Merrick and Mira walked side by side through the winding streets of Oryn-Vel, the sky above them darkening into a deep navy hue. Lanterns flickered to life overhead, bathing the bustling roads in a warm, golden glow. The festival preparations were already in full swing—vendors calling out their wares, children laughing as they darted through the crowd, the scent of roasted meats and sweet pastries lingering in the crisp winter air.
Mira pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, glancing up at her brother. "It's weird, isn't it?"
Merrick shot her a look. "What is?"
She gestured vaguely around them. "This. Being in a real city. Not just some tiny village or a camp in the middle of nowhere."
Merrick hummed in agreement. "Yeah. Feels... different." He hesitated, then smirked slightly. "You like it, though."
Mira rolled her eyes. "Obviously. It's exciting." She nudged him with her elbow. "But I know you, Merrick. You're always more comfortable in the wilds."
He exhaled a soft laugh. "Maybe. But I don't mind it here. Not as much as I thought I would."
Mira studied his expression for a moment, then smirked. "Is that because of the city, or because you get to spoil Selka all the time?"
Merrick immediately scowled. "I don't spoil her."
"Merrick, you let her ride on your shoulders for half the marketplace trip, and you bought her those stupid little candy fruits just because she looked at them for too long."
He huffed. "So? That doesn't mean I'm spoiling her. It just means I'm a good—" He paused. "—guardian."
Mira snorted. "Oh yeah. Sure. Guardian."
Merrick shot her a glare, but his ears were red.
The two of them weaved through the last stretch of crowded streets before finally reaching the inn. Mira let out a content sigh as they entered, stepping into the warmth of the building.
As they climbed the creaky wooden stairs to their room, they were greeted by an unexpected sight.
Selka stood at the small cooking hearth, a look of pure determination on her face as she carefully stirred something in a pot. Flour was smeared on her cheek, and there were at least three cracked eggshells on the table beside her.
Merrick and Mira exchanged glances.
Selka, completely unaware of their presence, muttered to herself, "Alright, so then I add the—wait, was it before or after the salt…?"
Mira stifled a laugh. "Selka... what are you doing?"
Selka jumped, nearly dropping the wooden spoon. She spun around, eyes wide. "I—I was trying to make dinner!"
Merrick arched a brow. "Trying?"
Selka puffed out her cheeks. "I can do it! I just... might have gotten a little mixed up."
Merrick stepped forward, peering into the pot. The liquid inside was a very questionable color.
Mira sighed dramatically. "Alright, alright. Move aside, chef. We'll help you."
Selka beamed. "Really?"
Merrick ruffled her hair. "Yeah, yeah. But next time, maybe wait for us before you start cracking eggs all over the place."
Selka giggled, and the three of them got to work, laughter and warm conversation filling the small room as the city hummed with life outside.
*
Out behind the safehouse, the cold night air pressed against Char's skin as he stood in the clearing, his breath misting in the dim lantern glow. The city hummed faintly beyond the walls, but here, in this small training space, the world felt quieter.
He rolled his shoulders, summoning the flickering flames of Author's Note. The ethereal book, burning blue and weightless, manifested before him, its pages fluttering as he reached for the two skills he'd chosen to copy.
Crimson Armor ignited first. A deep red glow spread across his body, hardening into thick, plated armor that crackled like tempered steel. At the same time, Crystalline Manipulation wove into existence, his hands molding the air, forming jagged blades of shimmering blue crystal along his forearms.
Balancing the two at once, though, was proving to be difficult.
Char lunged forward, swinging his crystal-clad arm in a downward arc. The movement was solid, but not as fluid as he wanted. His mind wavered between focusing on the weight of the armor and the delicate precision needed to shape the crystals. He gritted his teeth.
"Tch—come on—"
He adjusted his stance, trying again, when—
"Looking sharp, boss."
Char spun, instinctively raising a defense, but stopped himself as he spotted Callen leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk on his face.
"You always this jumpy, or just when you're trying not to trip over yourself?" Callen asked, pushing off the wall and strolling forward.
Char exhaled sharply, letting the energy fade as the crimson armor cracked and dissolved. The Author's Note book flickered out of existence. "You try balancing two completely different techniques at the same time and see how well you do."
Callen chuckled. "Nah, I think I'll stick to what I'm good at."
Char gave him a curious look, then recalled what Marin had said earlier. "Speaking of that... she was scolding you about something when I got back. Something about a brawl?"
Callen groaned. "Ugh, you would bring that up."
