The morning sun stabbed through the gaps in the heavy wooden shutters, bright and unforgiving, slicing across the dusty floorboards of the shared suite. Josh groaned and rolled over, pulling his thin pillow over his head in a futile attempt to banish the light. His head felt like someone had replaced his brain with wet sand, and his mouth tasted faintly of the cheap, copper-tinted ale they had consumed in heroic quantities the night before.

  "Morning," a voice said, far too cheerful and far too loud.

  Josh peeked out from under the pillow with one bloodshot eye.

  Brett was already sitting up on the edge of his bed, nursing a mug of something that steamed. He looked rough, his hair sticking up in odd tufts and dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, but he was awake.

  "Is it?" Josh croaked. His voice sounded like gravel grinding in a mixer.

  "Technically. Though my internal clock says it is time to die." Brett took a sip of the steaming liquid and grimaced. "This is meant to be tea. I think. Or hot leaf juice. It is doing absolutely nothing for the headache."

  A thunderous snore ripped through from the next room, so violent it seemed to rattle the floorboards beneath their feet. A moment later, a door across the hall was thrown open with a sharp, splintering crack.

  Josh and Brett exchanged a look of mounting concern before peering out into the suite. They caught sight of Perberos stalking toward the common room, his elven grace replaced by a rigid, murderous stride. Each footfall was a deliberate stomp that echoed off the narrow walls, his cloak snapping behind him like a whip.

  “I thought Bhel’s snoring was fixed,” Brett muttered, watching the elf vanish behind a sofa.

  Looking past the empty doorway into the corner room, they found the culprit. Bhel was sprawled across his cot, limbs flung wide at impossible angles, his mouth hanging open like a landed fish. The dwarf didn’t look like he was merely sleeping; he looked as if he had fallen from a great height and simply decided that the floor or wherever he landed was his home now. Another snore erupted from him, a deep, rhythmic growl that sounded like a rockslide in a closed tunnel.

  The door to the inn creaked open and Carcan swept in. Unlike the rest of them, she looked irritatingly pristine. Her hair was braided back in a complex, severe style, her tunic was pressed, and she carried a tray laden with bread, cheese, and a pitcher of water. She took one look into their rooms, the scattered gear, the snoring dwarf, the hungover humans and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

  "Pathetic," she stated, setting the tray down on the central table with a sharp clatter.

  Bhel snorted in his sleep, mumbled something about "more turnips," and rolled over, dragging the blanket with him.

  Josh sat down next to Perberos, wincing as his spine popped in three different places. "We celebrated. We levelled up. We survived a dungeon boss without nearly dying. I think we earned a little headache."

  "Celebration is one thing," Carcan said, pouring water into tin cups. "Rendering yourselves useless until noon is another. Drink." She shoved a cup into Josh’s hand.

  Josh drank. The water was cool and clean, and he felt human again after the second cup. He looked at Carcan and noticed the slight tightness around her eyes. She was standing straight, but her weight was shifting subtly from foot to foot, as if her arches were aching.

  "So," Josh said, wiping his mouth. "Plan for the day? We could hit the weapon smiths. Bhel needs to look at getting those axes sharpened properly, and I want to see if I can find a better grip for the shield. Then maybe we check the bounty board for—"

  "No," Carcan interrupted.

  The room went quiet. Even Bhel’s snoring seemed to pause for a beat.

  "No?" Brett asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "No bounties. No dungeons. No weapon smiths." Carcan crossed her arms. "We are not doing anything today that involves violence, the preparation for violence, or the cleaning up after violence."

  Josh frowned. "We’re on a roll, Carcan. We just hit level sixteen. If we push now, we can—"

  "We can burn out," she countered, her voice dropping an octave, losing its sharp edge and becoming something firmer. "Look at us, Josh. Look at your hands."

  Josh looked down. His knuckles were bruised purple and yellow. There were small, unhealed cuts along his fingers from gripping the shield strap too tight, and a persistent tremor in his left thumb that he hadn’t noticed until now.

  "We have been running on adrenaline and healing magic for weeks," Carcan said quietly. "Magical healing closes the wounds, but it does not knit the spirit back together. It does not rest the mind. We are frayed.. If we go back into the dark today, we will make a mistake, I can feel it. Talking to Butler last night made me realise it. And at this level, mistakes are permanent."

  Perberos sheathed his knife. "I hate to admit it, but she’s right," he said softly. "My draw hand was shaking yesterday. Just a fraction. But a fraction is the difference between an eye shot and a deflection."

