For a long moment, Clive remained on the cavern floor, the world swimming around him in dizzying waves of exhaustion. Every breath was a conscious effort, every muscle screaming in protest after the intense output of Spark Mode. But across the cavern, Ruby was still trapped, vulnerable. That thought was the only fuel he had left. Gritting his teeth against the pain and nausea, using the cool, damp stone beneath his hands for leverage, Clive forced himself unsteadily to his feet. He swayed, leaning heavily against the cavern wall for support, his vision slowly clearing.

  Each step towards Ruby was a deliberate, agonizing effort. His legs felt like lead, his movements stiff and clumsy – a universe away from the blurring speed he’d possessed just minutes before. He finally reached her side, leaning down, his breathing still ragged.

  He looked at the thick, dark roots binding her. Trying to summon even the weakest flame felt like trying to lift a mountain in his current state. Instead, he drew his utilitarian dagger. With painstaking care, he began sawing at the tough, magically imbued wood pinning Ruby’s arms and legs. The roots were unnaturally resilient, resisting the sharp steel. Where a particularly thick tendril refused to yield, Clive focused the last dregs of his intent; a single, tiny spark, almost invisible, jumped from his knuckle to the dagger's edge for just an instant. The brief flash of intense heat allowed the blade to slice through. It was slow, meticulous work, requiring concentration he barely possessed.

  Finally, the last root was severed. Ruby slumped forward, freed from the crushing pressure, gasping as feeling returned to her constricted limbs. She instinctively reached out to steady Clive as he swayed again, helping him lean against the cave wall beside her. She looked closely at him then, taking in the alarming pallor beneath the grime and bruises, the visible tremor in his hands, the bone-deep exhaustion radiating from him.

  Catching her breath, her voice rough, Ruby managed, "Clive... thanks. Gods..." She rubbed her freed wrist gingerly, the memory of the pain still fresh. Then her eyes fixed on his, filled with a mixture of awe and concern. "But... what was that? Back there? The speed... the sparks hitting Gornevan... I've never seen anything like it."

  Clive offered a weak, exhausted smile, letting his head rest back against the cool stone. He slid down the wall into a sitting position, unable to comfortably remain standing. "Something… different," he admitted, his voice raspy. He took a few deep, slow breaths before continuing. "It's… a pyromancy technique. Sort of. Called Spark Mode."

  He paused, gathering the energy to explain. "Most fire magic is about projecting sustained heat and flame outwards, right? Like a torch, or a wave of fire." He gestured vaguely with a trembling hand. "Spark Mode… it focuses purely on the ignition. The very beginning of the flame. Instead of projecting, it creates thousands of tiny, contained, explosive sparks… right at the point of impact. Superheats the air, my fists, boots… whatever touches the target, for just a fraction of a second." He looked at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly. "Allows for incredible speed, explosive force… but only at point-blank range."

  He met Ruby’s curious gaze, his own expression turning grim. "It's not standard magic. It’s incredibly dangerous, incredibly draining. Burns vitality, eats magical reserves… faster than anything else I know. It's a last resort, Ruby. A 'break glass in case of apocalypse' kind of technique." He looked towards Gornevan's still form, then back at her. "Almost didn't have enough left to… stop."

  The admission hung in the air between them. They sat in the heavy silence, the only sounds their own breathing and the low, ominous pulsing of the corrupted heart-tree dominating the cavern. Gornevan was defeated, the immediate battle won, but looking at the diseased tree and feeling the lingering wrongness in the air, they both knew their ordeal wasn't truly over yet.

  Clive pushed himself up from the cave floor, his body protesting every movement. He and Ruby sat in the heavy silence for a moment longer, the rhythmic, unhealthy pulsing of the corrupted heart-tree a morbid metronome in the cavern's gloom. Looking at its diseased trunk, the weeping slime, the unnatural pods hanging heavy from its branches, Clive knew what had to be done.

  "It's the source," he said, his voice still rough with exhaustion. "Gornevan twisted it, fed it, used it to power his corruption. As long as it stands like this... the blight remains." He met Ruby’s gaze, seeing the understanding there despite the grimness of the task. "It needs to be cleansed."

  With a deep sigh, Clive forced himself to his feet once more, swaying slightly before finding his balance. He walked slowly towards the monstrous tree, the epicenter of the cavern's wrongness. Ruby watched him, a silent acknowledgment of the grim necessity passing between them.

