Muster

The land had been opening for hours—wide sweeps of grassland broken by the shimmer of irrigation ditches and rows of hardy crops that caught the sun like bronze wire. Fieldhands bent between furrows, their figures small against the plain, and the smell of grain and turned soil drifted faintly through the carriage slats. Every few miles, they passed a cluster of farmhouses or an abandoned mill, its wheel still half-sunk in a trickle of runoff. The road ran straight through it all, steady and pale, until the hills began to rise.

They’d been seeing the mountain since dawn—just another blur on the horizon, washed pale by haze.

“Hollow Gate,” Nyx said.

“That mountain?” Nathan asked.

“The name of the dungeon it houses.”

Nathan squinted at it through the window. “Hollow Gate. Sure. Who names these things?”

He still caught faint traces of smoke when the wind shifted—smoke worked permanently into his hair, stubborn even against the clean bite of the rising air. They’d all changed back at the last stop; Ronan had, as usual, already prepared everything for him. Across from him, Ronan and Nyx looked sharper now—less travel-worn, more like officers on their way to a briefing.

Bob was still half-asleep in Nathan’s lap, round and damp, purring faintly with each bump of the road. The baby stag had claimed the seat beside him, legs tucked under its small body, silver hide catching stray threads of light from the window. When the wheels hit a rut, the creature’s head lifted, then settled again against Nathan’s arm like it had decided this was safer than the floor.

They’d been talking for a while. Nathan wasn’t sure when the conversation had started, only that it hadn’t really stopped.

“So you understand what to say?” Ronan asked without looking up from the map spread across his knees.

Nathan rubbed his temple. “For the fifteenth time—yes. Confident, restrained, vaguely disdainful. Brimful of authority I don’t naturally have.”

Ronan made a noncommittal grunt. “It needs to look like second nature. They’ll expect Mason Draegor to have answers, not questions.”

“Oh, good. Because I have so many answers.” He exhaled. “I know. My life may depend on it.”

Satisfied enough, Ronan tipped the map so Nathan could see. “Entry’s here. Single gatehouse mid-slope on the southern face—Guild-built, one way in or out.”

Nathan leaned in. The parchment was old, patched and re-inked by too many hands, corridors crossing and vanishing like scars.

“Once through the gate,” Ronan said, “there’s the Outer Chamber—narrow approach into the First Chamber just beneath it. That zone stays stable between descents and can hold two companies. We’ll use it as assembly and orientation, not a camp.”

“Because if the place shifts, anyone left behind gets sealed in,” Nathan said. “Right. Bad for morale.”

Ronan’s mouth twitched. “After that, six main sectors slope into deeper vaults. Each level has linkways—those are the bits that change. Think stacked halls that don’t always line up the same way.”

“Inverted tower,” Nathan murmured.

Nyx leaned over from the opposite bench. “Not a bad picture. Just call them sectors when you’re pretending to be official.”

Nathan traced one of the spirals. “If there’s only one entrance—and it’s guarded—how would Droswain even get inside?”

Nyx didn’t look up. “Bribe.”

Ronan, still studying the parchment: “Or ten. One to open a record, one to lose the inspection log, and eight to keep their mouths shut.”

Nathan blinked. “That… actually tracks.”

Ronan tapped the central muddle of ink. “Now. Your assessment—again.”

Nathan straightened, adopting his Best Commander Voice. “We’ll use the First Chamber as our assembly point. Once descent markers are placed, recon teams move through the two most viable Passages—east and south sectors. Linkways are variable between descents, so all teams cycle back through the First Chamber to realign and report before pushing deeper.”

Ronan nodded once. “And why no garrisons deeper?”

“Because the structure realigns,” Nathan said. “We don’t strand people where the floor plan argues back.”

Nyx tapped a finger near where several routes rejoined. “Every map eventually funnels to a central vault one or two sectors down. If anything’s hidden here, it’ll be mid-depth—deep enough to avoid casual eyes, not deep enough to trigger a reset.”

“Based on recorded clears,” Nathan recited, “the dungeon resets at the final chamber. So the relic, if it exists, has to sit before that—anchored, sealed, or tucked in a pocket vault the resets don’t touch.”

“Good,” Ronan said. “Make it sound like you’ve believed that for years.”

“I will radiate decades of field experience,” Nathan said flatly. “From my pores.”