  Bhel groaned from the bed, finally rousing. He sat up, beard a chaotic nest of tangles, and squinted at them. "Why are we talkin' so loud? And why is no one pourin' ale?"

  "No ale," Carcan said. "Water. And rest. Today is a mandatory recovery day. I am invoking my right as the party healer to declare you all unfit for duty."

  Josh looked at Brett. Brett shrugged, blowing on his tea.

  "I mean, I wouldn't say no to a bit of a rest," the mage admitted. "My insides feel like they have been scrubbed with wire wool. I could use a recharge."

  Josh sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. The tension that lived permanently in his shoulders tried to rebel, the urge to grind, to progress, to stay safe by becoming stronger screaming at him. But then he felt the ache in his knees and the heaviness behind his eyes.

  "Fine," Josh relented. "You win. Mandatory downtime. What are the rules?"

  Carcan smiled, a small, victorious expression. "Rule one: We split up. We spend too much time in each other’s pockets. Rule two: Do something that brings you joy, not profit. Rule three: We meet back here at sunset for dinner. No sooner."

  Bhel scratched his belly, looking intrigued. "Split up, eh? So I don't have to listen to the elf lecture me on table manners?"

  "Precisely," Carcan said sweetly.

  "I’m in," Bhel grunted. He swung his legs out of bed. "I saw a place down by the lower market. Looked loud. Smelled like bad decisions. I’m goin' there."

  "I will go with Carcan," Perberos announced, rising from his seat with a long, bone-popping stretch. He cast a sidelong glance at his sister. "Unless you intended to go alone?"

  Carcan’s eyes lit up with a sudden, almost childish spark. She let out a small, delighted gasp, clasping her hands together. "Oh, Perberos! I heard rumours of a bathhouse in the Upper District, it taps directly into the thermal vents! I intend to submerge myself for the next six hours until I’ve forgotten what blood smells like and my skin is entirely translucent."

  She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to an excited, conspiratorial whisper. "They say they offer honey-oil rubs and steam treatments for your hair!"

  Perberos froze, his hand halfway through smoothing his tunic. A flicker of immediate regret crossed his face as he realized he had just committed to a day of "treatments." He opened his mouth to pivot back to a more 'dignified' activity, but then he felt the deep, throbbing ache in his lower back and the grit of dungeon dust behind his ears.

  The image of a hot, scented soak began to war with his pride. He sighed, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. It was an undignified prospect for an elf of his standing, but the thought of the steam was—admittedly—becoming irresistible.

  "Very well," he muttered, though his ears went a bit pink. "But if there is honey involved, I am staying in the water."

  Brett looked at Josh. "Well, looks like it is you and me. Sightseeing?"

  Josh grinned, the idea finally starting to sound appealing. "Sightseeing. And maybe finding some real food."

  The outpost was not a metropolis, but it was far more than the muddy outpost Josh had expected when they first arrived. It apparently had several options for relaxing and spending money within its walls.

  Carcan and Perberos separated from the group at the main plaza, heading toward the upper tier where a white buildings gleamed in the sun. Bhel vanished into a side alley that smelled of roasted pork and stale beer, cackling to himself.

  That left Josh and Brett standing in the middle of the morning market, surrounded by the chaotic noise of commerce.

  "It is weird," Brett said, hands in his pockets as they walked past a stall selling colourful, pungent spices.

  "What is?"

  "Not wearing armour. I feel naked."

  Josh nodded. He was wearing his spare tunic and trousers, his dagger on his belt the only weapon he had kept. Without the weight of the plate armour and the shield on his back, he felt light, almost floaty, but also dangerously exposed. "I know what you mean. I keep checking for my shield."

  "We are traumatized," Brett noted dryly. "PTSD from fantasy monsters. Who would have thought?"

  They wandered aimlessly for an hour, letting the town wash over them. They watched a blacksmith hammering out horseshoes and stood for ten minutes watching a street performer juggle balls of water that defied gravity.

  "Hey," Brett said, stopping in front of a shop with a narrow, unassuming frontage. The sign above the door was a simple wooden board with a carving of a quill and a scroll. "The Arcanum. Want to look? We aren't buying, but... window shopping isn't against the rules."

  "Carcan said no prep for violence," Josh reminded him.

  "Books aren't violence. Books are knowledge. Come on."

  The shop smelled of old paper, dust, and ozone. It was quiet inside, the air cool and still. Shelves lined every wall, crammed with scrolls, leather-bound tomes, and loose sheaves of parchment.