  Reaching the pulsating trunk, Clive didn’t gather power for another blast. His reserves were practically non-existent, and brute force wasn't what was needed here. Instead, he placed his hand gently against a weeping lesion on the dark, diseased bark. He closed his eyes, focusing his will not on destruction, but on purification, on control. A single, tiny spark, small and brief as a firefly’s blink, jumped from his fingertip to the corrupted wood.

  There was no explosion, no sudden inferno. The spark touched the oily secretions coating the bark, and a tiny flicker of clean, orange flame appeared. It hesitated for a moment, then caught hold, beginning to lick slowly, steadily, at the diseased fibers. It was a quiet fire, almost respectful, a stark contrast to the violent energy he'd wielded moments before.

  As the flames began to slowly climb, finding purchase on the corrupted wood, Clive stepped back. He lowered his head, clasping his hands loosely before him in a gesture of reverence. His voice was low, barely a whisper against the growing crackle of the fire, but filled with sincere solemnity.

  "Spirit of the Forest," he murmured, addressing the unseen essence of the woods around them. "Guardians of the ancient paths, spirits of the Treefolk wronged by Gornevan's ambition. Forgive this necessary act."

  He paused, watching the flames begin to consume the diseased heartwood. "Fire cleanses, but it consumes. This tree… this heart… was violated, twisted from its purpose, forced to nurture blight and suffering. We offer this flame not with malice, but with the humble hope of purification." He bowed his head lower. "May its light burn away the darkness Gornevan embedded here. May its heat cauterize the wound he inflicted upon this place. Forgive us the life we take, that the forest might heal."

  Ruby watched the scene unfold, leaning heavily against the cave wall. She saw the gentleness in Clive's actions, heard the reverence in his prayer. It struck her then that Clive’s relationship with fire wasn’t just about wielding power; it was about understanding its nature – its capacity for destruction, yes, but also for cleansing, for cauterizing, for renewal. He asked forgiveness from the very forest he was setting ablaze, acknowledging the cost even in a necessary act.

  The fire grew steadily now, embracing the corrupted heart-tree. The unnatural pulsing slowed, faltered, and then ceased altogether as the flames reached the core. The oppressive, sickening atmosphere in the cavern began to lift, replaced by the dry heat and clean scent of woodsmoke. Clive finished his prayer, raising his head slowly. He looked utterly spent, shadows dark beneath his eyes, but a measure of peace seemed to settle over him. The immediate source of the corruption was being consumed, purified by the flame. Their fight here was truly done. Now, they just needed to find their way out.

  Eventually, guided by instinct and the faint, healthy emanations of life magic, they reached the borders of Woodcrept. It wasn't a settlement of constructed buildings, but a vast, ancient grove where immense trees, centuries old, formed natural shelters and council circles. The air here hummed with vitality, clean and sweet. As they entered the main grove, the treefolk they had aided earlier approached them. Its movements were still hampered, but tiny buds of new growth were already visible where its limbs had been severed. It solemnly guides them to the heart of the grove, where Ysendar, an Elder Treefolk whose bark was deeply lined like an ancient map, waited patiently.

  Ysendar inclined its massive head as they approached.

  Clive, stepping forward as Ruby leaned against a nearby trunk for support, recounted their ordeal – the hybrids, the corrupted magic, Ruby’s fierce battle with the transformed goblin, his own confrontation with Gornevan, the final, draining battle within the cave, and the subsequent cleansing of the corrupted heart-tree by fire. He spoke plainly, omitting only the most harrowing internal costs like the specifics of Spark Mode's drain. Ysendar listened impassively, its ancient eyes holding deep sorrow but also profound gratitude. "You have faced a great darkness," Ysendar rumbled, the sound like the shifting of ancient forests. "Gornevan… once kin… chose a path of ruin. His end was necessary, though still lamented. You have lifted a blight from Woodcrept, cleansed a wound. The forest owes you a debt that cannot easily be repaid."