Nyx’s mouth curved. “Keep the language clean and practical. No speculation, no theatrics.”

Ronan rested neat fingers on the map. “Your exact phrasing at muster: ‘First Chamber is assembly and coordination. Two primary routes for initial recon. No positions held deeper than First. All units return to the First Chamber to confirm alignment between descents. No push past the fourth sector until distortions stabilize.’”

Nathan repeated it, quicker. “Assembly and coordination. Two routes. No holds deeper. Realign at First. No push past four without stability.” He glanced at the inked maze again. “And if someone asks why we’re not finishing the dungeon?”

“You say we’re not here to clear it,” Ronan replied. “We’re here to find what everyone else missed.”

Nyx added, softer, “If it’s even there.”

Bob burbled in Nathan’s lap, like agreement or indigestion.

Nathan let the map’s lines blur and refocus. Gatehouse, Outer, First—six routes fanning like ribs; sectors below that pinched tighter and stranger the deeper they went, an upside-down tower pretending to behave. He could recite it now without looking.

Nyx said, “Breathe. Then speak. Preferably in that order.”

Nathan blinked once, deadpan. “Right. Sectors. Not evil, shape-shifting tower floors.”

“Better,” Nyx said.

Ronan rolled the map and slid it into its leather case. “If anyone presses for details, cite the Guild’s records or say it’s information from the relic book—then point at it. Nyx has prepared a replica.”

Nyx’s mouth curved as she handed it over. “From the description Ronan gave me. Illusory mimic. All gibberish. They won’t know the difference.”

Nathan huffed a quiet laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes as glowing glyphs cycled across the cover. “If you say so.”

Ronan glanced up, catching the edge of his tone. “You’ll do fine.”

“Sure,” Nathan said, gaze dropping back to the sleeping creatures beside him. Still would’ve preferred improv.

“Good,” Ronan said evenly. He looked out the window. “Another hour or so now.”

***

The climb carried them through thickening trees—broad leaves giving way to darker growth as the air sharpened with sap and wet bark. Gradually, the slope began to ease. The road straightened and leveled onto open ground, and the world around them changed.

Through the carriage window, Nathan caught flashes of structure—timber, stone, the edge of a high fence. He turned to look the other way and found another watchtower there, its blue banners faded and frayed by wind. Wherever he looked, the fence kept going.

“What is this place, a city?” he asked.

Ronan shook his head. “Base camp.”

As the carriage drew nearer, Nathan could see how far the wall ran—too broad for a mere encampment, too fortified for comfort.

“Feels like it was meant to last,” he said.

“It was,” Ronan replied. “Hollow Gate’s dungeon is ancient. People have been working out of this valley for centuries. They don’t rebuild—they just keep adding, keeping the place alive.”

Nyx rested her elbow against the window frame. “No one lives nearby, though. Too much old magic in the soil—or that’s what they say. Superstition sticks around longer than stone.”

The carriage began to slow. A gatehouse came into view, its heavy timbers banded with dark iron. Guards moved along the parapet—archers above, spears below—working with the ease of routine. A signal horn sounded, low and brief, before the gates started to part.

As they passed beneath the arch, a set of blue banners caught the light—newer than the rest, their colors still rich and deep. Nathan’s gaze lingered. I’ve seen that before… where— Then it hit him. The Guild hall. Those same banners had hung above its entrance, weighted with age and authority, watching everyone who walked through.

Inside, the world opened wide.

Heat and hammered iron rushed in like a held note released.

Tents stretched in ordered rows, guy lines taut as harp strings. Between them, wooden platforms and canvas awnings made narrow streets where runners darted past stacks of crates and water casks. Smoke drifted from cook fires and chimneys, carrying the bite of iron, leather, and boiled grain. The sounds came in layers—hammering, shouted counts, the steady clack of practice poles. Somewhere, laughter flared and died just as quickly, as if someone remembered where they were. Hundreds of bodies moved with purpose—no panic, no chaos—just the rhythm of a war machine that had learned routine.

Nyx leaned out slightly. “Looks different from the last time I was here. Added more structures.”

Ronan studied the expanse ahead, like he’d been born reading it. “They’ve been busy.”

As they rolled deeper into camp, Nathan caught more detail—sashes, tabs, embroidery stitched into sleeves. Greens banded with white, gray threaded with copper, dark blue deep as midnight edged in silver, each one marked with a pale star tangled in bronze roots, crimson cut through with black. He didn’t recognize the hierarchies, but the blue held authority; even the air seemed to bend around it.