  An elderly human with spectacles thick as bottle bottoms glanced up from a desk. "Browse if you like. Touch nothing with bare hands if it glows. If you break it, you buy it, and if it curses you, that is an extra fee for removal."

  "Understood," Brett said, his eyes lighting up.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Josh let Brett drift toward the section on elemental theory and wandered toward the back. He wasn't a reader, not really, but he liked the quiet. He found a section on geography and pulled out a heavy book titled Flora and Fauna of the Northern Reach.

  He flipped through it, looking at the hand-drawn illustrations. There were sketches of dire wolves, giant spiders, and things he hadn't seen yet, massive flying drakes and aquatic serpents.

  "Look at this," Brett whispered, appearing at his elbow. He held up a thin, black book. "It is a treatise on mana efficiency. The author argues that most mages waste thirty percent of their energy on emotional projection during casting."

  "Emotional projection?"

  "Yeah. Like, getting angry when you throw a fireball. He says if you cast with cold logic, the flame burns hotter because the mana is pure structure, not intent." Brett looked at the book like it was made of gold. "This could change how I handle my cooldowns."

  Josh smiled. "How much is it?"

  Brett checked the inside cover and winced. "Fifty gold. Way out of budget for a recreational read." He sighed and put it back on the shelf, patting the spine affectionately. "One day, my precious. One day."

  They left the shop empty-handed but strangely satisfied.

  "I miss the internet," Brett said suddenly as they stepped back out into the bright sunlight.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. Back home, I’d just wiki that theory. verify it on a forum. Here? Knowledge is locked behind gold coins and grumpy old men." Brett kicked a loose stone. "I miss convenience. I miss pizza. I miss toilets that flush."

  Josh laughed. "I miss my bed. My real bed. The one with the memory foam mattress."

  "Don't," Brett groaned. "Do not do this to me. I would kill a dragon for memory foam right now."

  While the humans lamented the lack of modern bedding, Carcan and Perberos stood before the white building. The sign, carved elegantly into the stone, read The Azure Spring.

  "Are you sure about this?" Perberos asked, eyeing the building suspiciously. "It looks... excessive."

  "That is the point, brother," Carcan said. She pushed the heavy doors open.

  The interior was a wall of warm, humid air scented with lavender and eucalyptus. The sound of running water was everywhere, a gentle trickling that instantly lowered Carcan’s heart rate by ten beats.

  A receptionist, a half-elf with bored eyes, looked up. "Welcome to The Azure Spring. We offer a range of massages and elemental treatments.

  "Private room please. Carcan said immediately, slapping a gold coin onto the counter.

  Perberos looked at the gold coin. "Thats a lot of money for a bath!"

  "Hush," Carcan commanded.

  The receptionist didn't even blink at the gold coin; she simply slid a heavy brass key across the counter. "Private suite four. It includes the thermal plunge, the obsidian steam-table, and a complimentary tray of chilled moon-melons."

  Carcan snatched the key, her eyes dancing across the pamphlet with treatment options. "And for the treatments… I want the salt-scrub with crushed glow-shells. And whatever that 'Deep-Earth Poultice' is for my brother. He’s been sleeping in a room with a dwarf; his posture is offensive to our ancestors."

  Perberos bristled, his hand instinctively going to the small of his back. "My posture is a result of tactical necessity, Carcan. And I certainly don't need—"

  "He’ll take the river-kelp hair wrap as well," Carcan added, cutting him off with a bright smile. "The kind that restores the... what did the sign say? 'The ethereal sheen'?"

  Perberos looked at the receptionist, who was already scribbling on a parchment. "Is a 'sheen' truly necessary?"

  "It’s included in the 'Hero’s Respite' package, sir," the half-elf replied tonelessly. "Along with the volcanic mud mask and the pressure-point foot soak."

  Perberos opened his mouth to protest, but Carcan was already ushering him toward the heavy oak doors of the suite. "Six hours, Perberos. Think of it as training. Endurance training for your pores."

  "My pores are quite capable of enduring without the assistance of volcanic mud," he grumbled, though as the doors swung open, a wave of fragrant, jasmine-scented steam hit him. He paused, his nose twitching. The scent was a far cry from the damp rot of the Warren.

  Carcan hopped onto a plush, silk-lined bench. "Oh, stop being so martyred. Look at those tubs! They’re carved from solid lapis!"