  Ysendar made a subtle gesture, and two younger treefolk approach, carrying carefully wrapped bundles. "But we offer what we can, crafted with the life and strength of the wood." One bundle is presented to Ruby. Unwrapping it reveals a suit of armor unlike any she's seen. It appears crafted from intricately layered, polished wood, swirling grains forming patterns like contour lines on a map. It looks solid, protective. "Heartwood armor," Ysendar explains. "Treated with secrets passed down since the dawn trees. It possesses the resilience of iron, yet carries the lightness of a feather. May it protect you on your journeys." Ruby lifts a piece – a vambrace – marveling at its impossible lack of weight.

  The second bundle is offered to Clive. Inside rests a smooth, palm-sized stone, deep brown and cool to the touch, with faint, root-like patterns embedded within its surface. "For the wielder of cleansing fire," Ysendar says, its gaze steady on Clive. "A Root Stone. Within lies a contained blight, a focused decay. Should you face unnatural roots or wish to turn the earth against a foe reliant on them, shatter this stone with force and magical intent. It will unleash an explosive wave of withering blight upon impact, causing roots in the vicinity – living or summoned – to decay and crumble instantly." Ysendar adds a note of caution, "Use it with care, sorcerer. The blight does not discriminate between friend or foe's roots."

  Clive takes the stone, feeling a strange, dormant energy within it. He and Ruby express their sincere thanks for the unexpected, powerful gifts. "You have the enduring gratitude of Woodcrept," Ysendar rumbles finally. "Rest here if you need, then go safely on your path." Exhausted but successful, their quest completed, and newly equipped with potent artifacts of the ancient forest, Clive and Ruby prepare to leave the heart of Woodcrept, ready for their main quest to slay the armored wyvern.

  Leaving the ancient, vibrant quiet of Woodcrept felt like stepping back into a different world. The journey took them away from the deep, primal forest, through thinning woods, across rolling hills, and eventually into lands touched more heavily by civilization. Clive's magical energy slowly seeped back into him, though a deep, bone-weariness lingered – a phantom ache from pushing his vitality through Spark Mode. Ruby’s wrist, carefully protected by the fading remnants of Clive’s magical splint and now wrapped in clean bandages, healed steadily each day, though she remained cautious, flexing her fingers often to ward off stiffness.

  After several days of travel, the timbered walls and smoking chimneys of Oakhaven rose before them. A mid-sized city bustling with trade and life, Oakhaven sat comfortably beside a wide, navigable river, its architecture a practical blend of sturdy timber from the nearby forests and stone quarried from the hills. The sounds of commerce, carriage wheels on cobblestone, and the general hum of humanity felt both loud and reassuring after the life-or-death quiet of the corrupted woods. They had reached a place of relative safety, a place to rest and recover properly.

  They secured rooms at "The Acorn & Barrel," a respectable inn bustling with travelers, merchants, and locals. The simple comforts – a soft bed, a basin of hot water, a hearty stew served on pottery rather than a leaf – felt like profound luxuries after their ordeal. Clive took time for deep meditation in his room, patiently coaxing his frayed magical channels back into alignment, seeking equilibrium after the violent expenditure of power. Ruby visited a local apothecary, who confirmed the bones in her wrist were knitting cleanly, impressed by the efficacy of Clive's initial magical intervention. The apothecary applied a fresh, supportive dressing, advising continued rest for the limb.

  Later, sharing a meal in the busy common room, Ruby let out a sigh of deep satisfaction after a large bite of roasted chicken. "Gods, it's good to taste proper seasoning again," she admitted, glancing around at the mundane scene. "And nice not to be wondering if that tankard is going to sprout teeth and attack."

  Clive allowed himself a rare, relaxed chuckle. "The bar is somewhat lower out here," he agreed. "Woodcrept was… memorable." The shared understatement hung between them, thick with the memory of monstrous goblins and corrupted magic.

  The following day, feeling more rested, Ruby unpacked the Heartwood Armor Ysendar had gifted her. In the privacy of her room, she carefully donned the breastplate and vambraces over her leather tunic. The wood was smooth and warm, intricately layered, yet weighed almost nothing. She moved, stretched, even performed a few quick, silent lunges – the armor moved with her perfectly, offering no restriction, only a feeling of resilient protection. "It feels like wearing air," she murmured in wonder when Clive knocked and entered at her invitation, checking to see how she was faring.

  He examined the armor's craftsmanship with genuine admiration. "The treefolk's skill is remarkable. Ysendar spoke truly." He then showed her the Root Stone again, letting her feel its cool, dense weight. "This holds a different kind of power. Feels… volatile."

