The walk back to Whiskerstep was surprisingly peaceful.
No demons. No ancient curses. Not even a stray goblin trying to avenge his mildly humiliated cousins from two floors up.
Just birdsong, rustling leaves, and the soft clank of my now permanently-attached shame: a shiny pink shield on my back, catching every stray glint of sunlight like a disco ball of regret.
It jingled slightly when I walked.
Of course it did.
We reached the outer tree-ring gate before dusk. A pair of beastman guards spotted us, relaxed their stances, and waved us through.
"I guess we're officially not invaders now," Silas said, flipping his dagger and catching it smoothly.
"We weren't invaders to begin with," Velis said. "We were detained under suspicion of trespassing."
"Which we did," Lyra muttered. "So yes, invaders. Just polite ones."
Iria looked toward the center of the village where the hearth-glow from the main firepit flickered skyward.
"Hospitality earned is more worthy than the kind freely given."
"I'm pretty sure that's embroidered on their oven mitts," Silas said.
Before we could even report back to the elder council, a small crowd had formed.
Or rather—a swarm of small fox-eared, squirrel-tailed, and rabbit-footed children barreled toward us.
They stopped three feet short of Iria's boot, eyes wide, ears twitching, clearly struggling not to touch her sword.
Then one of them spotted my shield.
They gasped.
Like, collectively.
"Oh no," I whispered.
"Is that the Shield of Glitterfang?" one of them shouted.
Another added, "The Pink Wall of the Nine Lives?"
"Are those real names?" I hissed to Velis.
"They are now," she said without blinking.
Within seconds, I was surrounded.
Tiny hands poked at the cat crest, traced the rainbow flourishes, and begged me to "make it glow again like in the story."
"I'm not a performer," I muttered.
"You're carrying a luminous cat deity crest," Lyra said. "You lost that argument."
"They think it's sacred."
"It is sacred," Iria offered.
"Don't help."
One of the elder beastmen approached us from the firepit platform—an old foxfolk with fur going silver and a ceremonial walking stick carved with root-symbols.
He nodded once. "The dungeon spirit has been quiet since you entered. Its scent no longer rises from the trees. We take this as proof."
Velis bowed. "The relic was secured. The guardian... respectfully removed."
He didn't ask for details.
Wise.
"Tonight," he said, "you are welcome guests. Sit. Eat. Be still."
Dinner was held around the great root hearth. Stone bowls filled with spiced bark stew, mushroom roast, and a honey-nut bread that Silas declared was "worth stealing" (he was watched closely the rest of the meal).
Velis sat with a group of scroll-keepers, discussing rune-form grammar with the world-weariness of someone explaining physics to poets.
Iria joined a sparring circle with beastman warriors. She took a light hit to the shoulder and apologized for breaking the sparring sword in response.
Lyra begrudgingly complimented their herb preservation methods in the infirmary tent. Then made a comment about the inefficient bandage binding. They loved her anyway.
I... sat with the kids.
Because they dragged me there.
And made me tell the story of the dungeon again.
"...and then the chest bit me," I muttered. "Which is how I got this thing."
The shield sparkled in the firelight.
They gasped again like I'd summoned the moon.
"Show us the glare move!"
"It's not a glare move. It's just—"
I held it up for dramatic effect. The shield let out a low, catlike chime.
Light shimmered across the nyan crest in pink, purple, and white.
Tiny stars twinkled in the pattern.
The children screamed with joy.
Lyra, watching from a distance, covered her mouth with her glove.
Definitely laughing.
When the fire had burned low and the children finally scattered, I sat quietly near the edge of the village.
Velis joined me first. She lowered herself beside me with the slow ease of someone whose brain was still processing arcane theory behind social customs.
"You fought well today," she said.
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's a factual statement," she replied.
Silas flopped down nearby. "You're basically a walking joke with plot armor. But you're our walking joke."
Iria approached last. She handed me a folded cloth—inside was a fresh sling harness for the shield, expertly stitched.
"I thought you hated the thing."
"It deflects magic," she said. "And inspires youth."
"...I guess that's all a knight really wants from a shield."
Lyra stood across the fire, arms crossed.
"You looked ridiculous."
"You smiled."
"N- no I didn't!" She said, flustered.
I looked up at the canopy, stars tangled in the branches.
For the first time in a while, I wasn't scared of what came next.
We had space. A moment to breathe. To laugh.
To remember why we were even trying to save this ridiculous, trap-riddled, mimic-filled world in the first place.