The carriage rolled to a stop. Ronan was out before the wheels had even stilled, exchanging a few quiet words with a passing runner. The man saluted, accepted a slip of parchment, and vanished into the crowd.

Nathan blinked after them, then turned as Nyx shifted beside him and opened the door. She hopped down lightly, boots hitting packed earth.

“My stop,” she said, nodding toward a block of crimson banners in the distance. “Calvesset quarters are over there. I’ve got to brief Sera—we’ll come by later.”

She crouched briefly to pat the baby stag on its snout. “Bye, little one. Don’t let him get lost.”

Bob burbled, a soft glorp. She looked at him and said, “See you later.”

Nyx smiled. Then she straightened, offered Nathan a quick, wry nod, and slipped into the crowd—gone in seconds amid the blur of uniforms and banners.

Nathan stayed inside while the carriage waited, the noise of the camp filtering through the windows. Beyond the glass, his mercenaries moved in tight formation—horses shifting, wagon wheels creaking, the low rumble of voices keeping pace with Ronan’s orders. The rhythm was familiar, but the eyes on them were not.

When Ronan returned, he leaned in and tapped the roof twice. “We’ve got our space near the stream. Command’s already logged our arrival.”

The carriage rolled forward again, their convoy following close behind—riders and supply wagons moving at a measured pace through the narrowing lanes. Through the windows, Nathan caught fragments of motion—faces turning, quick glances that lingered too long. A few soldiers muttered as they passed, words lost to the noise but tone unmistakable. Whatever stories had followed Draegor’s mercenaries here, they’d clearly arrived first.

Bob burbled faintly under his jacket, uneasy. Nathan couldn’t blame him.

They passed deeper into the small city.

The convoy slowed, wheels crunching over gravel and hoofbeats dulling on packed earth. Through the carriage windows, Nathan saw riders breaking formation—wagons peeling off in practiced arcs as they reached their assigned quarter. The sound of movement thickened: men calling counts, the creak of harness leather, the clatter of gear coming loose.

Ronan glanced out his window, reading the motion like a map. “You ready to play Boss again?”

Nathan adjusted his collar, met his eyes, and managed something halfway between disinterest and authority—a Mason look if ever there was one. He gave a short nod.

“Good,” Ronan said, rapping the roof with two quick knocks.

The carriage rolled to a stop. Ronan pushed the door open and stepped out, pausing only long enough to exchange a few quiet words with a waiting runner. Then he turned back, gesturing for Nathan to follow.

Nathan climbed down after him into trampled grass and dust. The smell of leather, horse, and woodsmoke clung thick in the air. For a moment, the world felt louder than it should—voices, hoofbeats, the metallic clatter of gear all blurring together until he found his bearings.

The first thing that cut through it was a familiar shout—“Boss!”—followed by a ripple of motion as his men turned toward him. Hands lifted in brief acknowledgment, reins shifted, glances passed from one to another like current through wire.

There it was. Yeah, this was fun.

He gave one short nod in return. That was enough.

Ronan moved past him, snapping orders to start the setup. The men responded instantly—wagons swung into a loose circle, horses unhitched, gear stripped and stacked with the practiced rhythm of people who’d done this too many times before.

Nathan stayed where he was for a moment longer, taking it all in—the stream cutting silver through the dirt, the mountain looming high beyond the valley, the muted thunder of life inside the walls. For a camp built on old superstition, it felt painfully alive.

He adjusted his collar, exhaled, and muttered under his breath, “Home sweet borrowed home.”

Bob burbled in agreement.

***

By midday, the mercenaries had their quarter fully raised—tents staked, gear unpacked, fires lit. Nathan had claimed a spot near the stream, where the ground stayed cool and the noise softened to a manageable hum. Inside his tent, he’d set up a small corner for the stag, who now dozed with its legs tucked under, chin resting on a saddle blanket.

Bob, on the other hand, had proven to be a problem—and a solution. The creature would eat anything. Bread, scraps, bits of canvas thread, even the last of the sealing wax if Nathan didn’t keep watch. After one too many slime trails across his clothes, he finally fashioned a pouch for Bob out of spare cloth. It wasn’t elegant, but at least it kept him contained.