  Ruby looked from the stone to Clive, her expression thoughtful. "Volatile? Like that Spark Mode you used?"

  Clive met her gaze, acknowledging the unspoken question from their earlier conversation. He nodded slowly, turning the stone over in his hand. "Exactly like that," he confirmed quietly. "Power that comes from burning the candle at both ends. Sometimes," he added, looking down at his own hands as if remembering the feeling, "it feels like you're burning the candle itself." He looked back at her, his expression softening slightly. "You handled yourself incredibly back there, Ruby. Especially with your wrist. Facing Gornevan's creations… not many could have done what you did."

  A slight warmth rose in Ruby’s cheeks at his sincere praise. "You weren't exactly standing idle, pyromancer," she countered with a small smile. "That final push… it was something else."

  That evening, finding the common room too noisy, they sat by the window in Clive's room, watching the streetlights flicker on below. A comfortable silence settled between them for a while. "Why do you do it, Clive?" Ruby asked quietly, breaking the silence. "All this? Facing things like Gornevan?"

  Clive looked out the window, a faint, almost sheepish smile touching his lips. "Honestly?" he admitted, shifting slightly. "Curiosity, mostly. I spent years reading about adventurers, about quests and monsters and forgotten magic, all tucked away in libraries. I suppose I just wanted to... experience it. See the world beyond the books, find out if I could actually handle it." He gave a slight shrug. "Still figuring that last part out."

  He looked at her then, his gaze steady. "And you, Ruby? What keeps you moving?"

  Ruby's posture tightened almost imperceptibly, her gaze flicking away towards the darkening street. "Let's just say the road ahead looks a lot better than the one behind me," she said, her voice carefully neutral, offering no further detail. The statement hung there, clearly marking a boundary.

  Clive simply nodded, accepting her deflection without pressing. He understood closed doors. They looked at each other for a moment, a different kind of understanding passing between them now – acknowledging Clive's perhaps surprisingly straightforward desire for experience and Ruby's tightly guarded past. The shared vulnerability, though different in nature, still drew them closer. They were two very different people, walking the same dangerous path for their own private reasons, finding unexpected companionship along the way. The bond forged in the Woodcrept crucible continued to strengthen in the quiet moments between crises.

  They sat in comfortable silence for another moment, the shared vulnerability hanging gently in the air after their brief explanations. Clive watched Ruby as she stared out at the now dark street, her profile softened by the lamplight filtering through the window. He recalled their first encounters, the desperate fights, the way they had learned to anticipate each other's moves in the heat of battle. He found himself genuinely curious about her perspective.

  Breaking the quiet again, Clive asked, his tone thoughtful, "Ruby?"

  She turned her head slightly towards him, questioning look in her eyes.

  "Back when we first met," Clive continued, choosing his words carefully, "why make me your apprentice." He used the word deliberately, trying to understand her initial assessment, perhaps recalling an earlier, unwritten part of their history or using the term loosely to mean 'partner she was willing to teach or travel with'. "Given the risks, given you didn't know me... why? What made you decide to take me on?"

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  He leaned forward slightly, genuinely interested in her reasoning, wondering what qualities she, the skilled and self-reliant rogue, had seen in him, the bookish pyromancer seeking experience, that made her agree to such a partnership or mentorship.

  Ruby tilted her head, a faint, curious smile playing on her lips at his choice of word. "Apprentice? Is that how you see it?" She let the question hang for a moment, the smile fading as her expression grew more thoughtful, her gaze distant as she recalled their earlier encounters.

  "Why you?" she echoed his question softly, looking back at him. "Strength," she admitted with a slow nod. "That was the first thing. You moved like... well, like someone who knew what a real fight felt like, beyond just waving your hands and chanting." She watched him carefully, choosing her next words. "I figured... anyone who's spent years running mercenary contracts..." She let the assumption about his past hang in the air, gauging his reaction, "...learns how to survive when things get ugly. Learns hard lessons. Maybe lessons I haven't had the chance to learn yet."

  She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering a little. "But that wasn't all," she continued, her gaze searching his face. "Plenty of hardened sellswords out there are just empty shells. All ruthlessness, no heart. With you..." She paused, seeming to search for the right description. "Even when you were fighting Gornevan, throwing around all that terrifying fire, concentrating so hard... I saw something else underneath the mercenary focus."

