Time passed, and the Forest of Trials was now wrapped in a heavy blanket of darkness. Faint howls echoed in the distance, but within the fortified encampment, quiet murmurs and the occasional crackle of fire dominated the soundscape. At the edge of the settlement, Silas lay sprawled across the broad back of his undead bear, using its rotting flank as an improvised mattress. The beast lay motionless, its hollow chest rising and falling with eerie stillness as Silas napped, entirely unconcerned with the fortification efforts going on around him.
All around them, the air smelled of pine, sweat, and lingering smoke—signs of recent hard labor. Silas remained unmoved.
"Hey… you just gonna sleep all day?"
Cynthia's voice rang out from below, cutting through the quiet as she shouted up at Silas from the ground.
"Huh…?"
He groggily opened one eye, then the other, blinking away the blur. Surrounding him now was a fortress of wooden walls, sturdy and expertly constructed. The design resembled that of the earlier delinquent stronghold—but this one was clearly better: reinforced support beams, watch platforms, and even a crude gate system. It was more than shelter. It was defensive. Professional. Wartime-ready.
Seems like they took my advice to heart…
Silas yawned and stretched, arms flopping limply to either side. In one exaggerated motion, he rolled off the bear's back and plummeted unceremoniously to the ground, landing flat on his face with a muted thud.
"Agghh…"
He groaned, spitting out a bit of dirt and brushing strands of grass from his face. Leaves stuck to his cheek like green tattoos.
He staggered upright, still wiping soil off his chin. His clothes were wrinkled, and his bangs hung messily in front of sleepy eyes.
"What is it…? Has the thing arrived yet?"
His voice was thick with fatigue, the earlier bravado and sharp sarcasm dulled into something far more teenager-like. The edge had worn off.
Cynthia raised a brow, smirking as she gave him a teasing nudge with her shoulder. Her expression softened just a touch.
"Come on… you haven't eaten yet."
She gestured for him to sit beside the undead bear, whose glowing eyes flicked toward them briefly before returning to its silent watch. Silas sank into the grass with a small grunt, exhaling as though even sitting took effort.
Cynthia handed him a rough-hewn wooden bowl filled with steaming broth—wolf soup, crafted from the very beasts they'd slain earlier. The scent was rich and savory, slightly gamey but oddly comforting. A faint trail of steam curled into the cool night air.
Silas blinked down at the bowl, confused but strangely touched. He rubbed his eyes, then chuckled softly—awkward, almost disbelieving.
No one ever used to take care of him.
He noticed the simple wooden spoon tucked neatly inside and scooped up a spoonful, letting the warmth coat his tongue. He exhaled, surprised at how good it tasted. More than that—he hadn't even realized he was starving.
The day's chaos had shoved his basic needs aside.
"So… why are you even bothering helping me…?"
He asked between spoonfuls, curiosity slipping through the cracks in his usual guarded tone.
"Not like I was being nice."
Cynthia sat down beside him, one hand thoughtfully propped under her chin. Her voice was casual, but her smirk betrayed a hint of mischief. For a second, her demeanor relaxed—her blue hair catching the moonlight, gently flowing with the night breeze, the edges gleaming silver. It shimmered in a way that stole Silas' breath, just for a moment.
"No reason."
She said it with the kind of infuriating lightness that made it impossible to tell whether she was being honest—or just enjoying the effect.
"I… see?" Silas muttered, his cheeks dusted faint pink. Assassin or not, he wasn't immune to charm—especially not when it came wrapped in casual contradictions and moonlit hair.
"Hey, wait a minute! Weren't you kinda annoyed just a minute ago? And weren't you really shy back then?" he asked, squinting at her with exaggerated suspicion. "I don't get your personality at all."
He groaned, shoveling another bite into his mouth in surrender.
Cynthia laughed softly. Not a mocking laugh—but an honest, warm one. She stood, brushing bits of grass from the folds of her skirt with practiced hands.
"Why…? Hate it?"
She asked with her usual hand-on-hip stance—almost like a trademark now. A confident silhouette outlined against the flickering light of nearby fires.
Silas shook his head with a smile, cheeks still faintly pink. He let out a soft sigh, spoon halfway to his mouth.
"Not really… I just find it confusing."
Cynthia didn't answer immediately. She turned away, her gaze shifting toward the center of the camp, where students gathered around a roaring campfire. They laughed, ate, argued in hushed voices—all trying to feel normal in a place that wasn't.
Above them, the stars blinked through a tapestry of leaves, the night sky a deep indigo canvas lit by the pale silver of a full moon.
"You'll get used to it."
She said it quietly, but with conviction, waving a hand over her shoulder as she walked off. Her blue eyes glimmered when she glanced back—reflecting moonlight like twin sapphires—before she rejoined the others.
He lowered the spoon, the broth forgotten as his eyes lingered on her.
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Wait… what am I thinking?
He shook his head quickly and jammed another spoonful into his mouth like it could chase away the thoughts swirling in his chest.
"Damn this heart of mine…"
He muttered to himself, chewing like a man determined not to fall for anything—or anyone.