It was late, almost midnight. The city was plunged into silence, broken only by the steady footsteps of the guards. Dylan had finally made it back to the inn; his muffled steps glided over the creaky floorboards as he made his way down the hallway leading to his room.
When he reached the door, he carefully tried to unlock it, not wanting to disturb the neighbors. But after a few seconds of effort, he sighed, shrugged, and knocked three sharp raps before taking a step back.
This was definitely his room—he knew it—but he distinctly rembered not locking it when he left. He had left his two companions inside, deep in conversation. So there was a good chance one of them was still there.
A creak proved him right. The door swung open abruptly, making him jump slightly.
A spear floated in the air, its tip pointed straight at his throat, held by an invisible force. In the shadow of the doorway stood a broad-shouldered figure, nacing despite the darkness.
"Where were you?" growled a deep, unmistakably feminine voice. Each word seed to slice through the air.
"Jonas didn’t tell you I had business to take care of?" Dylan replied, raising one hand while the other still gripped a bag filled with oddly shaped objects.
But Maggie—because it was indeed her—didn’t answer. She frowned, then stepped forward and sniffed him like a dog tracking a suspicious scent. She took a step back, visibly puzzled.
"Weird... you don’t sll like alcohol."
"Of course not, because I didn’t drink any," Dylan answered calmly.
His eyes lingered for a mont on the erald glow surrounding the spear—a familiar, living essence that vibrated just centiters from his skin. It was Elisa’s energy, without a doubt.
Despite the proximity of the blade, he took a slow, controlled step—just enough to signal to Elisa that he was moving, giving her ti to adjust the trajectory of her magic.
But Maggie didn’t budge an inch. Still planted in front of the door, arms crossed, she stared at him like he was a thief caught red-handed.
"You’re carrying sothing. Don’t tell you went and stole again, Dylan?" she said, a hint of disgust in her voice.
Dylan smirked slightly. For a second, he considered answering honestly: "I did much worse." But he simply t her gaze and widened his smile.
"I made a few deals... and I brought you back a little sothing."
The spear slowly retracted, as if pulled by an invisible thread, returning to Elisa’s hand as she stood further inside the room. With a graceful motion, she set it down and then sat cross-legged, folding her legs beneath her light tunic. In the dim light, her golden eyes glead like those of a predator on the hunt.
"Co in, then," she said simply.
Dylan stepped into the room as if walking on glass. Slowly. Without sudden movents. Each step calculated to avoid creaking floorboards or drawing too much attention.
He moved forward calmly, avoiding prolonged eye contact, then sat on his bed, upright, his back slightly tense. Not quite comfortable, but not guilty either. Just... under evaluation.
The two won turned toward him in unison, like two judges who had been waiting for one thing: the defendant’s plea.
"Tell us about this business..." Maggie said, her gaze drifting slowly to the bag still clutched in his fingers. "...that went a little too well."
A cold sweat broke out on Dylan’s skin. Not visible, no. Just that dull, nervous shiver that grips the back of the neck and tenses the shoulders for half a second.
But he recovered. He had prepared for this. The whole way back, he had rehearsed the lines in his head. He had anticipated the questions, the suspicions, the silences.
He took a discreet breath, then answered:
"I got lucky. The black market doors weren’t closed to ..."
He left a small pause. A way to suggest effort without making a show of it.
"...and I managed to trade so anima gems for gold. Nothing illegal. Well, no more than usual."
A slight smirk crossed his face. An attempt at humor. A test. To see if it would land.
Elisa didn’t react.
Maggie raised an eyebrow but didn’t comnt.
So Dylan continued:
"And I also made a few contacts. Gathered so intel. Things we should all discuss together, like we promised."
His voice was calm. Almost too calm. He knew that too much confidence would seem suspicious, so he adjusted his tone, letting just enough weariness slip in to sound believable.
But deep down, he knew.
It wasn’t his speech that would convince them.
It was what he had brought back.
——
"You know you’re the best won in my life," Dylan said, his tone half-sincere, half-cynical. "The ones I’ve walked through hell with."