  A faint, wry smile touched her lips again. "Intensity, yes. Passion, definitely. But also..." she hesitated, "...honestly? There was this kind of wide-eyed wonder about you too. Like a kid still fascinated by the world, even after seeing the worst of it. Like you hadn't let all the fighting beat the curiosity out of you."

  She met his gaze directly then, her own eyes serious. "That combination," she concluded quietly. "Someone who clearly knows how to fight, who's likely seen and done hard things... but still has that kind of... passionate, almost child-like heart? That felt rare. Unusual. Worth taking a chance on. Worth sticking with."

  Clive listened intently, his expression shifting subtly as she spoke. Her mention of mercenary work caused a flicker – not quite confirmation, not quite denial, but acknowledgment that she'd perceived a harshness, an experience he perhaps didn't advertise. But it was her description of the 'passion' and 'child-like heart' beneath it that seemed to truly land, leaving him looking thoughtful, perhaps seeing himself through her eyes for the first time. The silence stretched for a moment, filled with the weight of her candid assessment and the deeper layer of understanding it brought to their evolving partnership.

  The moment stretched, filled with the weight of Ruby's honest assessment. After a beat, she seemed to deliberately shake off the intensity, stretching her arms carefully and pushing herself up from the window seat.

  "Right," she said, her tone shifting back towards its usual briskness, effectively closing the door on the heavier conversation. "Enough soul-searching for one night, I reckon. My head's starting to ache." She flexed the fingers of her good hand. "I saw ales on tap when we came in downstairs. I'm heading down to see if the 'Acorn & Barrel' lives up to its name. Care to join me? Could both probably use a drink after Woodcrept."

  Clive considered her offer. The thought of a quiet ale was appealing, but the deep exhaustion from Spark Mode still resonated within him, a bone-deep weariness that called more for rest than revelry. He offered a small, apologetic smile. "Thanks, Ruby, but I think I'll pass tonight. Still feel like I'm running on fumes after that last fight."

  He paused, his expression shifting to one of thoughtful planning. "Besides," he continued, "I was thinking... Oakhaven seems like a fairly established place. There might be a town archive, maybe even a decent library." His gaze grew more focused. "If we're serious about fulfilling that contract on the Armored Wyvern, I want to go in with more than just secondhand stories and a bounty notice. I'd like to spend some time seeing if I can find any records – local histories, reports of its movements, descriptions of its defenses... Anything could be useful."

  Ruby nodded, accepting his reasoning easily. She knew his inclination towards research. "Right. The 'flying scrap heap'," she dubbed the Wyvern with a wry grin. "Suit yourself. Try not to fall asleep in a pile of dusty scrolls." She turned towards the door. "Have fun with your books, Clive."

  "You too," he replied sincerely. "Try not to pick any fights."

  "Trouble usually picks me, Clive, not the other way around," she shot back over her shoulder with a characteristic smirk, before disappearing out the door, her footsteps heading towards the stairs leading down to the livelier common room.

  Clive watched the door close, then turned back to the window, looking out at the city lights. His mind was already shifting gears, moving from the personal introspection with Ruby to the practical challenge ahead: learning everything he could about the Armored Wyvern, the target of their main quest, before they had to face it. He'd start asking about local archives first thing in the morning. Downstairs, the raucous cheer and clinking tankards of the common room would offer Ruby a different kind of recovery. For tonight, their paths diverged.

  The morning sun streamed through the inn window, warm on Clive’s face. He woke slowly, the crushing weight of exhaustion from the battle finally having eased into a manageable ache. He felt more rested than he had in days. Stretching carefully, he started to sit up, ready to plan his visit to the Oakhaven library.

  That’s when he registered the warmth beside him – a presence that wasn’t just the blankets. He froze, then slowly turned his head. Ruby was curled up beside him, fast asleep, her breathing soft and even. Surprise flickered through him – had she come back to his room late? Then, as she shifted in her sleep, a tangle of limbs and sheets, he saw the unmistakable curve of a bare shoulder, the way the sheet draped indicated there was absolutely nothing underneath it.

  A jolt went through Clive, pure, unadulterated shock. He scrambled backwards out of the bed with such haste he nearly fell, landing with a thump on the wooden floorboards. "Ruby!" he yelped, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched. "What—? Why are you—? Why are you naked in my bed?!"

