“Tomorrow I’ll create a quest for you. To sail into Altandai and free all the slaves.”

  A cold bonk landed square on the top of my head. Metallic, hollow.

  “Ow!” I yelped, rubbing the spot as a now-empty can bounced once on the couch beside me and then rolled off dramatically. “Hey!” I turned a betrayed pout at Lucy, who looked way too pleased with herself.

  “I’m trying to be serious here!”

  Lola’s gaze ping-ponged between the two of us, her brows furrowed in gentle confusion.

  “Ye can do that in Rimelion, smoll Charlie,” Lucy slurred with a sloppy grin, cracking open yet another beer with the enthusiasm. “And ye no drink! There enough cans for everyone!” She raised her can in a mock toast, nearly tipping it over.

  I rolled my eyes, but the corners of my mouth twitched. “Yeah, I really want to go to Patrick’s…” I murmured, the thought surfacing like a wistful wish. The clinking of cans and the warm room almost made it feel possible. But then I shook my head, banishing the idea. “But my life is at stake here.”

  Lucy shot up slightly straighter, one leg slung over the arm of her chair, raising the can high like she was christening a ship. “No need t’ fret, ye scurvy lot! Cap’n Lucy, with yer whole blasted fleet at me back, be sailin’ in t’ save yer sorry hides!”

  Her pirate accent was awful. And amazing.

  Lola leaned in, breath brushing softly against my ear, sending a ticklish shiver down my spine. “Was she always like that?” she whispered, eyes wide with disbelief.

  I giggled. “No, Cap’n Lucy only comes out after a few glasses of wine. But since I was also drinking, we… did it together?” I shrugged, heat rising to my cheeks.

  “Charlie, don’t be afeard, ye wee lass!” Lucy bellowed, brandishing her drink like a cutlass. “Down the beer, I say! Ye only get one crack at this cursed life, an’ the morrow’ll be a right storm t’ weather!”

  Another can arced through the air. This time I was ready, and I snatched it mid-flight with one hand, victorious.

  Then came another. It smacked right into Lola’s chest with a dull thud and plopped into her lap. She blinked down at it, completely thrown. “I… don’t understand her anymore,” she said, sounding genuinely defeated.

  I popped my can open with a satisfying hiss. “Me neither. That’s why we need to join her.” I gave Lola a wicked grin and raised my drink like a toast. She hesitated, then carefully opened hers, the tab clicking.

  “And as Katherine taught us!” I giggled, slammed my can lightly against hers, then smacked it against the table and took a long pull.

  Lola followed suit with a soft giggle, tapping her can against the table with a delicate clink, like she was still learning the rituals of madness.

  Yeah. This was chaos. But it was mine.

  We won’t be talking about what I did in the morning in the lavatories. Not at all. It’s already banished to the Vault of Things We Do Not Speak Of.

  After doing that, I reached for the interface. The quest system.

  Which, surprise, was a barely working mess.

  There were buttons everywhere, half of which changed random values without explanation, and dropdowns labeled things like [TODO: Later stages] or [Under Construction]. Very encouraging. The kind of jank that screamed Cloudy was busy.

  I poked around for a good half an hour, muttering curses and resisting the urge to slam my head into the nearest menu. Cloudy, of course, was delighted.

  “Proper quests must stir the soul,” he wrote. “Yours reads like a hostage note scrawled in ketchup.”

  “I am a hostage!” I hissed. “Let me write it how I want!”

  I wanted something short. Blunt. Direct. Like:

  [Save Me]

  Cloudy argued for something like:

  [Glorious Saving Adventure: The Queen Beckons]

  We fought. For way too long. Eventually, we compromised. Well... sort of.

  I stared at it once it was finalized. It was way too dramatic. But hey, totally worth it, players would love it.

  After that and eating my share of not-so-bad breakfast, some kind of warm barley porridge and a chewy flatbread that was suspiciously decent, I stepped outside.

  The sun smacked me in the face the moment I crossed the threshold. It was one of those days; clear skies, merciless brightness, and heat rising off the stone roads like someone had cast a slow-roast spell on the whole city. My skin instantly regretted being an elf.

  Yeah and I had no idea where to go.

  Really, Charlie?

  The street outside the slave quarters bustled with activity. Carts clattered by, children dashed between vendors, and the sheer press of bodies was like wading through a sea of obligation. Metal clinked, someone shouted prices for fish that smelled like a week old one, and I was just… standing there, a collar around my neck, with no idea what direction counted as “up.”

  How do you ask for help when you look like property?

  I chewed on my lip, glanced between the passing crowds, and tried to convince myself I was totally cool with public humiliation.

  Eventually, I spotted a man in a purple robe standing by the main auction hall. He was gesturing toward the doors with all the enthusiasm of someone whose job involved pretending to like people.

  Well, why not.

  “Hello,” I said, voice meek and embarrassingly squeaky. “I was tasked with going to Master Mage of the White Dragon Tower, but I have no idea where to go.” The man turned toward me mid-sentence. His face twisted with visible disgust, brows pinched, lips curled, the whole snooty package, but then I dropped the name.

  “Tasked by Master of the sky.”

  Instant fear. Like I’d slapped him with a legal threat.

  “Oh,” he said, clearing his throat fast. “Find a tall white tower near the city center. It is the only white tower in the city, can’t miss it. Now scram. Don’t scare the customers.”