He paused, t both their gazes, then added:
"So when I finally got so money... I couldn’t help but think of you."
A breath, a sideways smile.
"Actually, I wouldn’t have tried to stop myself. And you know . I don’t exactly have a sense of moderation."
Slowly, almost theatrically, he opened the bag. The two won leaned in slightly, curious despite themselves.
First, he pulled out two small bundles wrapped in black cloth—neatly tied.
"To start... these."
He undid the knots and revealed two sets of delicate undergarnts, clearly rare, made from soft, almost translucent fabric, edged with subtle but elegant patterns. One was a deep red, verging on garnet, the other a midnight blue shaded with silver.
"Not very practical for fighting, but we’re not at war every night. And besides, you’re the only won I know who could destroy an army in lace."
He looked up. Maggie narrowed her eyes without smiling. Elisa, anwhile, observed the fabric without a word, but a shadow of amusent flickered in her golden gaze.
Dylan, unfazed, continued.
Next, he pulled out two small cut-glass vials. One held an amber-hued perfu, the other a silky skin ointnt, clearly designed to soothe or beautify—he wasn’t entirely sure, but the seller had sworn it "rejuvenated the soul through the pores."
"And this... I thought it’d be a nice change from dried blood and mud. It’s not much, but hey. Do what you want with it."
He set them down gently beside the undergarnts, then finally pulled out a small cloth bag, which he shook lightly—a dry clinking sound erged, followed by a subtle but potent aroma.
"And of course, the real priorities."
He shot a pointed look at Maggie.
"Spices. Black pepper, dried ginger, a bit of smoked chili... I asked what you’d use to calm an insatiable, irritable stomach. The rchant recomnded these."
Maggie raised an eyebrow, this ti with a real smile—half-mocking, half-flattered.
Dylan concluded by letting himself fall back slightly onto the bed, arms crossed behind his head, his tone deliberately casual:
"I could’ve kept the gold, stashed it, drank it, thrown it away. But no. I chose to buy you lingerie, perfu, and ingredients for a luxury stew."
He closed his eyes for a second, then opened one again, teasing:
"Admit it. I’m your walking dream."
Elisa sprang up. Literally. She rushed toward the bundle like an overgrown child given a forbidden toy. Her golden eyes sparkled, incandescent, betraying an excitent she didn’t even bother to hide.
Like tranquil lava ready to erupt.
She knelt, undid the knots with the tips of her fingers—almost reverently—and began inspecting every stitch, every seam, every hue.
"I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to wear sothing like this..." she murmured, her eyes absorbed in the fabric, distant, almost hypnotized, as if uncovering so ancient secret.
She had said it with disarming naturalness, without even glancing at Dylan, whose presence seed, in that mont, as negligible as a piece of furniture.
Dylan, for his part, was sprawled diagonally across the bed, torso slightly propped up, his head resting on his palm, the other hand on his stomach. One leg bent, the other stretched out. He wore the smug smile of a lucky idiot—or an unpunished god.
He watched her glow.
And of course... he opened his mouth.
"Oh? Why not try them on right now? You’ve got the perfect proportions for it, don’t you?"
He thought he’d trap her. He hadn’t expected Elisa to take the bait.
She looked up at him, dead serious.
"Oh, right... wait, let do it."
She had already started loosening the belt of her tunic.
Dylan’s eyes widened—not that he was complaining, but victories like this rarely ca without consequences.
And sure enough, the consequence arrived.
Maggie, silent until now, raised her voice sharply as her gaze locked onto Dylan:
"Elisa! At least wait until morning. And were you really about to undress in front of this asshole?"
Elisa blinked, confused.
"Why not? It wouldn’t have bothered ..."
A muffled "Yesss" escaped from where Dylan was lounging.
Maggie didn’t need to respond. She hurled a pillow that hit Dylan square in the face with near-supernatural accuracy.
He caught it too late, laughing.
And he was still laughing when she turned away, muttering:
"One day, I’m gonna kill him. For real. And no one will bla ."
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