  His shout finally roused her. Ruby blinked awake slowly, pushing a cascade of sleep-tousled hair from her face with a long, unhurried stretch that did little to preserve modesty under the sheets. She yawned widely. "Mmmph... morning, Clive," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

  Seeing his panicked expression on the floor, she blinked again, seeming to slowly process his words. "Oh. Right," she said, as if remembering a minor detail. She rubbed her eyes, then gave another yawn. "Lost my clothes." Her tone was utterly nonchalant, matter-of-fact. She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Drinking game. Again."

  Clive stared at her, completely flabbergasted, heat rushing to his face. "A-again?! You lost your clothes again?! Ruby, you can't just— Just climb into my bed!" He averted his gaze sharply, waving a hand vaguely in her direction. "For crying out loud, put something— anything— on!"

  Ruby merely watched his flustered state from the comfortable cocoon of his blankets, a lazy, amused smirk beginning to tug at the corner of her lips despite the clear signs of a mild hangover dulling her eyes. The quiet morning of research Clive had envisioned had clearly taken a sharp, unexpected detour.

  After the initial shock of the morning wore off, and Ruby had managed to retrieve her gear (which seemed to have been unceremoniously dumped in a corner of Clive's room the night before) and get dressed, a slightly strained but functional atmosphere settled between them. Clive, doing his best to put the awkwardness aside, focused on their immediate goal.

  They met downstairs for a quick breakfast of bread and cheese, sitting opposite each other at a rough wooden table in the common room, which was much quieter now than it had been the previous night. Clive pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil he carried for notes.

  "Alright," he said, his tone all business as he began to sketch out a list. "The Armored Wyvern. Before we head out to track it down based on the contract details, we need to be properly prepared. Who knows what kind of terrain we'll be heading into." He muttered as he wrote, "Standard rations for, say, five days, check the water skins, extra lamp oil is a must, whetstones for your blades..." He paused, thinking. "Maybe some heavy-duty rope and pitons, if the market here has decent climbing gear? Could be useful depending on where it nests."

  He finished the list and tore the piece of parchment neatly, pushing it across the table towards Ruby. "I'm going to track down the local library or town archive and see what lore or records they have on this creature. While I do that," he looked at her expectantly, "could you handle gathering these supplies? You're generally better at haggling and spotting quality goods than I am."

  Ruby picked up the list, her eyes scanning it quickly. "Fine," she agreed, tucking it securely into her belt pouch alongside her coin purse. "But," she added, tapping the pouch significantly, "you can add 'new tunic and trousers' to the supply costs. And maybe factor in some winnings for me, since apparently I need to recoup my losses." She gave him a wry look. "Note to self: Off-duty guards play dirty at Strip Skulls."

  Clive wisely decided against commenting on her choice of late-night companions or games, simply nodding. "Consider it covered. Just focus on the essentials for now." He stood up, gathering his own sparse belongings. "Right, I'm off to find someone who looks like they know where records are kept. Hopefully, I can find something concrete – nesting locations, preferred prey, known vulnerabilities..." He looked back at her. "Let's plan to meet back here at the inn, say, late afternoon? We can see what we've both managed to accomplish."

  "Works for me," Ruby confirmed, already mentally mapping out the market district. "Good luck with the dusty scrolls."

  "And you try to stay out of any more... games," Clive replied, unable to resist the parting shot, though a hint of amusement touched his lips.

  With their separate missions clear, they left the relative quiet of the inn and stepped out into the growing bustle of Oakhaven's morning streets. Ruby turned towards the noisy, colorful chaos of the market square, while Clive set off in search of quieter halls filled with history and, hopefully, actionable intelligence on their armored quarry.

  The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the common room of The Acorn & Barrel as Clive reviewed his notes one last time. He'd found a dusty but informative bestiary in Oakhaven’s small archive, along with some regional histories that mentioned sporadic attacks by a large, armored flying beast in the northern peaks. He looked up as Ruby returned, dropping several bulging supply sacks onto a nearby chair with a satisfied thud.

  "Market raid successful," she announced, pulling up a chair opposite him. She looked refreshed and was clad in a practical new dark green tunic and sturdy trousers, replacing the clothes lost to her ill-fated drinking game. "Got everything on your list, plus extra bandages, some surprisingly decent dried meat, and high-quality climbing rope. Even haggled the smith down on a new set of lockpicks."

