John exhaled slowly, fingers drumming against the smooth surface of his Terminal. “So… did you find anything?” His voice was laced with hesitation, half-hoping for an answer, half-dreading what it might be. “There’s nothing much on my end, but—”

  A loud crack split the air as Ziraya slammed her Terminal onto the marble table, nearly fracturing it in half. The sheer force made John flinch, and he couldn’t help but eye the device, as if it might suddenly combust under the pressure of her frustration. A crude, poorly designed website filled the screen, its bold orange text practically an assault on the eyes.

  Sarah the Witch.

  John blinked. “You’re joking.” He leaned forward, squinting at the page. “Are witches even real?”

  “Until now, I’d have said no.” Ziraya’s tail flicked sharply, betraying her agitation even as she harrumphed like she wasn’t grasping at straws. “But if that useless doctor can’t do anything, I’ll take whatever I can get to rid myself of—this.” Her eyes darted to John for half a second, then away, jaw tight. Like she didn’t even want to acknowledge his existence.

  He sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Couldn’t you ask your family for help? The Scalebound are Enforcers, right? They must have some serious resources.”

  For the first time, a smirk flickered across Ziraya’s face, one filled with barely concealed pride. “Of course we do.” She straightened, crossing her arms. “Normally, I would’ve run straight home, and they would have hunted you down and cut you where you stood.”

  John stiffened. “T-Thanks for… not doing that.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” she snapped. “I don’t know what this is—this curse, let’s call it—but if you died, it could affect me.”

  “How thoughtful.” John scoffed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a flick of his lighter. The acrid smoke curled in the air, a familiar, grounding habit in a world that seemed to be pulling him further into insanity.

  Ziraya wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like that smell.”

  “Don’t care.”

  She let out a frustrated exhale but didn’t press the matter. Instead, she jabbed a clawed finger at the screen. “This woman—Sarah—she’s the closest thing to legitimate I could find. Used to be a magic researcher before she apparently lost her mind and decided she was a witch. But her name checks out. She has academic papers, real credentials—she isn’t some random forum crackpot.”

  John took another slow drag of his cigarette. “So, what’s the plan? Book an appointment?”

  Ziraya scoffed, already stepping toward the exit. “Who do you think I am? I’ll find her and demand she removes this curse.”

  John let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as he followed. “Right. And where exactly is she?”

  “Her blog is extensive—filled with pictures.” Ziraya’s pace was brisk, purposeful, the click of her boots sharp against the clinic’s sterile floors. “I recognized some locations and narrowed it down. She’s in a city on Duskveil called Ebonreach.” She came to an abrupt stop at the bustling street outside, turning toward him. “I have to meet my family and free up my schedule. Meet me there in half an hour.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “Do I have a choice?”

  But Ziraya was already gone, disappearing into the crowd without so much as a glance back.

  John sighed. “Apparently not.”

  With one last exhale of smoke, he crushed the cigarette under his heel and stepped through the portal before heading straight back to the Ship. The hollow hum of the Ship’s interior filled his ears, vibrating in his bones as soon as he entered the vessel. He could already feel his heartbeat picking up, the familiar artificial euphoria creeping in—a side effect of the vessel’s constant, subtle influence.

  His lips twisted in distaste. “I hate this place.”

  Grinding yet another cigarette under his boot, John stepped towards the controls, scanning the Ship’s map. The cities of Duskveil were scarce, gray clusters of concrete dotting an otherwise endless expanse of red desert. They stood out like scars against the land.

  But something about Ebonreach made him pause. It was built right next to a sea of black liquid. Thick as syrup, glistening like metal dust suspended in ink.

  “What the hell is that?” He muttered, pulling up his Terminal.

  A headline popped up in bold letters:

  Ebonreach—The Only Thing Resembling a Tourist Attraction in All of Duskveil

  John arched an eyebrow. “That’s not promising.”

  His eyes scanned the text.

  Built next to a sea of unknown liquid—dubbed Ebonreach Water.

  John groaned. “Seriously? Who names these things?”

  Some urban legends suggested ancient ruins lay buried deep beneath the black sea, but no expeditions had ever found anything. The water was dangerously acidic, and its depths were impossible to measure.

  “Why the hell would anyone build a city next to an ocean of acid?”

  The answer came soon enough.

