We’re back at base—barely.

  One of the grunts puked twice on the trail, and the other keeps blinking like he’s waiting for his brain to respawn.

  Tipo walks like he got stabbed in five timelines and emotionally scarred in all of them. Me? I’m holding my ribs like they’re plotting a mutiny.

  Ashen Hold looms above us like a fortress with trust issues. Black stone. No banners. No mercy.

  The southern gates grind open just enough to let us in before they close again like the place is embarrassed by how pathetic we look.

  We don’t go straight to the Mess or the Yard, although there’s soup for dinner. But there’s no time for that, we climb.

  The central stairwell spirals like a spine through the base—tight, uneven steps worn smooth by centuries of bruised boots. Torchlight flickers against the dark walls, shadows chasing us as we drag ourselves upward.

  Past the first floor, Weapon Hall. You can hear the blacksmiths still at it, sparks and swearing filling the air like war chants. Also the Mission Hall. Locked doors. Whispering ranks. Someone behind iron plating is probably already posting a bounty on the girl who wrecked me.

  Second floor, The Clinic.

  Pleit’s territory.

  We push through the reinforced door and the smell hits first. Burnt herbs. Clean blood. Magic that never quite fades.

  The place is dim, lit by mana orbs tucked into alcoves, casting a soft, eerie glow.

  The clinic’s built like a battlefield triage unit dressed up for a funeral. Stone benches along the walls. Stacks of tinctures and salves.

  Rows of tools laid out like offerings to some twisted healing god.

  And there he is.

  Standing beside the long central firepit, arms crossed, healer’s bag at his feet like it’s ready to bite someone.

  His coat’s half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows like he’s already tired of everyone’s shit.

  His eyes lock on us. On me.

  He doesn’t speak.

  Which is worse than shouting. So much worse.

  We shuffle to the nearest bench. I collapse with the grace of a downed wyvern. My body makes a sound. I pretend I didn’t hear it.

  Tipo slumps next to me, groaning like he just gave birth to a migraine. “Made it,” he wheezes. “Still hot.”

  “The soup?” I grunt.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “No,” he pants. “Me.”

  And then it happens.

  No footsteps. No warning. Just Pleit. Suddenly crouching beside me like he emerged from the shadows. I flinch. Reflex. Trauma. Guilt.

  “Alvert,” he says.

  Shit.

  That voice.

  The mom voice. The healer voice. The you’re-about-to-get-examined-and-then-eviscerated voice.

  I try to smile. It goes badly. “Hey, Pleit. Been training a lot? Working out? You look radiant. Glow's hitting just right…”

  He grabs my wrist with a medic’s grip—precise, surgical, terrifying. His other hand hovers over my ribs, fingers glowing faintly.

  The exact spot where that Storm Fang juggernaut tried to end my career.

  The glow builds. Warm and golden at first. Then sharp.

  His eyes flash white.

  Full spectral.

  I jolt. “Oh hell. He’s doing the eyes.”

  Tipo leans in with all the timing of a cursed comedian. “He’s cumming.”

  I choke on my own breath. “Tipo-”

  The glow pulses, sharp, cold. Then vanishes.

  Pleit blinks back to reality… And his face?

  He looks like I just confessed to licking poison mushrooms for fun.

  “You checked compatibility,” he says, voice like broken ice, “in the middle of a fight?!”

  I look away. Guilt’s a tangible thing now, thick as the blood still leaking under my shirt. “...He was huge. I got curious.”

  “Curious?” Pleit echoes like it’s a curse. “Alvertium, he hit you like a siege cannon powered by bad decisions. Your shoulder’s a crime scene, not even healing. I told Veyros you weren’t ready for external confrontations. Your stats barely stabilized after the last disaster. Why didn’t you dodge?!”

  I wince. Not from pain—from being called out with surgical precision.

  “Well, yeah, but it was a 5% match,” I mumble. “You never see those. I just… needed to know.”

  Pleit stands. Pacing. Rant loading.

  I brace for it, but it still hits.

  “You never take anything seriously,” he snaps, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “You almost died. Again. Do you have a death wish? Or is it just, like, emotional brain fog with a glaive?”

  I nod toward Tipo, who’s now poking at a mana salve jar like it owes him money. “What about him? He declared ‘slightly-less-peace’ to a war faction and you’re mad at me?”

  Pleit doesn’t even blink. “Tipo’s ranked higher than you.”

  “For now,” I mutter.

  I need only 2710 XP to get to rank B.

  And when I do?

  I’m getting my own damn cabin. No more dorms that smell like blood,

  sweat, and broken dreams. No more waking up to Tipo with another one of his “what if the moon’s actually watching us” speeches.. And no more Pleit shoved up my ass every single day, scanning me like I’m a walking case study in bad decisions. I’ll have walls. A door.

  A bed that doesn’t have 14% compatibility. Maybe even a shelf for all the crap I never get to keep. Peace. Space. The luxury of not being mothered by a man who glows when he’s mad.

  “He’s earned his recklessness,” Pleit says, sharper now. “You haven’t. You’re still under guild probation. You are, statistically speaking, a chaos event in boots.”

  I raise my hand. “Technically not boots. These are reinforced aerial soles.”

  Tipo smirks. “Ranked higher. Hear that? I’m mom’s favorite.”

  Pleit turns on him so fast it’s a miracle Tipo doesn’t catch fire.

  “You are not my favorite,” he says. “You’re just the only one here I trust not to stab himself with his own healing injection.”

  Tipo raises a finger. “Still counts.”

  Pleit groans, grabs his bag, and slams it on the ground with the tired authority of a man who’s done this too many times. “Everyone shut up and sit still or I swear I’ll sedate the entire squad.”

  I lean back against the stone bench, ribs screaming. “You know,” I say quietly, “you could just say ‘glad you’re not dead.’”

  Pleit crouches again, his expression softening just a shade. He starts bandaging my shoulder with practiced, angry hands.

  “I’ll say it,” he mutters, “when it stops being a weekly miracle.”

  Silence settles like snow.

  The fire crackles.

  The scent of mana-brewed herbs drifts through the air.

  Tipo stretches out, grinning. “Hey, Pleit?”

  “What.”

  “You glow when you heal. That’s kinda hot.”

  Pleit doesn’t stop wrapping the gauze. “And you glow with internal bleeding. Perfect match.”

  I laugh. Then immediately regret it. My ribs threaten to secede from my body.

  But under all the pain and sarcasm, there’s a warmth.

  Real. Raw. Reluctant.

  We’re alive. Barely.

  But still here.