Chapter 17: The Flaming Holy Pancakes of Destiny

The plaza of Aveloria was buzzing, merchants shouting, children splashing in the fountain, couples arguing in the shade. And there she was—Serine, leaning against a stone wall near the fountain, arms crossed, her face twisted into something between rage and exhaustion.

Great. She looked like she wanted to kill me.

We’d agreed to meet here hours ago, and sure, technically I hadn’t shown up. But it wasn’t like I’d been sipping cocktails somewhere. I had an excuse. A very good excuse. Unfortunately, I doubted Serine would consider “Sorry, I was ambushed by an assassin, then I accidentally teleported her across half the continent” a valid reason.

“Rissa,” Serine snapped the moment her eyes found me. “You’re late.”

“Late? I wouldn’t call it late.” I gestured at Cassian beside me. “I’d call it fashionably delayed, with bonus dramatic entrance. You’re welcome.”

Her glare deepened. “Don’t you dare try to charm your way out of this. I have been standing here for hours. Alone. Waiting.”

“Okay, okay.” I held up my hands. “But listen, I was on my way here, and then a tiny little thing happened—Myrrin showed up and tried to kill me. Again. Very rude, really.”

Serine blinked, some of her anger faltering. “Myrrin? I expected the palace would follow us sooner or later. Did she do anything to you? When it comes to lady Lyra, Myrrin can sometimes be...”

“Exactly. A crazy obsessive girl with knives. Yes.” I sighed dramatically. “But don’t worry, Cassie here saved me.”

“Cassie?” Serine looked at him, confusion flickering. Then her brow furrowed. “Wait. You’re that boy from the market, aren’t you?”

Cassian gave the smallest of nods. “Cassian.” His voice was clipped, cold.

“Cassian,” I repeated with a grin, elbowing him. “But I call him Cassie. It suits him, don’t you think?”

Serine ignored me, her sharp eyes studying him like she could peel back layers just by staring. I could see it in her face—she wasn’t suspicious, exactly, but she pitied him. Because obviously, in her mind, I’d tricked him somehow.

“You didn’t… make him come with us, did you?” she asked cautiously.

Cassian’s gaze cut to her like a blade. “No one makes me do anything. I have my own goals. She…” his eyes flicked toward me briefly, “…just happens to intrigue me.”

Gods, the way Serine blinked at that—half disbelief, half pity again.

“Well, anyway!” I clapped my hands together. “The point is: with Cassie here, we finally have the least minimum of members. Did you know we needed three members to make a party? Absurd. Anyways, that means…” I wiggled my eyebrows. “We can officially register as an adventuring party at the guild.”

Serine sighed like she already regretted everything. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

The next morning, after a breakfast of dry bread and watery soup (thanks, innkeeper, I’ll be sure to haunt your grandchildren), we found ourselves in the same miserable guild hall line I’d stood in yesterday.

The place smelled like sweat, parchment, and disappointment.

At the front desk sat the same secretary from before—the woman with perfect posture, sharp quill strokes, and absolutely no sense of humor. She was basically carved out of stone, except prettier.

When it was finally our turn, I leaned against the counter and flashed her my most dazzling smile. “Miss me?”

Her expression didn’t shift. Not even a flicker. “Name.”

“Rissa.” I winked. “And I’d love to know yours.”

She scribbled something, not looking up. “Additional members?”

“Yes! This is Serine, the responsible one.” I gestured grandly. “And this brooding mountain of manliness is Cassian, but I call him Cassie. You can too, if you’d like.”

Cassian said nothing, of course. He might as well have been carved from the same stone as the secretary.

“Fine,” she muttered, flipping a page. “Three members. Group registration. Rank F.”

“Rank F?” I gasped. “F for fabulous?”

“F for lowest,” she said flatly.

“Ouch. Cold.” I leaned closer, dropping my voice. “Are you always this stern, or are you just saving your smiles for me in private?”

Her quill didn’t even pause. “Sign here.”

I scribbled my name with a flourish. “You know, you’d look stunning if you smiled. Maybe over dinner?”

“No.” She slid the parchment toward Serine without looking up.