  Ebonreach Water is used for ore processing due to its high acidity. Furthermore, the surrounding area contains significant ore deposits, making it a key industrial hub.

  John clicked his tongue. “Maybe I should ditch all this and start mining.” He chuckled to himself but quickly sobered as his gaze fell back to his screen. With a weary sigh, he tapped the link to Sarah the Witch’s blog and the opening line made him scoff.

  Curses—Myth or Reality?

  The article went on about ancient mysticism, long-lost magics, and theoretical enchantments. Dense, over-explained, and barely readable. John pinched the bridge of his nose. “So, to summarize—curses supposed to be ancient magic that operates under different rules, but has never been proved to exist.” He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Doesn’t help me much, does it?”

  His eyes flicked down to his Spell Glove, the dim runes barely visible in the light. “There are too many damn kinds of magic.” John exhaled, the breath slow and measured, though it did little to calm the restless energy creeping under his skin. “Alright… I should get moving. Ziraya’s probably already on her way.”

  He closed his eyes. Multi-dimensional flight. The words barely left his lips before something stirred inside him—something not entirely his own. A rush of foreign knowledge flooded his mind, sharp and invasive, like jagged wires burrowing into his skull. John winced, his fingers twitching as memories he had never lived flashed behind his eyelids. Coordinates, pathways, incantations, laws of physics rewritten in an instant. He gritted his teeth as a burning sensation unfurled in his chest, like ink spreading through his veins.

  The Ship was rewriting him again.

  “Still as unpleasant as ever,” he muttered, voice tight as he fumbled for his cigarette pack. The flicker of a flame steadied his nerves, the acrid smoke curling around him like an old friend. Flight between dimensions wasn’t like normal flight, which was an easy and instant process. It required raw intent and ruthless precision. The Ship didn’t just relocate itself—it forced its way through, cutting across reality like a scalpel. John rolled his shoulders, forcing his body to shake off the lingering discomfort. “First, I need a landing location…”

  He pulled up his Terminal, scrolling through the details. “How do normal people even travel between dimensions? Portals?” The answer popped up in seconds. “Yes. Portals.” But not the clean, stable ones like the Bazaar’s. The ones used for interdimensional travel looked… off. John narrowed his eyes at an image—a massive, jagged tear in reality, as if someone had ripped a hole through the fabric of space. The other side was visible, the foreign world standing there, still and waiting. Around the edges of the rift floated hulking violet cubes, humming with strange energy. Thin beams of crackling light snaked between them, feeding the portal, pulsing in erratic bursts.

  And beyond that? Armed guards. A lot of them.

  John frowned, skimming the article. To enter Faerie, travelers needed specific documents, background checks, and magical scans. He exhaled sharply. “Don’t tell me there’s a magical TSA.” The thought alone made him shudder. A pat-down by a werewolf didn’t sound fun. His gaze flicked toward the Ship. For all its unnerving quirks, at least it spared him from bureaucratic nightmares. Shaking his head, he refocused on the Ship’s map, scrolling to find an ideal landing zone. “The city center’s my best bet,” he murmured, clicking on the plaza—a massive circular space lined with shops and portal stations. “There’s a good chance she’ll arrive at one of them.”

  John gripped a large curved lever, bracing himself. The moment he pulled the lever, the Ship lurched violently, as if caught in a tide that shouldn’t exist.

  His breath hitched.

  The air around him shifted, humming with a resonance too deep to be sound. The walls stretched—twisting, flickering—becoming more and less real at the same time. The Ship was folding. Compressing. Forcing itself through the space between spaces. John swore under his breath, gripping the control panel as a wave of vertigo crashed over him. A groaning metallic whine rattled the vessel. “Calm down, I’m on it!” he barked, glaring at the controls as if the Ship was throwing a tantrum. His fingers slammed a lever forward. A hidden mechanism unlocked, the whole vessel shuddering in response.

  Then came the button.

  Big. Red. Ominous.

  “…Guess I press this?”

  With a muttered curse, John slammed his fist down. For a single, agonizing second, nothing happened.

  Then—reality collapsed around him.

  His Improbability Factor drained in an instant, the number on his interface plummeting by a hundred points. A warning flashed on-screen, but John barely had time to process it before—

  Ding.