  I blinked. Rude. But effective.

  Without bothering with a goodbye, because seriously, manners were wasted on jerks, I turned on my heel and started walking.

  Yeah, white tower. Should be easy to find. Except the city was built like a maze puked up in a baroque fever dream.

  Then I turned a corner.

  The gap between the two buildings revealed it. A tower reaching into the sky like it was a symbol. Probably was. White marble gleamed in the sun, faint runes glittering like frost veins along its surface. It was graceful and terrifying and absolutely 100% unmissable.

  Yeah. Okay. I got it.

  Not mistakable.

  “Hello,” I barged into the White Dragon Tower, words spilling out before the echo even had time to settle. “I’m here, tasked by Master of the Sky to find the Master Mage of the White Dragon Tower.”

  Way to go, Charlie. Walk in like you own the place and drop all the names like you’re trying to collect badges.

  The inside was colder than expected, cool marble floors under my feet, too pristine to have ever known dust, and an airy hall that smelled faintly of polished crystal.

  A reception desk stood to the side, behind which sat three women. Two humans and one elf, all wearing the unmistakable clothes of slaves. They turned to me as one, eyes going wide for a fraction of a second at the mention of him.

  It worked. Again. Names, power, influence. They were scared of him.

  “Uh…” I stalled, then pivoted into motion before my brain could talk me out of it. I headed straight for the stairs, because when in doubt? Just act like you know what you’re doing.

  “You’re the new mage?” one of the human women called after me.

  I paused halfway up the steps. “Yup!”

  “Go up to the last floor,” she said. “Master is expecting you.”

  “Thanks!” I shouted back, already taking the steps two at a time.

  The stairs were, predictably, white. Same as the walls. Same as the railings. Same as the damn soul of this building. The only things not white were the heavy wooden doors, set like sealed vaults into the pristine sterility.

  And it was a lot of stairs. Like, fifteen floors’ worth of leg-day hell.

  Luckily, my new NPC stats were working overtime. I wasn’t even breathing hard when I reached the top, even if my calves were sending me warning signals.

  The last door was obnoxiously ornate, a deep cherry wood frame with a polished plaque that practically screamed importance. Etched into it were glowing silver runes, pulsing faintly with mana.

  I knocked. Politely. Because I was civilized. “It better be important!” a voice barked from inside, irritable and annoying like a boot scraping stone.

  So I took that as an invitation. I pushed open the door and stepped into what could only be described as the arcane version of a mad scientist’s lab.

  “Hello, Master of the Sky sent me here—”

  My voice faltered as light stabbed into my eyes. The entire room was flooded with sunlight pouring through a giant arched window to my right. Glass instruments glittered on benches, each one catching the sun and scattering it like weaponized reflections. The heat hit me immediately, thick and dry like the inside of a kiln, but a steady breeze cut through it, keeping it from being completely unbearable.

  The air shimmered faintly near the ceiling.

  The man behind the desk was older, with a long white beard, a deeply lined face, and a white robe trimmed in the same ridiculous amount of silver as Mr. Gloomy Sky was in gold. His desk was a cluttered mess of scrolls, inkwells, and stacks of parchment. A ring of magnifying lenses hovered near his head, flickering in and out of visibility as he worked.

  “You’re late,” he grumbled, not even looking up. “But that’s fine. Just in time.”

  I stepped forward, carefully. “Do you require wind element, master?”

  “Do you have wind element?”

  “No, I have—”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He waved me off like a fly. “You won’t need your useless element. Expensive, but you’ll do.”

  Excuse me?

  “We need new inscribers, and fast. There’s a contract deadline hanging over our heads and we’re short-staffed.” He finally glanced at me, just long enough to judge my scarf. His lips curled in visible distaste. “You’ll do. I don’t know about buying you, but there’s work.”

  “Yes, master,” I said quickly, dipping my head in the most obedient slave bow I could muster. Inscriber? Fine. Not exciting, but also not scrubbing toilets.

  He pointed a bony finger at a pedestal by the window. “Get the class. You need the Inscriber skill.”

  My heart rate spiked.

  I wasn’t taking that class. That would lock me in. That would ruin everything.

  I took a slow, deliberate step toward the pedestal. It stood tall, carved from pale marble, veins of soft light running along its base like threads of mana. It was humming. It wanted me to touch it.

  “So? Go ahead!” he barked.

  I turned, forcing a nervous smile. “I can’t,” I said. “I’m not allowed to take a class. Orders from Master of the Sky.”

  “Ah,” the old man said, exhaling like he’d just stepped in something unpleasant. “No matter. You won’t need to force yourself. I can do that for you.”

  He rose from his seat, and I took a step back. “I’m sorry,” I squeaked, backing toward the door. “But I must decline.”

  A breeze kicked up behind me and with a sharp metallic click, the door slammed shut.

  “Stop resisting,” he said, his voice booming now, mixed with some kind of command spell. “Accept the class and skill!”

  “No!” I snapped, resisting the urge to throw something heavy and magical at his smug old face. Or show him my tongue. “Not allowed. Goodbye!”

  Then I bolted. I turned and ran full sprint toward the window, praying the wind outside was less judgmental than the one trying to enslave me.

  And before he could shout again, I dove straight through the sunlight and jumped.