Now, seated outside with Bob spread like a smug coin purse across his knee, Nathan watched the organized chaos of the camp in motion—hammering somewhere distant, the scrape of armor plates, the thrum of orders moving up and down the lanes.

Ronan appeared with two tin cups and that look that meant news. “Just found out an envoy from Guild command’s here,” he said, handing Nathan one.

The tin smelled of tannin and smoke—camp tea pretending to be medicine. Nathan accepted it, the metal warm against his fingers. “Envoy? Guild command?”

“Guild Office of Strategic Operations,” Ronan said. “GOSO, if you’re feeling affectionate.”

Nathan tilted his head. “And what do they do?”

“They work for Guild High Command. Oversee deployments, authorize dungeons, file reports. Supposed to keep the guilds unified under the Council of Eryndral.” He took a sip. “Lot of corrupt officials, though. GOSO’s the kind that can erase a scandal faster than a corpse cools.”

“So that’s why nobody reported the auction,” Nathan said.

“That’s why nobody ever does. Mason didn’t exactly leave room for independent thought. Even if I’d wanted to report it, I couldn’t. GOSO would’ve buried it either way.”

Nathan stared into his cup. Different world. Same corrupt game.

***

By late afternoon, Ronan got word that a new column was approaching from the ridge. “We should head toward the main square,” he said.

The valley had turned the color of brass. The noise of the camp dulled to a low hum, as if even the wind were waiting.

Nathan plopped Bob back into the pouch and tucked it inside his coat pocket. He checked the stag’s feed, gave it a pat. “Maybe we’ll give you a name soon. Stay here for now.”

They joined the gathering crowd near the central lane as dust plumed along the road, backlit until it looked like light had learned to burn. A small column came into view at the hill’s shoulder—a handful of riders and a few more on foot, all of them carrying exhaustion the way other men wore pride.

Kieran Halcyos rode at the center, armor scuffed, cloak scorched along one edge, posture unbending. He didn’t raise a hand; he didn’t need to. The camp adjusted around his presence as if someone had redrawn its lines.

Well, he isn’t dead. And he doesn’t look like a vegetable. That’s good.

For a fleeting moment, Kieran’s gaze passed over him—sharp, assessing—and moved on without pause.

Nathan exhaled quietly, tension bleeding off one shoulder. And he doesn’t seem to remember the auction chaos either.

Officers converged—Eryndral dark blue and silver, Calvesset crimson and black. A female commander in Calvesset colors drew her horse alongside Kieran’s for the last thirty paces, her nod both respect and possession: my people stand; yours stand; let’s make this mean something.

Only when they reached the front lines did Kieran swing down from the saddle.

For a heartbeat the camp seemed to brace.

The horns sounded—three long notes that pulled the entire valley to its feet. Conversation thinned. From every lane, soldiers and guild banners turned toward the central green where a raised wooden platform waited—a remnant from past campaigns, its edges reinforced with new timber and hasty pride.

Ronan’s mouth tightened. “Ah. The envoy had another purpose for being here.”

Nathan squinted at the sudden shimmer of color as units converged. “Meaning?”

“You’ll see,” Ronan said, voice low. “Field appointments always need a witness. And someone to write the paperwork that blames them later.”

They joined the outer ring near the Eryndral banners. The afternoon light broke through the valley haze in long gold shafts, glinting off armor and enamel. Heat rippled across the packed grass.

The envoy stood immaculate at the platform’s base, her aides polished to mirror shine. Her voice carried cleanly, neither shouting nor soft.

“By decree of the Guild Office of Strategic Operations, Commander Kieran Halcyos is hereby vested with the temporary rank of Field Marshal for the Hollow Gate campaign. All attached divisions will act in unified capacity under Guild oversight.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd—acknowledgment, wariness, the low shift of boots on grass.

Kieran stepped forward, accepted the scroll with a nod sharp enough to cut. “Thank you, Envoy Doss.”

He turned to the crowd. He didn’t climb the platform. He stopped at its base, sunlight catching the scorched edge of his cloak. He didn’t need the height to be seen.

“I’ll make this brief.”

“You’ve come from every corner of Eryndral—and beyond,” he began, voice carrying without force. “Some of you arrived on a day’s notice. Some without sleep. You came because this campaign matters.”

The crowd quieted. Banners stirred faintly in the wind.