  Just like that, it was over. The Ship settled, the unnatural tension evaporating. No fanfare. No flashing lights. Just the silent confirmation of a successful landing. John exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. “And just like that… I traveled to another dimension.” A faint grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned toward the screen displaying a top-down view of Ebonreach. A sprawling city built on the edge of something that made no sense. His fingers brushed against the control panel, almost reverently. “One day,” he murmured, “I’ll figure out what you are.”

  With that, he stepped out of the Ship—into the new world.

  A heatwave crashed over John the moment he stepped out of the Ship, hitting him like the blast from an open furnace. The air was dry—unforgivingly so—and thick with the taste of iron and scorched sand. A grainy film clung to his lips and throat, and he coughed as he swiped a hand over his face. “So this is Duskveil.” His voice came out hoarse, barely carrying over the whistling winds. He took a slow breath, regretting it instantly. The smell of rust and sulfur flooded his lungs, the acrid tang sticking to the back of his throat like burnt metal. It wasn’t just the heat that made this place feel unwelcoming—it was the way the very air seemed to claw at his insides, as if punishing him for daring to exist here. His eyes narrowed against the relentless glare of three suns, arranged in a perfect triangular formation across the blood-tinted sky. Their harsh light reflected off the endless desert beyond the city’s walls, making everything shimmer like a mirage. It felt wrong. Alien. A world that had never known shade. John winced as a gust of wind sent a fresh wave of sand scouring across his skin. “I hate sand.” The words slipped out as a growl, his patience already wearing thin.

  The city itself was little more than a gray, sunbaked skeleton. Concrete blocks, featureless and severe, rose from the cracked earth in neat rows. No decorations, no banners, no color—just dull, lifeless slabs. The only signs of civilization were the faded storefront signs, their once-vibrant hues now sun-bleached and peeling.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  But the people… they were another matter. John’s heartbeat quickened as his gaze swept across the streets. Hulking figures in thick, layered garments moved through the haze, their faces hidden beneath protective scarves and visors. But he knew what they were. The heavy footfalls, the coiled leather-wrapped canine tails secured against the sand—werewolves. Their massive frames made them stand out even among the city’s hardened population.

  Dwarves, however, dominated the scene. Stout, broad-shouldered men and women, their linen shirts rolled up to reveal arms crisscrossed with old scars, strode through the streets as if the unbearable heat was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. Many wore blue overalls, and almost all carried brutal-looking tools strapped to their belts—pickaxes, drills, or a hybrid of both.

  Miners.

  John snorted, shaking his head as he flicked ash from his cigarette. “Of course.” A mining colony in the middle of nowhere—the perfect cliché. His eyes caught movement—a dragon-blooded man, his face hidden beneath a battered cowboy hat, slipping into an alleyway. He moved fast, his posture tense. Shady.

  John didn’t bother following. He had other things on his mind.

  The undercurrent of sulfur grew stronger with the shifting wind. It rolled in from the strange ocean on the city’s outskirts, a vast, steaming expanse of water that shouldn’t be water. Its surface bubbled and frothed as if something beneath it was constantly churning, belching out waves of sulfuric mist. John inhaled deeply, immediately regretting it as the stench of rotten eggs nearly made his stomach turn. “I didn’t see a single fae or fishman yet,” he muttered, glancing around. “Guess they’d dry out in a place like this.” A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips as a stray thought surfaced—grilled fish. He chuckled dryly before shaking his head.

  His gaze lifted once more to the three suns, their eerie symmetry unsettling him in a way he couldn’t quite describe. This was another world. There was no mistaking it. And yet, even with all its alien strangeness… His mind was somewhere else.

  It stirred inside him. An invisible thread, taut and unyielding, pulling at his soul. John staggered, his breath catching as the sensation surged through him. Heat pooled in his chest, crawling down his spine. A presence—not physical, not tangible, but inescapable.

  Ziraya.

  The link between them pulsed, alive. His heartbeat no longer belonged to him alone. He gritted his teeth, his fists clenching as images flooded his mind.

  She was here.

  His head snapped toward a squat concrete structure—windowless, sterile, the kind of place that didn’t want to be noticed. A ramp sloped toward its entrance, barely distinguishable from the other buildings around it.

  His tether to Ziraya trembled. Then, the door opened. She stepped out—a cloaked figure, moving with the quiet grace of someone who expected danger at every turn. A black umbrella rested lightly against her shoulder, shielding her from the merciless sun.

