that felt almost sacred. When she opened her eyes, they were filled with tender concern as she looked at Hilda. Her voice, gentle yet firm, followed like a mother's final thread of warning.
"Be careful, my little one… The world beyond these walls is no friend to pure hearts."
Hilda smiled softly.
"Don't worry, Mama… I'll be fine."
But Mama Dalia wasn't finished.
She turned toward Azaros, her gaze taut — a storm of worry and weight pressed into furrowed brows. She stepped forward, as if anchoring every word with the burden that pressed upon her chest, and spoke in a voice rough and resolute, leaving no room for doubt.
"This girl… she is more than a daughter to me. If anything happens to her… I will never forgive you."
Azaros lifted her head, placing a hand over her chest. Her voice, low and steady, rang with unwavering conviction.
"I promise… I'll protect her as fiercely as a mother cat guards her young. With my life."
Hilda couldn't help herself — a soft laugh escaped her, light and unbidden, as if the warmth of that vow had kindled something innocent within her. She turned to Azaros, her eyes gleaming, and said with gentle affection,
"Then… I really will be safe."
Mama Dalia smiled in turn, though her smile bore a shadow of reverence. She lifted her hands as if offering a quiet benediction and whispered,
"May the gods walk beside you. May your steps fall lighter than the shadows of the trees."
And then, without another word between them, they left the workshop behind.