The door to the chapel study slammed open with the force of someone who had just been personally betrayed by fate itself.
Zaire barely looked up from the rune-scroll he was inspecting. "You're early."
"I WAS ATTACKED." The words boomed through the room.
Dusken, in his oversized wolf-dog form, gave an excited tail thump and immediately perked up like someone just tossed drama into his food bowl.
Sylen stormed in, dramatic cloak flaring behind him like a medieval soap opera villain. "She insulted me. In public. Surrounded by… by produce."
Zaire blinked once, then calmly folded the scroll. "Should I make tea," he asked, "or something stronger?"
"I require a grave," Sylen declared, throwing himself dramatically onto the nearest couch. "To bury what's left of my dignity."
Dusken padded over, snorted, and collapsed at Sylen's feet, letting out a sound that was suspiciously close to canine laughter. His tail wagged like he'd just been handed front-row seats to the best show in town.
"Oh, don't you dare laugh at me, you overgrown fur carpet," Sylen snapped, jabbing a finger at Dusken. "You have no idea what I've suffered."
Zaire steepled his fingers, eyes glinting. "Please, enlighten us."
Sylen shot upright, cloak still swirling. "She called me a baguette!"
For a heartbeat, the room went dead silent. You could've heard a pin drop or, more accurately, the sound of Sylen's pride shattering.
Then Dusken made a horrible wheezing sound that turned into a full-on laugh, paw smacking the floor.
Zaire's lips twitched, fighting a grin. "Was it… a compliment? Like, a fancy bakery baguette?"
"I DON'T KNOW!" Sylen wailed, arms flailing. "She said it like it was an insult! Like I'm crusty and emotionally unavailable!"
Zaire tilted his head, deadpan. "…Are you denying it?"
Sylen ignored him, pressing on. "She said I eat bland eggs and call it 'minimalism'!"
"That's… not wrong," Dusken managed between toothy grins.
Sylen gasped, clutching his chest as if stabbed by a butter knife dipped in sarcasm. "She compared my magical prowess to almond milk."
Zaire leaned back, savouring every second. "So let me get this straight. Some mortal woman, whose name you don't even know, completely demolished your self-esteem with breakfast metaphors and carb-based insults?"
"Yes," Sylen growled, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. "And then she walked away."
He paused, eyes haunted. "With my garlic."
Dusken lost it, rolling onto his back, howling with laughter.
Zaire straightened, suddenly intrigued. "Who is this woman? I need to meet her. Shake her hand. Maybe build her a statue."
"Oh, you'd love her, wouldn't you?" Sylen hissed, eyes narrowed. "She's just like you. So smug. So sharp. Like a sword dipped in sass. She names her vegetables, Zaire."
Zaire nodded, thoroughly impressed. "She sounds wise beyond her mortal years."
"Zaire," Sylen snapped, glaring daggers. "She. Mocked. MY fashion."
Zaire looked him over. "Again… not inaccurate."
"I hate you both," Sylen groaned, flopping back and covering his face with one arm. "You're enjoying my misery. My immortal pride has been damaged. That's a serious violation of ancient law."
Dusken, now in full smug-dog mode, stood up, tail wagging, and trotted over to nudge Sylen in the ribs with his snout.
"Oh, don't pretend to comfort me now, furball. You're loving every second of this."
The big wolfdog just blinked slowly and yawned, radiating unbothered superiority.
Zaire finally stood, clapping a hand on Sylen's shoulder. "Come, brother. We must record this day in the archives."
Sylen peeked out from under his arm, suspicious. "Why?"
"So we can celebrate it every year," Zaire said, grinning. "The Great Humbling of Sylen. With a feast, of course."
"I'm not speaking to either of you again," Sylen muttered, arms crossed. "I'm emotionally damaged. I might never recover."
Zaire smirked. "Well, if she did that much damage in one argument, I can't wait to see what happens when you meet her again."
Sylen froze, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention. "NOOOO, never! If that moment ever comes, please—" he clutched his chest, full drama mode, "—strike me down with a fancy knife."
Zaire just raised an eyebrow, the picture of amused patience.
Sharp-tongued, chaotic, mortal sass tornado… yeah. That's Jules.
Earlier that morning, Jules had gone to the market. And Zaire, being Zaire, always kept an eye on anyone connected to Niah.
He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. Time for some fun, mate.
Dusken, ever the loyal partner-in-chaos, wagged his tail and barked his approval.
Meanwhile, Sylen, blissfully unaware of the plotting going on behind his back, threw his hands in the air and stormed out of the church, muttering curses and vowing loudly to never cross paths with that woman again.
Poor, clueless Sylen. He never stood a chance.
* * *