“Most of you have been made aware by your commanders. The Guild believes something buried beneath Hollow Gate predates every recorded dungeon—something powerful enough to change how we understand the age that came before. Something that may stop a full-scale war from erupting.”

He let the silence breathe, steady and deliberate.

“We don’t know its form. We don’t know if it was built, sealed, or born. But if the records are right, it exists—and that alone is reason enough for caution.”

He looked over the gathered ranks. “Our task isn’t conquest. It’s diligence. Preparedness. We secure the mountain, confirm the truth, and ensure whatever lies beneath remains contained. Guilds, Calvesset allies, mercenary banners—we act as one.”

The banners shifted faintly in the wind; the hush felt almost reverent.

“Stay sharp,” Kieran said. “Stay cautious. Whatever waits under Hollow Gate, we’ll face it—but we won’t take it lightly.”

The last words landed like tempered steel.

“We march to the entry point at dawn. Dismissed.”

The envoy raised a gloved hand, crisp and final. “Field Marshal Halcyos will confer with division leads. Commanders and leaders to the command hall immediately.”

The crowd began to disperse.

Nathan turned to Ronan. “That means me, right?”

“We practiced enough. You’ll remember your lines.” Ronan clapped his shoulder once, a soldier’s reassurance disguised as dry humor. “I’ll be outside.”

***

The “command tent” wasn’t a tent at all—half-permanent timber walls braced with iron, the heat outside muffled by the low hum of barrier charms. Inside, the air smelled of sweat and torch smoke. A wide map table dominated the room, littered with markers and charcoal-smeared notes.

It looked almost identical to the one Ronan had drilled him on. Good.

His mouth went dry anyway.

Kieran stood at its head, armor still dust-streaked from the ride. The envoy waited just off to his side.

“First of all,” Kieran said, “I apologize for my tardiness. There was an issue that required my immediate attention. Quick logistics—are all units ready? Do we require anything else?”

The woman in Calvesset colors stood. “Commander Maris Kell,” she said with a short nod. “Calvesset is set.”

Similar confirmations followed—“Ready, Field Marshal,” “All accounted for”—a quiet wave of agreement circling the table.

Then Nathan realized it was his turn.
“Yes—ready, Field Marshal,” he said quickly, heart hammering.

Orders followed—logistics, vanguard, defensive lines. Nathan stayed near the back, hands clasped behind his back the way Mason would’ve done, trying to look like authority instead of nerves wrapped in a coat.

Kieran’s gaze flicked toward him. “Draegor.”

Nathan stepped forward before his brain could veto it. “Two primary routes for initial recon,” he said evenly, tracing the map with a gloved finger. “We’ll need to confirm where the walls have shifted—here, and here.”

A pause.
Taron grunted. A few others nodded.

Nathan exhaled through his nose. Phew.

Then Kieran again—quiet, but cutting through the noise. “The book?”

Nathan held up the replica book Nyx had made. “Here.”

Kieran studied him a moment too long, unreadable. Then—“Fine.” He turned his attention back to the map, pointing out routes and marking positions as the discussion moved on.

Nathan nodded along, relief buried under composure. Still breathing.

The rest played out almost exactly as Ronan had coached him. Nathan only had to speak twice more. He did his best, and it seemed to be accepted.

Dismissal rippled through the room. The envoy was already speaking with a visibly exhausted Kieran before the sound of boots had even faded.

Nathan stepped out into open air, lungs greedy for it. Ronan leaned against a post, two tin cups waiting by his feet.

Ronan’s mouth twitched. “He didn’t stab you. That’s progress.”

Nathan looked back toward the tent, where Kieran’s voice still carried—steady, relentless.
“Progress,” he muttered. “Sure.”

***

Nathan was halfway through sorting the mess on his cot—Bob burbling beside a pile of clothes—when noise rippled through the camp. Laughter; a couple of low whistles.

He sighed and patted Bob. “Stay. Don’t eat anything.”

Bob gurgled like an angel who had never followed a rule.

Nathan ducked outside—and saw why the camp had lost its mind.

Nyx cut through the firelight, hood down, calm as a drawn blade. Behind her came Sera, Bren, Tamsin, and Alia in Calvesset colors, dusted from drills, confidence rolling ahead of them.

Ronan stepped forward just enough. “As you were.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The camp went still under Sera’s gaze. He tipped the women a small nod. “Good to see you,” he said, and peeled off toward the fire.

