Ignis' First Firesday of Harvestfall, 1442, city of Zephyrdale.

Leoric shifted the weight of his bow on his shoulder as he passed under the carved wooden arch marking the edge of Zephyrdale. The city sprawled before him, nestled in the gentle curve of the valley like a mosaic of tiled roofs, cobblestone streets, and the faint glimmer of candlelit windows. The hum of life—so different from the rugged quiet of the steppes around Altansuun—greeted him with a mix of warmth and unease.

This city was not his birthplace, yet a large part of his heart considered it home.

The scents of the city reached him: woodsmoke curling from chimneys, the comforting sweetness of freshly baked bread, and the sharp tang of a butcher's stall somewhere nearby. He had spent years here training to become a Ranger, his time in Zephyrdale etched into his bones like a second heritage. But today was not a homecoming. He was not here to linger, to reminisce.

He was here to find Vaelith.

His mind lingered on the silver-haired Kindred dracan, her golden scales catching the sunlight like warm amber in his memory. Vaelith had always struck him as a paradox: Her quiet intensity masked a vulnerability he rarely saw; her fierce determination, a fortress she built to survive. The more time Leoric spent with her, the more he wondered about the person behind the avatar.

How Vaelith usually acted reminded him, uncomfortably, of the expectations others had placed on him—or rather, on Sophie. The perfect wife, the perfect mother, the patient martyr who shouldered burdens without faltering. The image haunted her as much as it irritated him. Her parents and her ex had expected her to give up her dreams, to mould herself into their version of good enough, as if her career, her identity, was a quaint indulgence rather than a part of her.

He suspected—feared—how Vaelith carried a similar weight. But was it his place to say anything? To ask? Or was it a boundary best left untouched?

And Kaelyn... His first impression of the felinae had been far from flattering. She had leaned so heavily into her femininity, not in a way that expressed who she was, but as a weapon. Her seductive, calculated edge—playing up people's expectations and turning them to her advantage—had rubbed him the wrong way from the start. But today, she had seemed quieter, almost subdued. Leoric wondered if the storm of news vans and attention in the real world had forced her to reconsider. He had not followed the news story after first hearing it earlier this morning. He made a mental note to do so after the evening was over. Or when he woke up tomorrow, perhaps.

The thoughts of his party members lingered as Leoric moved deeper into the city, but he soon found his focus drifting back to Altansuun. The time spent there still weighed on his mind. His return to his birthplace had been productive, if nothing else. Working with his father and sister had taught him the old ways of shepherding—shearing, butchering, and the intricate dance of animal handling. His father's sharp words and his sister's quiet judgment had made every step of progress feel hard-earned. But despite the friction, the work had been satisfying in its own way.

His training complete at the family estate, he made his way back to the city. Miska intercepted him, eager to hear stories of his travels and adventures. After a few tales and several cups of Ayrish Brew, he politely excused himself. She reluctantly agreed to let him go, but only after extracting a promise for more frequent visits. He gave in to her demands, acquiescing even as she impressed upon him the weight of keeping his word.

Guess I'll have to visit her again.

When he had finally reached the leatherworker's guild, things got much simpler. His teacher had patiently shown him step by step how to tan hides, cure skins. And with those, he had then learned how to turn them into armour and gear, earning him praise for both the quality of his work and the speed at which he picked up every lesson.

His extra levels in the shepherd and leatherworker classes felt like clear marks of progress, a tangible way to measure the time he had spent honing skills. But beyond the mechanics of levelling, they had also offered him something unexpected: clarity. For the first time in a long while, he had made something with his own hands—something useful, something that would protect him and his companions.

And yet, with that sense of accomplishment, came a peculiar hollowness. Crafting and shepherding had unearthed fragments of a past that might not even be Sophie's own. Memories of a childhood on the steppes, of Miska, of his life as the elder son of the Torgarin clan, had surfaced without warning. Were they real? Or were they the echoes of a story someone or something—Sophie, the system, or even this world itself—had written for him?

The question tugged at him as the familiar streets of Zephyrdale unfolded before him. The city was bustling as ever, its narrow cobblestone paths teeming with Pint burrovians, Wind sylvani, halflings, and adventurers of every stripe. Leoric ducked instinctively under a low wooden awning, brushing the fabric as he passed. The city, vibrant as it was, remained ill-suited to someone of his height.

His destination came into view: the cooking guild. Vaelith would likely still be there, throwing herself into her training.

She's so diligent.

The guild's sign swayed gently in the breeze—a carving knife crossed over a ladle painted in vibrant reds and greens. Leoric pushed open the rounded, heavy wooden door and stepped inside, the rich, comforting scent of butter and herbs washing over him.

He scanned the room and found her instantly.

Vaelith stood near the far counter, a skillet in her hands. Her cloak and wizard's hat were gone, replaced by a simple apron tied neatly over her travel clothes. A bright bandana pulled her silver hair back, leaving her amethyst eyes unobstructed as she concentrated on her work. Her golden tail swayed idly behind her, a gentle counterpoint to the brisk precision of her movements.