Serine practically stabbed the quill into the paper, muttering under her breath. Then she turned and glared at me. “Stop flirting with her.”

“Why?” I grinned. “You jealous?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I’m annoyed. There’s a difference.”

I smirked and turned back to the secretary. “Ignore her. She doesn’t appreciate my finer qualities.”

The woman stamped the paper with brutal efficiency. “You are now registered. Rank F. Lowest privileges. Do not die immediately.”

“Aw, is that your way of saying you care?” I leaned on the counter, smiling like the idiot I knew she thought I was.

Her eyes flicked up just once, sharp as a dagger. “Next.”

And just like that, we were shoved aside as the line moved forward.

But it didn’t matter. We had papers now—official documents, travel permits, the whole thing. For the first time since I’d woken up in this ridiculous world, we were legitimate.

“See?” I said, holding up the stamped papers like a prize. “Team Rissa is official!”

Serine pinched the bridge of her nose. Cassian just grunted.

As soon as we stepped out of the guild hall, Serine stretched her hand toward me.

“Let me see the documents.”

I clutched them to my chest dramatically. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“I’m just curious what ridiculous name you wrote down for the group,” she said, deadpan. “Not that it matters, but I’d rather know what I’m stuck with.”

“Ha! Ridiculous? Prepare yourself.” I puffed out my chest like a proud peacock and flipped the parchment around with a flourish. “Behold: The Flaming Holy Pancakes of Destiny!”

The silence that followed was… brutal.

Serine stared at me like I’d grown a second head. Cassian just pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled like life itself had wronged him. Neither of them even bothered to argue. They clearly expected nothing less.

“Fine,” Serine muttered, scanning further down. “Name: Rissa. Class: Priestess. Subclass: Unknown. Rank F. Reasonable enough.”

“Reasonable? I’d say inspiring,” I corrected.

She ignored me and kept reading. “Name: Serine. Class: Scholar. Subclass: Unknown. Rank F. Hm. Calling me a scholar when I never finished my studies is a bit generous… but I’ll allow it.”

Then her eyes drifted to the last line. She froze.

“Oh dear.”

“What?” I asked, all innocence.

She lifted the parchment toward Cassian. “Name: Cassian. Class: Transporter. Subclass: Butler. Rank F.”

Her eyes softened with pity, the exact same pity you give a dog that’s about to be kicked. That look screamed, Are you sure you want to travel with this lunatic?

Cassian’s face darkened. “You—” His voice was low at first, then he exploded. “You insane woman! How dare you! A butler?! I should have let that little assassin slit your throat!”

I doubled over laughing. “Relax, Cassie! At least I got your name right, handsome. And look, think of it this way—nobody will pay us any attention. Transport jobs are the easiest cover. We’ll get contracts, paperwork, free passage everywhere. Genius, right?”

His jaw clenched. “Then you should’ve made yourself the transporter, lunatic!”

“Oh, calm down.” I waved a hand. “We can always change it later. Besides, I don’t even know your real class. And since ‘Tall, Brooding, and Hot’ wasn’t an option, I improvised.”

“I’m a Weapon Master,” he said flatly, teeth grinding.

Serine’s eyes widened. “Seriously? I’ve heard it takes years of training to reach that class. You must be incredibly strong.” She stepped closer, scanning him up and down with genuine curiosity.

Cassian’s composure cracked—his ears actually turned red. “It’s… not that impressive.” He stiffened, taking a sharp step back.

Oh.

Ohhhhhh.

My grin stretched wider. So mister stoic didn’t handle women well? That was delicious. My new favorite toy.

Noted, I thought smugly. I’m going to have so much fun with this.

Days slipped by faster than I liked. The clock was ticking—I had no more than a month before Myrrin came crawling back to Aveloria. And next time, she wouldn’t come alone; she’d bring resources, reinforcements, and the full weight of her oh-so-holy order. Which was perfect. I wanted them all breathing down my neck. That’s why I had flashed Arkanthos at her in the first place. If all went according to my deliciously reckless plan, we’d be out of Princess Lyra’s claws before anyone knew what was happening.