Nathan felt a smile try to break loose and caught it, letting it settle into a Mason-smirk. “Don’t just stand there—come in.”

A few of the men pretended not to look—and failed. Envy puckered the air like heat.

The women filed in—Nyx last, drawing the flap closed behind her. She lifted her stylus, traced a neat line through the air, and the muffled hum of camp vanished.

“Sound barrier,” she said.

“That’s convenient.”

The sudden stillness felt strange after so much noise. Warm. Contained. Human.

Sera’s expression eased, the faintest curve ghosting her mouth. “Glad to see you in one piece. Nyx briefed us on your… auction excursion.”

Nathan grimaced. “Ah. So that’s public record now.”

Tamsin grinned, propping her hands on her hips. “Rookie! Look at you—the big boss himself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Try to contain your awe.”

Her grin widened. “No promises.”

Bren stepped closer, braid coiled tight, expression even, then gave his shoulder a firm pat. "Still solid."

“Sure am.”

He turned toward Alia. “Thanks—for the emergency patch job after the dungeon.”

“Thanks are not necessary,” Alia said, calm and collected as always. “I’m just glad you’re still breathing.”

She reached out, poked the side of his ribs once—precisely where she’d bandaged him.
He laughed before he could help it. “See? Good as new.”

“Questionable,” Alia said, but there was a smile under it.

“Let’s sit,” Nathan said. He nudged a few cushions into a vague circle and dropped onto the cot.

The tent filled with the low rhythm of their voices—quiet teasing, mismatched laughter, the kind that came from people who’d actually survived things together.

That was when Tamsin’s attention drifted past him, narrowing on the corner of the tent.
“What is that?”

Nathan didn’t even look. “No. Whatever you’re thinking—no. You can’t eat it.” He flicked a look at Tamsin, then at Alia. “And you can’t dissect it.”

Alia lifted both palms, amused. “As long as it doesn’t bite me.”

“It hasn’t,” Nathan said. “So far it mostly… stands there and judges us.”

Nyx’s mouth curved. “Moonveil.”

The stag rose from its resting spot and padded closer, silver coat catching the lamplight as it lowered its head to sniff the group—slow, deliberate, almost approving. Then it stepped beside Nathan and rested its jaw on his thigh like some majestic, judgmental dog.

Alia’s eyes went thoughtful. “I’ve read of them.”

“It was in a holding cage at the auction,” Nyx said, dry. “We cut it loose.”

Bob began to stir. He oozed out from behind Nathan, flopped onto his leg, and gave the stag’s muzzle a damp, deliberate shove.

“Don’t be rude, Bob.” Nathan reached out automatically to steady the moonveil, running a hand along its neck. “You okay, buddy?”

The stag snorted once, unimpressed but unharmed.

Nathan exhaled in relief—then realized the group was staring.

“Oh, and this is Bob.”

Sera leaned back. “What is that?”
Tamsin made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a curse.
Bren’s hand went instinctively to the hilt at her hip—already bracing to squash it.

“No—no, wait!” Nathan said quickly, shielding Bob with both hands. “He’s friendly! This is the thing that came out of the egg in the dungeon.”

“Friendly,” Bren repeated flatly. “That.”

“He’s looking a little less dangerous now,” Nathan said.

“No, it’s still horrifying,” Sera said.

Bob gurgled, puffed himself up, and in his best impression of menace declared, “Gangster.”

A stunned pause followed.

“Ew,” came the collective response.

Alia tilted her head, calm as ever. “May I touch it?”

Bob perked up like a creature who absolutely understood approval and none of the boundaries that came with it.

Nathan sighed. “At your own risk.”

She gingerly touched Bob. A small tendril reached toward her finger, cool and damp.
“He’s mildly slimy,” Alia said, voice clinical. “Viscous layer… likely protein-based. Conductivity unknown.”

Bob froze, made a tiny affronted chirp, and immediately retracted—oozing up Nathan’s sleeve like a scandalized child.

Nathan winced. “Yeah, he doesn’t like being catalogued.”

He let Bob settle where he wanted and rubbed the stag’s ear.

Nyx smirked. “Parenthood suits you.”

Nathan groaned. “At this point, I’m collecting dependents.”

Laughter rippled through the tent again—soft, tired, real. For the first time in a long while, it felt almost like peace.