  Perberos surveyed the room. The large main bath was a masterpiece of stonework, bubbling with naturally blue water that sent shimmering ripples across the ceiling. Near the corner, a smaller basin sat filled with smooth, heated river stones and aromatic oils.

  "The stones," Perberos said, his voice losing its edge of irritation as he eyed the steaming basin. "Are those for the... pressure points?"

  "Exactly," Carcan said, already unlacing her boots with frantic energy. "They lay them along your spine until you feel like you're floating in the Astral Plane apparently."

  Perberos went silent for a moment, the heat of the room already beginning to loosen the knots in his shoulders. He sighed, a long, defeated sound that ended in a tiny bit of genuine interest.

  "If the kelp wrap is too tight," he warned, pointing a finger at her, "I am leaving. And I am taking the moon-melons with me."

  Carcan just laughed, throwing a silk robe at his head. "Deal. Now get in the water before I pay for an extra hour just to spite you."

  Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a private pool carved from natural volcanic rock. The water was hot, steaming, and milky white with dissolved minerals.

  Carcan sank into the water until it touched her chin, closing her eyes. She let out a long, shuddering breath. The heat seeped into her bones, finding the deep aches in her lower back and the stiffness in her casting arm.

  Perberos sat on the opposite side, looking uncomfortable. He was submerged to his waist, his arms resting on the stone edge. He still looked like he was expecting a goblin to jump out of the steam.

  "Relax, Perberos," Carcan murmured without opening her eyes. "The water is not going to attack you."

  "I am relaxed," he lied.

  "You are clenching your jaw."

  Perberos sighed and sank lower, letting the water cover his shoulders. "It feels... strange. To be relaxed like this. To be warm without a campfire. To feel this safe I guess."

  "We were not always mud-covered wanderers," Carcan said softly. "Do you remember the springs near the Spire?"

  Perberos’ expression softened. "I remember. The water there smelled of sulphur. This smells better."

  "We deserve this," Carcan said, opening her eyes to look at him. "We fight. We bleed. We are allowed to enjoy the fruits of civilisation."

  Perberos looked at his hands, watching the water ripple around his scarred fingers. "Do you think we will ever go back home?"

  "One day," Carcan said firmly. "When we are strong enough, and when we’ve seen enough. I’m quite enjoying working with the others for now.”

  "They are good fighters," Perberos admitted. "Clumsy. Loud. But good."

  "High praise coming from you."

  Perberos actually smiled, a rare expression that made him look ten years younger. He leaned his head back against the stone rim. "This water... it is not terrible."

  "I told you," Carcan said, closing her eyes again. "Now be quiet. I intend to nap until my skin prunes."

  Bhel did not find tranquillity. He found noise.

  The Rusty Tankard was a dive in the truest sense of the word. It was located right on the outskirts of the town, built into a natural cave system that had been walled off. The ceiling was low, the air was thick with pipe smoke, and the lighting came from sputtering tallow candles stuck in empty wine bottles.

  It was perfect.

  Bhel shouldered his way through the crowd, ignoring the glares from a group of gnomes. He made his way to the back, where the sound of rattling bone dice cracked through the din.

  "Room for a small one?" Bhel rumbled, stepping up to a scarred wooden table.

  The table fell silent. Three humans and a particularly large goatkin looked him up and down.

  "Buy-in is ten silver, dwarf," the beastkin sneered. One of his horns was broken off at the stump. "Rich game for a tunnel rat."

  Bhel grinned, showing all his teeth. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a handful of the coins they had looted from the Vanguard Chieftain’s chest. He let them cascade onto the table.

  "I’m feelin' lucky," Bhel said. "And I’m feelin' thirsty. Deal the bones."

  An hour later, Bhel was up four gold pieces and was currently arm-wrestling the beastkin while chugging a tankard of ale with his free hand.

  "PUSH!" the crowd roared.

  The beastkin, whose name turned out to be Krell, was straining, sweat pouring down his face. His bicep was bulging, veins popping like ropes.

  Bhel was not sweating. Bhel was humming a dwarven mining song.

  "Is that all ye got, lad?" Bhel taunted, foam clinging to his beard. "My grandmother hits harder than this, and she’s been dead for years!"

  With a sharp grunt, Bhel slammed Krell’s hand into the table. The wood cracked under the impact.

  The tavern erupted. Coins changed hands. Krell sat back, nursing his wrist, looking stunned.

  "Good arm," Bhel said, sliding the winnings toward his side of the table. "For a milk-drinker."

  Krell stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "You’re alright, dwarf. You’re alright. Bartender! Another round for the stone-eater!"