She was cooking something. The aroma of melted butter and parsley drifted through the room, mingling with the faint sizzle of the skillet's contents.

Leoric smiled faintly. She was always so focused, whether it was combat, ritual magic, or crafting. He suspected it was a way for her to channel emotions she could not—or would not—voice. He admired this ability of hers. But he also worried—there was only so much solace one could find in distractions.

He leaned casually against a wooden pillar separating the storefront from the bustling kitchen. "So this is where the wind carried you," he said, his voice light.

Vaelith glanced up, her amethyst eyes narrowing slightly before softening in recognition, a smile forming on her face. "Leoric! You're back!"

He nodded, stepping closer. "And it seems you're in the middle of something?" He gestured to the ingredients spread out on the counter beside her: fresh herbs bundled in neat clusters, a bowl of flour-covered salmon fillets, and a stick of butter softening near a cutting board.

Her fins twitched—a subtle, almost imperceptible movement he had learned to read as unease. "Just keeping busy," she said with a shrug, her tone casual. "—while waiting for you."

Leoric tilted his head, studying her. The Vaelith before him was a contradiction—focused yet distracted, calm yet restless. He had seen this before, in her quiet moments when she thought no one was watching. "Well. Here I am. But take your time. We're not in a rush," he said.

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Vaelith smiled again, softer this time. With one hand, she gestured toward the halfling standing beside her. "This is Rorric, the guild master. He's been overseeing my training. Rorric, this is Leoric, an adventuring companion."

The halfling looked up from the skillet he had been tending, his round face splitting into a grin. "Ah, now that's a face I've seen around before. You're one of our own, aren't you? Trained with the rangers?" he asked, wiping his hands on his flour-streaked apron. He offered his hand. "Finally, got a name to go with it. Nice to meet you, Leoric. So, I believe you're here to whisk away my star pupil?"

Leoric shook the guild master's hands, raised an eyebrow and glanced at Vaelith. "Star pupil, huh? She must've made quite the impression."

Vaelith rolled her eyes, but could not quite hide the faint blush that crept across her cheeks. "Don't listen to him. I've barely started."

"Nonsense!" Rorric said, waving a wooden spoon for emphasis. "She's got the makings of a proper chef. And her magic—well, that's a whole other story. You should see what she conjured earlier. Pastries fit for the Sixteen themselves!"

Leoric's smile widened. "Really? I know I shouldn't be surprised anymore, but here we are. I'm impressed."

Vaelith ducked her head, busying herself with the skillet to avoid his gaze. "It's nothing. Just... experimenting?"

"Well," Rorric said, clapping his hands together, "I'll be sad to let you go. As for you, lad? You'll just have to wait a bit. She's working on something special for the road. Hope you like fish."

Leoric closed his eyes, inhaling the appetising scent of pan-fried, breaded salmon. He grinned. "I do. And it smells incredible."

Leoric stood aside in a quiet corner of the room, crossing his arms, and watched as Vaelith returned all of her attention to the skillet in her hands, nodding in understanding as Rorric pointed out things to watch out for.

The halfling bustled about with a practiced efficiency, pulling a sheet of wax paper from a nearby stack. Vaelith, still standing by the counter, carefully scooped the golden-brown salmon meunière onto it with a spatula. Her movements were deliberate, precise, as if the act of bundling the food demanded the same focus as one of her ritual circles. Once satisfied with her work, she folded and creased the edges, sealing it with a dab of flour paste to ensure it would not unravel during travel. She said her goodbyes to Rorric and the other cooks, who all seemed terribly sad to see her go. She untied her bandanna, letting her hair down, and removed the apron she was wearing.

"You've got a steady hand," Leoric said as she approached him, finally back in her adventuring clothes.

Vaelith adjusted her hat and slung her satchel over one shoulder, eyeing him up and down. "I had an exceptional teacher," she said, her tone carrying a hint of warmth. Her gaze flicked to his gear. "Looks like you've got yourself a new fit." She nodded toward the supple leather armour that hugged his frame. "Fine stitchwork. And it suits you."

Leoric glanced down at his gloves and chest piece, the leather dyed a deep, weathered brown and reinforced with small metallic studs. He shrugged off the compliment with an amiable smile. "I've had excellent teachers too," he said. "And I've learned there's something... satisfying about creating something real. Something tangible."

Vaelith paused, her gaze lingering on his face for a moment. "You get it," she breathed, more to herself than to him.

Leoric tilted his head at her, but before he could respond, he reached into his pack. "Oh, that reminds me…" he said, pulling out a small, neatly bundled parcel. He handed it to Vaelith, blushes on her cheeks and her eyes shining with curiosity.

Vaelith took the bundle, unwrapping the soft cloth to reveal two sets of leather straps, each attached to a large metallic ring. Her golden fins twitched slightly as she ran her fingers over the smooth, supple leather.

"What are these?" she asked, inspecting the unusual design. The leather felt sturdy yet flexible, and the metallic rings gleamed faintly in the kitchen's warm light.