The lamplight inside their small circle flickered low. One by one, they began to rise—Tamsin stretching, Bren standing in silence, Alia murmuring about dawn departure.

Sera paused at the flap. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Nathan said.

Nyx lingered a moment longer, glancing toward the moonveil dozing near the cot. “I’ll take it tomorrow,” she said quietly. “I can make an illusion to carry and move it.”

Nathan nodded. “For the best. Don’t want to leave him alone.”

They stepped out into the cool night, the tent falling silent again except for the soft burble from Nathan’s sleeve.

***

Nathan’s mind was turning. He couldn’t sleep.
He pulled on a hooded cloak and told Ronan he was going for a walk. Dane was nearby; Ronan nodded toward him. “Shadow him. No one goes alone.”

Fine. Company or not, he needed air—
Not to plan, not to scheme—just to stop thinking long enough to hear himself breathe.

He’d left Bob burbling in his pouch near the cot and the stag curled in its corner, both looking far more peaceful than he felt.

His mind wandered anyway.
He felt half-delusional. What if the relic isn’t real? What if it’s alive? What if Bob mutates and decides to unionize?
Better that than thinking about the auction—or what Kieran would do if he ever learned the truth: that the man wearing Mason Draegor’s skin wasn’t him at all.

He was halfway through picturing a picket line of tiny oozes waving protest signs—FAIR GEL RIGHTS! NO MORE JARS!—when movement caught his eye.

He rounded a corner still smiling—and nearly walked straight into two men stepping out of a tent.

Taron blinked mid-sentence.
Kieran followed, one gloved hand braced against the frame, half-shadowed beneath a banner of dark-blue cloth stitched with a pale star and bronze roots. It snapped once in the wind.

Nathan froze. The handsome devil himself.

For half a second—before Kieran noticed him—there was a small, tired curve to the commander’s mouth. A real smile. Nathan had only seen it once before, across the Guildhall. It was much prettier up close.

Then Kieran’s gaze found him, and the warmth vanished.
“Draegor.”

“...Evening,” Nathan managed. He could feel his pulse in his ears. “Didn’t mean to—uh—just walking.”
Smooth.

Kieran’s eyes flicked to the guards, then back to him. “You’re a long way from your tent.”

“I’m sure I didn’t walk that far.” Nathan gestured vaguely at the night, as if that explained anything.

“Mm.” Kieran stepped closer—calm, absolute. “You were already going to be under scrutiny during this expedition. Hoping to add restraints to that?”

The word restraints hit Nathan’s brain like a rock through stained glass.

Instantly—because fate hates him—his imagination supplied Kieran, but not as a commander.
Leather. Whip. Low voice.
Himself in cuffs, tied to—

Oh no.
Absolutely not.
Brain, what the hell.
He wasn’t even into that sort of thing… probably.

His face went nuclear. He slapped a hand over his mouth before an incriminating sound could escape.

Kieran paused. “What was that face?”
Nathan blinked. “What face?”
Kieran blinked back. “What?”

Well, this is fucking awkward.

The silence stretched—suffocating and absurd. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted. Loudly. Judgmentally.

Kieran’s voice dropped flat. “You’re loitering near my tent after hours. Explain.”

“I—uh—didn’t realize this was your tent.” Nathan glanced at the banner, the guards, the sheer commander energy radiating from the place and winced.

Kieran’s expression didn’t shift. “I won’t give you any more warnings.”

“Understood,” Nathan said weakly. “Looking forward to… restraint-free supervision.”
Shut up, mouth.

Kieran stared. “What?”
“What?”
“…What?”

Another pause. Kieran’s jaw tightened. “You’ve been behaving rather oddly.”
“Not at all,” Nathan lied.

Kieran exhaled, the sound almost a growl. “I’m too exhausted to deal with this.”
He muttered something about idiots and sleep deprivation, and strode off into the dark. Taron’s glare lingered a moment longer before he followed.

Nathan stood there a moment longer, heart still thudding.
Fuck. Did that really just happen? I’m insane.

From the shadows, Dane cleared his throat. “Route back to camp, Boss?”

Nathan closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and nodded. “And where the hell were you?”

Dane blinked, confused.

Right. Of course he’d been there the whole time, watching me audition for disaster.

Nathan sighed, embarrassed. “Yes, please. Lead the way.”

Now he doubted he’d sleep at all.
Dawn would be here before he could blink.