Bram had seen to it that the carriage was ready by dawn. It was a sturdy, horse-drawn vessel that smelled of old leather and pine, a far cry from the sleek air-skiff that had brought them to the periphery. As the wheels began to churn the mud of Greenhollow's gates, Aiven watched the village disappear into the morning mist, the gratitude of the villagers still ringing in his ears.
Inside the cabin, the space was small. Virelle sat on the right-hand bench, pressed so firmly against Aiven's side that he could feel the faint, rhythmic hum of her mana through his tunic.
Aiven looked down at her. "Virelle? You're sitting remarkably close."
Virelle didn't move away. Instead, she adjusted her posture, anchoring her weight. "You lost an arm, Master. Your center of gravity is entirely lopsided. I simply cannot have you losing your balance and tumbling onto the floor when the carriage hits a rut. It would be a stain on my reputation as your protector."
It was a practical, if slightly exaggerated, excuse. Aiven's clerk-brain accepted the logic—his balance was off—so he didn't pursue the question further, letting the rhythmic swaying of the wagon dictate their shared silence.
But beside him, Virelle's mind was anything but silent.
Every time the carriage jolted, she was thrown back to the clearing. She saw the purple chains coiling around her limbs, tasting the iron and salt of the binding that had turned her into a spectator. She felt the phantom vibration of the dirt beneath her as she had writhed in desperation, helpless while the blue light claimed Aiven's flesh. The image of his arm lying in the mud was burned into her mind, a jagged scar on her memory.
Suddenly, her hand reached out, her fingers gripping the empty, pinned-up sleeve of Aiven's right arm. She held the fabric so tightly her knuckles turned white.
"I will not fail to protect you again, Master," she said, her voice dropping to a low, fierce whisper that held no room for argument. "Never again. I will tear the very sky apart before I let them lay another finger on you."
Aiven looked at her, seeing the raw sincerity in her eyes. He gave a slow, somber nod. "I believe you. But I also need to get better. I can't keep being the one who needs saving."
He turned his gaze to the passing trees, his mind shifting into the analytical gear that had served him for years in the logistics office. By his count, it was Saturday. He had been unconscious for two days. That meant he had missed the window to meet Rysa at the Guildhouse for the sword instructor recommendation.
Not that I have a usable sword anyway, he thought bitterly.
He began to run through the options. In an industrial hub like Aerilis, prosthetics weren't unheard of. He'd seen veteran porters with steam-powered brass hands or clockwork fingers, but those were expensive. His gold coin could probably afford one, but he still needed to check.
And then there was the mana outburst, the star in a bottle. It had saved him, but at what cost? He felt a strange, hollow thrumming in his chest where the pressure had been. If that power flared up again, would he survive it? Or would he simply burn from the inside out before the enemies even reached him?
His mind raced. The vampire knew his name. He knew his past job. He knew about the clerk who had summoned a miracle.
What if they appear again tomorrow?
Aiven's brow furrowed, his face twisting into a mask of visible stress as the weight of their situation pressed down on him.
Virelle watched him, seeing the way his eyes darted and his jaw tightened. She tried to break the heavy atmosphere with small talk, pointing out a peculiar bird or commenting on how the dust of the road was "insultingly grey," but Aiven's responses were clipped.
"Yeah," he'd mutter, or "I suppose so." His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, his brain clearly calculating a thousand different variables that had nothing to do with birds or dust.
"Master, do stop that," Virelle finally snapped, her tone losing its playful edge and sharpening into something frustrated. "You are making the air in here quite heavy. It's irritating."
Aiven blinked, snapping out of his trance. "Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind."
"I can see that," Virelle huffed, crossing her arms tightly. "And it's incredibly frustrating. I was summoned to solve your problems, Master. I am a miracle given form. Yet I'm watching you age ten years in a single carriage ride because I've somehow become your biggest problem."
Aiven looked at her, surprised by the bitterness in her voice. "What are you talking about? You aren't the problem."