In the meantime, The Flaming Holy Pancakes of Destiny—that’s right, my glorious group name—was actually making waves. To my eternal amusement (and mild horror), we were… good. Too good. Serine and Cassie took everything far too seriously, so every job we picked up got finished quickly and neatly. If it involved monsters, well—Cassie was scarier than anything with fangs, and I could come up with spells so absurd they barely made sense but still worked. And Serine, with her endless notes and questions, always dug up rare materials or figured out where to hunt the nastiest beasts. Add Arkanthos’s encyclopedic brain, and suddenly our “little Rank F team” was chewing through missions like breakfast.

Within two weeks, we had leapt from Rank F to Rank C. Two. Weeks. Adventurers in Aveloria were starting to whisper our name—half in awe, half in confusion. How could a priestess, a dropout scholar, and a “transporter-butler” pull off what seasoned warriors couldn’t?

One afternoon, while elbow-deep in another monster job, Serine frowned at me. “Aren’t we drawing too much attention?”

I grinned wickedly. “Exactly.”

Her brows furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to,” I said with a laugh that probably sounded more like a villain than a heroine. “Just wait. We’ll reap the benefits soon enough.”

By now, Serine and Cassie didn’t even flinch when I sounded like a lunatic. They were used to it. Traveling with a priestess who carried a talking skull in her handbag kind of kills your sense of normalcy.

Finally, the opportunity I had been waiting for arrived.

“Aha!” I exclaimed, snatching a quest from the guild’s notice board with all the flair of a conquering hero.

Serine and Cassian leaned in, clearly curious about what shiny nonsense I had just committed us to.

It was a transport mission. Not just anywhere—oh no. It was to Solmyrion, the capital of the distant continent of Xytherra. Xytherra: the smallest landmass in the world, but also the farthest away. It lay across endless seas, south of Avanth, our own sprawling, ridiculous continent. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

“You want us to go to Xytherra?” Cassian asked, his voice as dry as week-old bread. “I won’t object, but we might as well die of old age on the way.”

“Tch tch tch.” I wagged my finger at him with a grin. “We’ll accept the job, sure, and haul the goods out of Aveloria. That way, it looks like we’re taking it seriously. But the moment we get the chance, we ditch whatever boring crates they hand us and head north instead. To the island of Liraen. Serine and I have… an acquaintance there.”

Serine nodded slowly. “I see. That way, we throw Lady Lyra and Virelia off our trail.”

“Exactly. But that’s not even the best part,” I said, my grin widening into something properly unhinged. “Think about it. When Myrrin and—oh, I don’t know—an entire regiment of Virelia’s soldiers and holier-than-thou clerics cross the Mist Caves and march into Aveloria, what do you think happens? The world doesn’t just shrug. No, no, no. People will panic. Conspiracies will blossom like weeds. Why is Virelia moving troops north into a neutral state? Are they trying to expand? Why will they go south to Xytherra next?”

Serine’s brows drew together, listening carefully despite herself.

“The great Empire of Dravencourt won’t sit still. They just ended a war with Virelia a few years back. Vel Dranneth—our dear city-state to the east—who just happens to be Dravencourt’s ally? They’ll raise hell. The whispers of war will spread like wildfire. And best of all—if Myrrin and her little holy parade fail to bring me in, Princess Lyra loses credibility. Which means the ultra-fanatic faction in Virelia gains power, tearing things apart from the inside. Meanwhile, we stroll off to Liraen, explore the elven riches, and sip wine while the world loses its collective mind.” I laughed, long and loud, the kind of laugh that would make a sane person back away.

Cassian pinched the bridge of his nose. “So your plan is to deliberately spark global political conflict just to satisfy your insatiable greed and curiosity?”

“Exactly. You finally understand me.” I winked. “And besides, those pompous clowns from the Holy Order deserve it. Did I ever tell you they once tried to fry me alive with beams of holy light? Absolute nightmare. Kicked me around like a sack of potatoes. A delicate, beautiful, sexy young lady like me should never be treated that way. I’m traumatized for life.”

“Delicate, my ass,” Serine and Cassian muttered in unison.

And just like that, without much more thought—because overthinking ruins all the fun—we accepted the mission and turned our path not south toward Xytherra, but northward. To the island of Liraen.