  Clive nodded, impressed as always by her efficiency. "Good work. I found some promising leads myself," he said, tapping his notes. "The locals call the peaks the 'Wyvern's Teeth'. Records mention reinforced dorsal plating, likely vulnerable spots underneath or at the wing joints, and… apparently, its breath weapon is less fire, more corrosive gas. Nasty stuff."

  They quickly consolidated their supplies, packing them efficiently into their travel packs. Fully equipped, rested, and armed with new information and gear from Woodcrept and Oakhaven, they were ready to depart and begin the hunt for the Armored Wyvern in earnest.

  They slung their packs over their shoulders and turned towards the innkeeper's counter near the entrance to settle their bill. Just as they did, Ruby’s easy stride faltered for a fraction of a second. Her gaze flickered towards a table near the large stone hearth where three rough-looking adventurers sat nursing ales. Clad in dented, mismatched armor, they bore the insignia of some minor guild Clive didn’t recognize. More importantly, they were all staring intently at Ruby, and one, a burly man with a scar bisecting his eyebrow, was starting to push his chair back as if to stand up.

  Ruby leaned sideways towards Clive instantly, her movement subtle, her voice a low, urgent whisper meant only for him. "Clive, quick. Incoming trouble, nine o'clock." She gave an almost imperceptible nod towards the group. "Those beauties. Saw them earlier, tried to strong-arm me into joining their 'illustrious' Vulture Guild. Wouldn't take no for an answer." Her eyes met his, a flicker of annoyance mixed with pragmatic urgency. "Do me a favor? Just 'til we're clear of the city gates? Play along. Act like... well, like my mate. Protective type. Think you can manage?"

  Clive blinked, surprised by the sudden request and the implication of unwanted harassment Ruby had faced. He glanced discreetly over his shoulder. The burly adventurer was indeed getting to his feet, his gaze fixed on Ruby, his companions smirking. Clive thought of their recent conversations, the trust they were building, Ruby's desire to avoid trouble from her past. Despite the inherent awkwardness, especially after the morning's incident, his response was immediate. He gave a short, firm nod, his expression hardening slightly.

  "Right," he murmured back, his voice low and steady. "Mate. Protective. Got it."

  Without breaking stride as they continued towards the innkeeper, Clive deliberately moved closer to Ruby, casually but possessively draping an arm across her shoulders, pulling her snugly against his side. It was a clear, non-verbal signal. He kept his gaze fixed forward, but his posture shifted subtly, becoming more solid, more challenging – a silent warning to anyone watching. The burly adventurer, now fully standing, hesitated mid-step, eyeing Clive's sudden protective stance and the clear 'taken' signal it sent. He glanced back at his companions, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his scarred face.

  Clive kept his arm firmly around Ruby's shoulders as they paid the innkeeper, maintaining the facade until they were out the door and mingling with the crowds on the late afternoon street. Once they were a short distance away, heading towards the northern gate, he let his arm drop, though the air still felt tense. "Think they bought it?" he asked quietly.

  Ruby risked a quick glance back towards the inn's entrance. "Hard to say..."

  Her uncertainty proved well-founded. Less than a block later, the distinct sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed behind them, too close for comfort. As Clive and Ruby instinctively turned down a slightly less crowded side street – a shortcut towards the city's northern gate – the three adventurers from the inn emerged from behind a tall stack of empty crates, effectively blocking their path.

  The scarred leader stepped forward, arms crossed over his dented breastplate, a smug, unpleasant grin plastered on his face. His two companions flanked him, looking equally eager for trouble.

  "In a hurry to leave Oakhaven?" the leader sneered, his voice loud enough to make a nearby merchant flinch. "Can't handle the pace of a real city? What rank are you two supposed to be, anyway? Just crawled out from under a rock?" His dismissive gaze swept over Clive, then lingered far too long on Ruby.

  "Look," he continued, puffing out his chest in a display of dominance. "That 'mate' of yours," he jerked his chin towards Clive derisively, "doesn't look like much. Probably all book-learning and no spine." He cracked his knuckles ominously. "So, let's make this interesting. A friendly duel, adventurer to adventurer. Me versus him." The grin widened, revealing stained teeth. "And we'll wager something worthwhile. Winner... gets the girl. Simple arrangement."