Virelle clicked her tongue softly and snapped her fingers. The noise of the carriage were abruptly cut off, as if someone had shut a door on the world. An unmistakable anti-sound barrier settled around them—perfect, deliberate silence. Only then did she face him, violet eyes flashing.
"Am I not?" Virelle countered. "That vampire didn't come for you, Master. He came for me. Those chains were meant for me. Because of my existence, you were thrown into a duel with an anomaly monster. Because of me, you're currently trying to figure out how to button your own shirt with one hand. I'm supposed to be your shield, yet I'm the reason you're being hunted."
Aiven softened, reaching out with his remaining hand to steady her as the carriage hit a particularly deep rut. "It's not because of you. I just... I don't want to be a deadweight, Virelle. I'm an E-rank novice with one arm. If those people come back tomorrow, I would just be a liability."
"You have that thought only because I failed you back then!" Virelle's voice rose, a jagged note of guilt cutting through her arrogance. "I am the strongest mage there is. I should be the one ensuring you never even have to think about liability. It should be my power that keeps you safe, yet here you are, a human who can barely swing a sword, losing sleep over how to protect me."
She looked away, her silver hair shimmering as she bit her lip. "It's supposed to be the other way around. You're just... you're supposed to be the one who tells me where the honey-bread is."
Aiven watched the silhouette of the city appear in the distance. The towers of Lowhaven were rising out of the mist, and the weight of their new reality was settling in. He wasn't just a clerk anymore, and she wasn't just a sassy summon. They were two broken pieces of a much larger puzzle, and the world was starting to take notice.
"We'll figure it out," Aiven said quietly, though his face remained etched with the stress of a man who knew the "figuring out" part was going to be the hardest thing he'd ever done.
The Guildhouse was as busy as ever when they arrived. The usual smell of stale ale, sweat, and parchment hit Aiven as he stepped toward the reception desk. Clara, the receptionist, looked up with a professional smile that froze instantly.
Her gaze dropped to the empty, blood-stained sleeve pinned to Aiven's tunic. "Aiven Roan? Your arm..."
"It's a long story," Aiven replied, his voice flat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded parchment. "Quest completion. I have a signed letter from the Village Chief with the official Greenhollow stamp as proof."
Clara took the letter, checking the seal. It was all in order. She processed the paperwork with a heavy silence, eventually sliding a pouch across the counter. "The reward for a standard Kobold subjugation... fifty silver coins."
Aiven took the pouch. It felt light—disgustingly light for the price he had paid.
As he turned to leave, a group of veteran adventurers sitting at a nearby table began to snicker. "Look at that," one of them sneered, a scarred warrior with a heavy mace. "New face already lost a limb on a quest that's C-rank at most. Hey, if you can't handle a few yapping dogs without getting dismantled, you should quit while you still have the other one!"
Aiven felt the air around him drop in temperature. Virelle's silver hair beginning to drift upward as her eyes narrowed into lethal slits. She began to turn, her hand already glowing with a jagged lavender light.
"How about I turn your sorry faces into—"
Aiven grabbed her hand. He squeezed it firmly, pulling her back before the mana could flare. He didn't look at the adventurers; he simply shook his head at her.
Virelle hissed through her teeth, her expression a mask of pure frustration, but she listened. The glow vanished, her fingers tightening into a fist as she turned away.
They exited the Guildhouse into the crisp afternoon air, the laughter of the warriors still echoing behind them.
"Wait! You! The one with the missing limb!"
A female voice, sharp and energetic, called out from behind them. The heavy Guildhouse doors swung open again, and a girl emerged, jogging to catch up.
She was a short, sturdy dwarf with auburn hair tied into a thick, practical braid that swung behind her. Sharp amber eyes peered out from beneath a pair of brass-rimmed goggles resting on her forehead. Her leather workwear was a chaotic mess of tools, belts, and patched metal plates, and the unmistakable scent of oil, soot, and hot iron clung to her.
"I heard the commotion inside," she said. "And I think I've got exactly what you're looking for."