  John's breath hitched. Her amber eyes locked onto him, piercing through the distance. The world faded. The crowds, the sandstorm, the blistering heat—gone. There was only her. His lungs tightened. He could hear her breathing. Every exhale, every tiny shift of her stance.

  Somewhere, beyond his own body, Ziraya trembled. She could feel it too. A flicker of something foreign wrapped around her legs—a phantom weight. Heavy. Cold. As if she carried the burden of his weapons on her own body. Her tail lashed violently, kicking up a swirl of dust. She forced herself to look away, her jaw tightening. If she stared any longer, if she let this sensation grow, then— The link would deepen.

  Something inside it was unfurling.

  John exhaled slowly, his lips parting in a silent whisper.“What are we becoming?”

  “I need to stop this.” Ziraya stared at her clawed hand, her amber eyes burning with defiance. She could feel it. The unnatural pull, the way his presence thrummed against her senses, a constant, grating pressure in the back of her mind. Like a parasite, feeding on her thoughts. “No matter what it takes, I will break this bond.” Mana swirled into her palm, dark and dense. It would be so easy. A single spell, a flick of her wrist, and she could kill him, rip him apart—could sever him from her soul, permanently.

  Her heart clenched, her breath faltering as an icy dread sank into her veins. A sharp pain lanced through her chest, her pulse stuttering, stopping— as though the very thought of his death was a blade pressed against her own throat. Her magic wavered, flickering violently before collapsing in on itself, the spell unraveling before it could take form. Ziraya let out a shuddering breath, her fingers trembling as her heart finally began to beat again. “Damn it.” She clenched her fists and swallowed back the nausea. She would find another way. There had to be a way.

  John didn’t bother looking at her as she stepped up beside him, clicking her tongue in irritation.

  “At least you’re not late,” she said, barely sparing him a glance before pulling out her Terminal.

  “Hello.” John’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “So, what’s the plan? How do we even find this self-proclaimed witch? This place doesn’t exactly scream ‘occult expert’s lair’ to me.”

  Ziraya barely acknowledged his tone as she scrolled through her device. “She posted a lot of pictures of this place on her blog. From what I’ve read, she firmly believes the Ebonreach Ocean is the tomb of an ancient civilization.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “What, like a buried city?”

  “Not buried,” she scoffed, her tail flicking behind her. “I know the Wolfheart don’t favor intelligence, but seeing it firsthand is rather appalling.”

  John flipped her off without missing a beat. “Fuck off, princess.” He took a deep drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. “So, let me get this straight—she thinks there’s an entire city hidden beneath an ocean that can melt rock?”

  “Precisely.” Ziraya nodded, arms crossing. “According to ancient records, a grand city once stood where Ebonreach is now, home to practitioners of the lost occult arts. Her words, not mine.”

  “And this is the woman we’re trusting to fix our little predicament?” John gestured vaguely between them. “I’ve seen conspiracy forums less ridiculous than this.”

  Ziraya’s lips curled into a smirk. “She was a respected researcher before that. In her early blog entries, she detailed her discoveries—including a thesis on a novel method for cheaply processing bauxite ore.”

  John let out a low chuckle. “So, our resident witch has a PhD. Fantastic. Are we expecting her to show up in a lab coat, or—?”

  “She also has decent funding,” Ziraya added smoothly. “Any mining company would kill for her expertise.”

  “So a rich crazy woman. Because one wasn’t enough,” John muttered under his breath, earning a murderous glare from the dragon-blooded. He sighed. “Alright, princess, what’s your big plan?”

  Ziraya huffed. “Unlike you, I have actual connections. My family does business with the Enforcers who oversee this territory. I know exactly who to ask.”

  John raised his hands in mock surrender. “Lead the way, then.”

  Ziraya strode forward with the air of someone who owned the entire city, her tail flicking dismissively behind her. John exhaled smoke and followed, his gaze drifting to the back of her head. They walked in tense silence, the heat thick and smothering, carrying the acrid scent of sulfur and rust. The streets bustled with miners and traders, dwarves moving with practiced efficiency while armored Enforcers patrolled the perimeter.

  John finally broke the silence. “So… how does a Scalebound heir end up making deals with interdimensional mining companies?”

  Ziraya didn’t even turn her head. “We have an extensive trading network, more than you—” She stopped mid-sentence, her entire demeanor shifting. Her expression hardened. She turned on him, eyes sharp as a dagger. “You’ve heard enough.”