  Bhel leaned back, surrounded by the noise, the smell of sweat and ale, and the simple, honest thrill of the gamble. He didn't have to worry about bleeding here. He didn't have to worry about where to swing his axe or protecting the squishy mage. He just had to be strong, loud, and lucky.

  He took a long pull of his ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "Aye," he muttered to himself. "This is the life."

  The sun began to dip below the valley rim, painting the sky in streaks of violet and burnt orange. Josh and Brett sat on the edge of the terrace wall overlooking the lower city, their legs dangling over the drop.

  They were eating meat skewers they had bought from a street vendor. The meat was unidentified, Josh suspected lizard of some kind but it was spiced heavily and charred to perfection. He hoped it wasn’t kobold.

  "You know," Josh said, chewing thoughtfully. "I don't think I want to go home yet."

  Brett looked at him, surprised. "What? You were just complaining about the lack of mattresses."

  "I know. And I miss my family. I miss TV. But..." Josh gestured out at the town, at the flickering lights starting to come on in the windows, at the distant silhouette of the mountains where the dungeons lay. "I was bored, Brett. I was doing a boring job, didn’t have much about my life, and my main worry was whether I had enough milk for cereal."

  Josh looked at his hands. The calluses were thick and hard. The hands of someone who worked. Someone who fought.

  "Here? I matter," Josh said quietly. "If I mess up, people get hurt. If I do well, we survive. It’s... real. It’s visceral. I hold the line, and you burn them down. We have a purpose."

  Brett was silent for a long time. He finished his skewer and tossed the stick over the edge, watching it tumble into the darkness below.

  "I was failing my PhD," Brett admitted. "Did I ever tell you that? I was going to drop out. I didn't know what I wanted to do." He summoned a tiny flame in his palm, letting it dance across his fingers, weaving it into intricate shapes—a bird, a flower, a sword. "I’m a wizard, Josh. A literal wizard. I can reshape reality with my mind."

  He closed his hand, snuffing the flame.

  "Yeah," Brett said. "I get it. The mattress sucks, but the magic... the magic is worth it."

  They sat in companionable silence as the stars began to emerge, vast and unfamiliar constellations wheeling overhead.

  "We should get back," Josh said eventually, hopping down from the wall. "Carcan will kill us if we’re late for dinner. And I want to see if Bhel lost his shirt gambling."

  Soon after, they met back at the inn, just as the dinner rush was starting. The common room was packed, a roaring fire in the hearth casting a warm glow over the tables.

  Bhel was already there, looking dishevelled but oddly triumphant. He was wearing a new fur-lined cloak that looked suspiciously expensive.

  "Don't ask," Bhel grinned as they sat down. "Let’s just say Krell has a heavy hand but a slow brain."

  Carcan and Perberos arrived a moment later, and the transformation was as if the dust of the world had been physically lifted from their souls.

  Perberos moved with a renewed, liquid grace, the rigid tension of the dungeon replaced by a lightness of step that made him seem to glide across the floorboards. His black hair, once bound tight for battle, now cascaded freely over his shoulders like a silken waterfall, framing the sharp, elegant lines of his ears.

  Beside him, Carcan seemed to radiate a soft, inner luminescence, as if she had swallowed a fragment of starlight during their soak. Her skin possessed the dew-kissed clarity of a morning petal, and as she moved, she carried the faint, cool fragrance of crushed lavender and wild jasmine, a scent that seemed to belong more to an ancient forest than a common tavern.

  "You look... er. Refreshed." Josh joked.

  Carcan was smiling as she slid into the booth. "I feel restored. The water was adequate."

  "It was good," Perberos corrected quietly. "Very good."

  The serving girl arrived with a massive platter of roast chicken, root vegetables, and a fresh pitcher of ale. For once, they didn't eat like starving wolves. They passed the plates. They talked.

  They didn't talk about tactics. They didn't talk about loot distribution or boss mechanics.

  They talked about the juggling bard Josh had seen. They talked about the ridiculous price of books. Bhel recounted his arm-wrestling match with embellishments that made Krell sound like a frost giant. Carcan described the architecture of the bathhouse with an architect’s eye.

  They laughed.

  Josh sat back, nursing his ale, and watched them.

  Brett was arguing with Bhel about the physics of dice weighting. Carcan was explaining the history of the region to a listening Perberos.

  They were a mess. A mismatched group of people from different worlds, different races, thrown together by a system he barely understood.

  They were his mess.