  Clive went rigid, disgust and cold anger washing through him. His hand twitched, wanting to reach for the Root Stone, but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm, though his voice was dangerously low. "Ruby is not property to be won or lost," he stated flatly. "And we have no interest in participating in your childish posturing. Get out of our way."

  Before the scarred man could react to Clive's dismissal, Ruby pushed past Clive, stepping forward until she was only a few feet away from the trio. Her eyes, usually filled with wry humor or pragmatic focus, now blazed with cold fury. "Oh, I wouldn't say we're not interested," she snapped, the words sharp as one of her daggers. She deliberately rolled her shoulders, flexing her newly healed wrist as if testing its readiness.

  "He's right," she said, jerking a thumb towards Clive without looking back, her voice dripping with contempt. "You're barely worth the effort it would take him to incinerate you." A predatory smile touched her lips, entirely devoid of warmth. "But me? Honestly, I could use a proper warm-up before we head out after that Wyvern."

  She locked eyes with the scarred leader, her stance shifting subtly into one of readiness. "So, you want a duel to prove whatever sad little point you're trying to make? Fine. But forget him." Her smile widened slightly, becoming dangerous. "You fight me."

  Her challenge hung in the suddenly tense air of the side street. The three adventurers stared, momentarily thrown off balance by her audacity and ferocity. Clive took a half-step forward, starting to object, "Ruby, don't be ridiculous, this isn't necessary—"

  She cut him off with a single, sharp glance over her shoulder, a look that conveyed absolute determination and warned him not to interfere. The terms had been set, not by the brutish leader, but by Ruby herself.

  The scarred leader blinked, then threw his head back and guffawed, a harsh, grating sound. "You? You want to fight me?" He leered, flexing his considerable muscles. "Don't cry when you break a nail, little girl. This won't take long." He drew a heavy, chipped shortsword from a sheath at his belt, clearly expecting intimidation or a quick, brutal victory.

  Ruby didn't even wait for him to finish his boast. As he admired his own blade for a second too long, she moved.

  He swung the sword in a wide, predictable arc meant to force her back. Ruby flowed under it with dismissive ease, her hands completely empty, her signature daggers resting peacefully in their sheaths. She hadn't drawn them; this truly was just practice for her. As she came up inside his guard, she drove the hardened heel of her palm sharply upwards into the underside of his sword arm, near the elbow. A jolt of pain shot through him, his grip faltered, and he let out a surprised grunt.

  Angered, he swung again, abandoning technique for brute force. Ruby treated his clumsy attacks like a slightly annoying dance partner. She weaved inside a wild punch, deflected the blow with her good forearm (instinctively protecting her still-mending wrist), pivoted smoothly, and delivered a snapping kick to the back of his knee. The joint buckled, sending him stumbling forward off-balance. Before he could recover, she landed two quick, stinging jabs to his side, just below the ribs, forcing a sharp wheeze of exhaled air.

  The leader roared in frustration, abandoning his swordplay entirely and lunging forward in a clumsy, bear-hug tackle. Ruby sidestepped his charge as if he were moving through mud. As his momentum carried him past, she brought her clasped hands down sharply on the back of his neck, just below the skull, while simultaneously sweeping his supporting leg out from under him with a hook of her foot.

  His own forward momentum did the rest. The scarred leader crashed face-first onto the dusty cobblestones with a sickening thud, skidding slightly. He groaned once, tried to push himself up, then collapsed again, the fight completely knocked out of him.

  It was over in less than two minutes. Ruby stood calmly over his prone form, breathing easily, barely flushed from the exertion. She nonchalantly brushed a fleck of dust from the sleeve of her new tunic.

  The leader’s two companions, whose expressions had rapidly shifted from smug amusement to disbelief and now hovered somewhere near fearful respect, stood frozen a few paces away. They made no move to help their fallen comrade or to challenge Ruby themselves.

  Ruby cast a disdainful glance at the groaning man on the ground, then looked up at his stunned cronies, raising a single eyebrow in a silent, impatient query: Any more takers?

  Clive, who had watched the entire exchange from the side – ready to intervene with magic despite Ruby’s warning glance if things went truly wrong – let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Relief warred with exasperation at her casual approach to danger, but beneath it all was a deep, undeniable respect for her skill. She hadn't needed weapons. For her, against this kind of bluster, it truly had just been a warm-up.