  John arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

  Ziraya’s nostrils flared. “Do you think I don’t see what you’re doing? Using this curse to dig for information?” Her voice dripped with disdain. “Despicable. As expected of a mercenary.”

  John’s patience snapped. “Who the hell do you think I am?” He stopped walking, arms crossing as he glared at her back.

  Ziraya didn’t answer, didn’t turn.

  He could feel it again. That pull. Something twisting, tightening, coiling between them like a noose. For a fleeting second, he could see her—not the arrogant, sharp-tongued princess, but the woman beneath. The one whose breath hitched in uncertainty. The one who—despite her venom—was just as lost in this as he was.

  She turned, their eyes locking.

  John swallowed hard as a wave of confusion, fear, and something else entirely rolled off her in waves. For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. The world around them blurred, faded. The bond between them throbbed. Ziraya was the first to look away, jaw clenching as she tore her gaze from him.

  “We need to get rid of this,” John muttered, voice low.

  Ziraya exhaled shakily. “Right.”

  She steeled herself, pressing forward until they reached the factory. The building loomed over them, a monolithic slab of concrete with smokestacks belching thick black plumes into the toxic sky. The scent of rust was so thick it burned—sharp, metallic, and unmistakably wrong.

  John gagged. “God, what the fuck is that smell?”

  Ziraya didn’t flinch. “The foreman should be inside.”

  The entrance loomed before them—a massive iron door, wide enough to fit a transport truck, encased within an ornate floral-patterned fence.

  John exhaled, glancing at Ziraya as she squared her shoulders. They had bigger problems than their mutual hatred. The two guards flanking the factory entrance immediately caught John’s attention. Their bronze-colored armor worn over orange tunics was dented and scraped, the marks of old battles still etched into the metal. Yet despite the wear, it gleamed under the factory’s harsh lights—well cared for, maintained with an almost religious devotion. These weren’t just any hired thugs. Their grips tightened on their weapons as Ziraya approached, and John’s fingers inched toward his P50. The guards’ polearm-like devices had a brutal simplicity to them—bronze spears with a strange, rune-etched orb at the base. Something told him he didn’t want to find out what those runes did.

  “I’m here to see Gundrik,” Ziraya said coolly, her slitted amber eyes boring into the nearest guard as though daring him to defy her. The dwarven men didn’t flinch, but John didn’t miss the way they shifted their stances, muscles tensing beneath their stained tunics.

  “Who’s askin’?” one of them growled, voice like grinding stone.

  Ziraya slapped her tail against the ground with an audible crack. “Enforcer business.” The words dripped from her tongue like molten gold—heavy, certain, unquestionable. “You’ll let me through if you know what’s good for you.”

  The second guard let out a dry, crass chuckle. “Arrogant lil’ firecracker, ain’t ya?” His laughter faded as Ziraya took a single step forward. A violent gust of golden mana flared around her, swirling like a miniature storm, thickening the air until it became almost opaque. The scent of burning ozone filled John’s lungs. For a second, he could’ve sworn the ground trembled beneath her.

  “Enforcer. Business.” Ziraya enunciated each word, her voice now edged with something far sharper than irritation—thinly veiled menace.

  The guards took an instinctive step back. The one who had spoken first swallowed hard. “Gundrik’s in the back—i-in his office.” His companion elbowed him in the ribs, muttering curses under his breath before stepping aside.

  Ziraya exhaled through her nose, a satisfied huff, and strode into the factory without another word.

  John hesitated, glancing at the dwarves before following. “Uh, thanks,” he muttered with an awkward nod. The guards didn’t respond. They didn’t even look at him.

  Inside, the factory was a symphony of motion and magic. Workers clad in soot-streaked linen wielded large bronze wands, directing streams of syrupy Ebonreach water over piles of ore. The liquid hissed and frothed, stripping away stone like a living thing, revealing raw metal beneath. John watched, transfixed, as chunks of rock slithered along conveyor belts like obedient serpents, coiling beneath the relentless cascade of alchemy.

  “So this is a magic factory,” he murmured, unable to hide his fascination.

  “I’ll do the talking.” Ziraya’s curt response snapped him out of it. She stopped before a wooden door with a small, faded plaque. No hesitation. No knocking. She slammed it open.