"Leather ring bands," he said, gesturing to the straps. "I've been told they're sort of like gloves for spellcasters. Except they don't really hinder your finger mobility. The ring's carved with runes to act as a casting focus—it amplifies your magic. Or at least, it's what my leatherworker master said. And once we find the right gemstones, we can upgrade them further. Something for Elyssia to do later, perhaps?"

Vaelith's amethyst eyes flicked to his face, then back to the bands as she turned them over in her hands. Her fins twitched again, a telltale sign she was navigating her interface. A moment later, she slipped one band onto her right hand, looping the leather straps around her middle finger, wrist, and thumb. The metallic ring rested against the back of her palm, positioned perfectly to channel energy without obstructing her movements.

She tightened the straps, flexing her fingers experimentally. Her tail gave a small, pleased flick. "They really don't get in the way at all," she said, sounding faintly surprised. She equipped the second band on her left hand and repeated the motion, her fins fluttering as a satisfied smile spread across her face.

"Thank you, Leoric," she said earnestly. "I still had nothing in the gloves slot, and these… these are incredible. The stats are amazing, and the bonus to casting is going to make a big difference."

Leoric's smile widened, and he gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. "Figured you could use them. I couldn't have made them without the help of a few Torgarins and some lessons from Altansuun's guild."

Vaelith looked up, her amethyst eyes meeting his. For a moment, the kitchen noise faded into the background, and there was a quiet sense of understanding between them. "Still," she said, her voice soft, "you didn't have to. It means a lot."

Leoric's grin turned lopsided. "Well, we're a team, right? Can't have our spellcaster under-equipped when we're heading into Umbraholme. I'm counting on you to keep us alive out there."

Vaelith chuckled, the sound light and genuine. "No pressure, I see."

Before the moment could settle too deeply, Rorric's voice cut through the air. "Oi! If you two are done passing out gifts, there's a whole tray of pastries waiting to be packed up!"

Vaelith slipped the second ring band onto her left hand as Leoric turned toward the halfling with a mock salute. "Yes, sir."

Rorric handed Leoric a cardboard box, its faint warmth betraying the contents. He lowered his voice as he gave the ranger a conspiratorial wink. "They're on the house. The boys insisted on returning the earlier kindness the miss showed everyone. Take it as a parting gift."

Leoric peered inside, glimpsing at cinnamon buns, their glistening surfaces dripping with melted sugar. The scent was almost intoxicating.

Oh, my... Good thing this is in a game world where we don't have to worry about counting calories. Or cavities.

As Rorric pushed Leoric out of the kitchen, he winked at him and shooed him away. "Take good care of her, you hear? The girl's got just the right simmer in her soul. It would be a tragedy to lose her."

Leoric glanced back with a grin. "I will."

The pair left the cooking guild as the late afternoon sun bathed the city in a warm, golden glow. Ignis' carmine-red moon, wanning gibbous, hung high in the sky, casting a faint, ethereal light that mingled with the fading sunlight. The streets had quieted, a soft murmur replacing the earlier bustle.

"So," Vaelith asked as they walked toward the city gates, "the Myrknar Woods are off the Whispering Wilds. Further to the east?"

Leoric nodded, gesturing for her to follow. "That's where we'll find Umbraholme. It's a tricky place to navigate, though. We'll want to be prepared for anything."

They walked in companionable silence as the cobblestones gave way to the soft earth of the Whispering Wilds. The woods loomed in the distance, their dark canopy blending with the horizon.

Leoric noticed Vaelith's shoulders drooping slightly, her movements slowing as the weight of the day caught up with her. Her fins twitched occasionally, responding to the faint rustling of leaves or the distant call of a bird.

He slowed his pace to match hers, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. After a few moments, she stole a glance back at him. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Leoric raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For… being there. For not asking questions," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He frowned. "Not asking about what?"

Vaelith hesitated, her gaze dropping to the ground. Her hand moved instinctively to the amethyst pendant around her neck. "About me, everything. And, well… About Kaelyn."

Leoric waited, giving her the space to speak—or not.

After a moment, she sighed, her voice soft but laced with frustration. "I don't know why it bothers me so much. I don't even know her that well, and that's a fact. But earlier, she shut me out… When she did, it felt like she was saying I didn't matter. Like I wasn't worth the effort. Maybe I'm overreacting. But… even if I am, it still hurts."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with vulnerability.

Leoric reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You matter, Vaelith," he said simply. "To Elyssia, to the group, to me. And if Kaelyn struggles to show it, that's on her—not you."

Vaelith looked up at him, her amethyst eyes searching his face for something she could not quite name. "You're a lot better at this than I thought," she said, her lips quirking into a faint smile.

"Talking?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Listening," she said, correcting him.

Leoric chuckled, flicking one of his long rabbit ears for emphasis. "I've got good ears."

Vaelith's soft laugh broke the tension, and together, they continued down the road, their path winding toward the unknown shadows of the Myrknar Woods, where they would find the city of Umbraholme.

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