Char raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"
Callen hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Some thugs in the lower quarter were shaking down an old merchant. I just… reminded them that wasn't a good idea."
"By getting into a fight."
"By winning a fight," Callen corrected with a grin. "You should've seen the look on their faces when they swung at me and—"
He stepped back, and in an instant, his figure blurred—only for the image of himself to be struck by an invisible force.The impact made no sound, no effect, as though the attack had landed on an empty shell. Then, Callen reappeared just to the left, completely unharmed.
Char's eyes widened slightly. "You used one of the Ascension Stones?"
Callen smirked. "Damn right. And it gave me Afterimage."
Char took a slow breath, absorbing what he'd just seen. "So you can make a decoy of yourself that takes the hit while the real you dodges?"
"Exactly." Callen grinned. "It's handy, isn't it? Makes fights a hell of a lot more fun."
Char nodded, intrigued. "That explains how you walked away from a brawl with street thugs completely fine."
Callen stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Yep. Though, Marin still wasn't happy about it."
Char snorted. "She wouldn't be. But… that's actually a damn good ability."
Callen flashed a grin. "I know, right? And unlike you, I don't need to copy other people's skills to use it."
Char rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, rub it in." But despite his words, he couldn't help but smirk.
With that, the two stood there for a moment, the quiet of the night settling over them. Callen tilted his head. "So? You planning to keep training, or do you wanna grab a drink?"
Char exhaled, looking down at his hands, then at the empty space where Author's Note had been. He was close—he could feel it. The synchronization between Crimson Armor and Crystalline Manipulation was just out of reach.
"I'll train a little longer."
Callen shrugged. "Suit yourself. Try not to break anything." He gave Char a two-fingered salute before heading back inside.
Char watched him go, then turned back to the open space, rolling his shoulders as he summoned Author's Note once more.
Time to try again.
*
The safehouse was warm, lit by the soft glow of oil lamps as the scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced cider drifted in from the festival streets outside. Tess sat cross-legged on the worn couch, flipping a dagger between her fingers absentmindedly while Ishmael lounged beside her, arms crossed behind his head.
"You keep fidgeting with that thing," he muttered. "Gonna toss it at someone by accident."
Tess smirked, twirling the blade once more before sliding it back into its sheath. "If I do, it won't be by accident."
Ishmael huffed a quiet laugh. Then, with a casual motion, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped item. "Got something for you."
Tess raised an eyebrow as he handed it over. The fabric was cool against her fingers, something solid and smooth nestled inside. "Ish, if this is a prank—"
"Just open it," he interrupted, rolling his eyes.
With a quick tug, she unraveled the cloth, and the moment her eyes landed on what lay inside, her breath hitched.
A glittering wolf head accessory, intricately carved, its metallic surface catching the firelight in shades of silver and blue. The detailing was impeccable—sharp edges, fierce eyes, the curve of its muzzle sculpted with an expert hand. A small loop at the top made it perfect to dangle from a chain.
Tess stared at it, momentarily speechless. "Where did you find this?"
Ishmael shrugged, looking off toward the window. "Some festival vendor. Thought it suited you."
Tess swallowed, running her thumb over the delicate engravings. "It's... damn near perfect." She shot him a sideways glance. "Didn't peg you for the sentimental type."
"I'm not," he said, but there was the faintest quirk of a smirk at the corner of his lips.
Tess twirled the wolf head between her fingers, already imagining how it would look dangling from the chain at the back of her daggers. It was weighty, but balanced—more than just an ornament. It felt like a mark of identity.
She tested it by clipping it onto one of her dagger hilts, giving the blade an experimental spin. The wolf's head glinted as it caught the light, swinging smoothly with the motion.
"Oh, I like this," she murmured, a grin slowly spreading across her face.
Ishmael finally glanced at her, watching her reaction with something that might've been amusement—or something softer.
Tess turned to him fully, holding up the weapon with its new adornment. "I love it," she admitted, then, before he could react, she leaned in and pecked him swiftly on the cheek.
Ishmael stiffened, his easy composure briefly faltering. "Oi—"
But Tess was already reclining back on the couch, inspecting the dagger with satisfaction. "This is staying on here forever."
Ishmael exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You're impossible."
"And you're predictable," Tess shot back, flicking him a playful look.
Ishmael let out a low chuckle, leaning back again. "Yeah, well... Merry early festival, Tess."
Tess twirled the dagger once more, watching the wolf head flash in the lamplight. "Merry festival, Ish."