  The dwarf inside startled so violently that he nearly fell out of his chair. Portly, balding, and draped in obnoxiously fine silks, Gundrik looked like a man more accustomed to sipping wine than breathing factory air. His stubby fingers, each weighed down by gaudy gold rings, scrambled for balance against his polished desk. “I—”

  A pile of small gemstones clattered onto his desk. His beady eyes locked onto them, greed overtaking surprise in an instant. Quicker than John thought possible, the dwarf swept the crystals into his palm, stuffing them away before anyone could think to take them back. He leaned forward, hands folded, his expression now an eager businessman's mask. “What can I do for you today?”

  Ziraya’s expression didn’t change. “We’re looking for a woman who claims to be a witch.”

  Gundrik rubbed his chin, lips curling into a knowing smirk. “My memory’s not what it used to be. I bet—” Another gemstone hit the desk with a sharp clink. Ziraya’s slitted pupils narrowed into thin slashes of amber. “Not one more,” she warned, her voice dangerously low. Mana pulsed in the air, thick with the promise of violence.

  Gundrik swallowed hard. “R-Right,” he stammered, stuffing the extra gem into his pocket. He straightened his spine, adopting a strained, business-like grin. “You must be talking about Thalva. Her… hobby, I suppose you could call it, is no secret around here. She owns an Ebonreach water refinement plant, northwest, near the ocean.” He gestured vaguely, as if shooing them away. “I heard she’s hiring mercenaries for a project of hers. Is that why—?”

  “That’s enough.” Ziraya turned on her heel, not sparing him another glance as she stormed out.

  John lingered for half a second longer, staring at the dwarf before shaking his head and following.

  As they stepped back onto the factory floor, John let out a low whistle. “Does it always go like this?”

  “The Scalebound family didn’t get where it is today by hesitating,” Ziraya snapped. She wasn’t just annoyed. She was furious. John watched as her fists clenched at her sides, claws digging into her palms. She was breathing too hard for someone who had barely exerted herself, her tail twitching with suppressed frustration. He didn’t need to ask to know she was barely holding herself together. “The faster we get rid of whatever this is, the better.” Her voice was quiet, strained, as if the words themselves pained her. “I can’t afford—” She cut herself off, jaw tightening. “Not at a time like this.”

  John exhaled through his nose, gaze drifting toward the horizon. His eyes flickered to the Improbability Factor counter, a constant reminder of the Ship’s stranglehold on him. His stomach turned. “Is this your doing?” he muttered under his breath. The Ship remained silent, as usual. “Or maybe… maybe it isn’t and you can’t stop it.”

  Either option was equally terrifying.

  The two moved in silence, their boots crunching softly against the gravel-strewn path. The air here was thick, heavy with the briny scent of the Ebonreach waters, the darkness of the ocean stretching endlessly before them like a great abyss. The only sound beyond their footsteps was the distant, rhythmic groaning of metal—pipes shifting, water churning, unseen machinery laboring beneath the waves. At the water’s edge stood a hulking concrete structure, stark and unyielding against the sky. Two massive pontoons jutted into the ocean like severed limbs. One was home to a towering cube of metal and pipes, a tangled mess of rust-streaked conduits snaking in and out like the veins of some colossal beast. The other was even more ominous—a featureless concrete block, larger than its twin and utterly devoid of windows.

  John’s gaze flickered to the heavy iron door embedded in its surface. Reinforced. No visible locks, but the faintest shimmer caught his eye—a barely perceptible glint along the edges. Glamour. Thin, nearly imperceptible, but unmistakable. He narrowed his eyes. The entire entrance was warded.

  “We’re here,” Ziraya said, her voice clipped. She stood with arms crossed, amber eyes locked onto the door as though willing it to open.

  John exhaled slowly, studying the bleak, industrial expanse before him. “So this is a witch’s lair.” His tone was lighter than he felt. “Doesn’t look like what I expected.”

  Ziraya clicked her tongue, unimpressed. “What were you expecting?”

  John shrugged. “Something… creepier, I guess. Cauldrons. Black candles. Maybe a few ominous runes scrawled on the walls.” He tilted his head toward the looming structure. “This just looks like a glorified water plant.”

  Ziraya didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she took a step forward, her stride sharp with determination. John hesitated for a moment before following, his fingers unconsciously grazing the grip of his P50.