We slipped back into Ashen Hold through the east gate—quiet, fast, still wired with adrenaline and dumb choices.
It was lunchtime.
Which meant firepit chaos, mystery stew, and bread that doubled as a blunt weapon.
Smoke rolled from the open-air grill like someone had set shame on fire. Hunters were packed around the pit—some seated on log benches, others crouched in the dirt with trays of whatever counted as food today.
Most were armed. All were loud.
Ashen Hold didn’t do quiet meals.
We cut through the crowd, and Tipo–because he’s literally incapable of subtlety—held the stolen Scribe page high like it was a divine artifact.
The response was immediate.
Heads turned. Voices dropped. Every eye locked on us like we’d just dragged a Hellbeast corpse through the gates.
“Is that—-?”
“From the Scribes?”
“Yo, no way.”
Tipo puffed up like a smug wyvern in mating season. “Straight from their hallowed halls of alphabet soup and scroll hoarding.”
The place erupted.
Bread flew. Trays clanged. A guy tried to toast with his boot.
Hunters crowded around like the paper was glowing. One guy swore he could smell enchantment on it. Another tried to taste it and got smacked.
Meanwhile, I dropped onto a log at the edge of the pit, picked up a piece of burnt bread, and stared at it.
Tipo flopped down next to me, practically vibrating with glee. “Okay but be honest—top five pranks of all time?”
“Top three,” I muttered.
“Top one,” he corrected.
I grunted, chewing my rockbread.
Tipo squinted at me. “Alright, what gives?”
“What?”
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing.”
“That thing. Where you look like you just saw a ghost.”
I side-eyed him. “She wasn’t a ghost.”
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Tipo froze mid-bite. “Bro. Are you still thinking about the ghost Scribe library girl?”
I didn’t answer.
I groaned, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. “She was real, Tipo. She looked right at me. And I know she is not a Scribe.”
Tipo gasped. “You had a moment.”
“It wasn’t a moment.”
“It sounds like a moment.”
“She was just—there.”
“Right. Standing dramatically in the firelight. Staring into your soul. Whispering sweet nothings like ‘you’re trespassing in my guild’s restricted archive.’ Very romantic.”
I shoved him. “Shut up.”
He shoved me back, nearly knocking my bread into the dirt. “Alvertium has a library crush!”
“Do you want to die?”
I groaned and grabbed another chunk of bread, throwing it at his face. He caught it in his mouth like a trained hellhound and gave me a wink.
I should’ve stayed in the cave with the dragon.
Tipo was still babbling about the page.
But my brain?
It wasn’t here.
It was stuck in the woods. On her. The way she moved. The way she threw that blade. That wasn’t Scribe technique. That was Hunter training. Precision. Force. Rhythm.
And not just any hunter. Crimson, maybe. Or Storm. Hell, even Obsidian—if the worst luck in the universe decided to tap in.
She was trapped. Scribes had her. Using her. Watching us. Maybe she wasn’t even supposed to be there. Maybe she saw me and wanted help.
Gods. I was spiraling.
Someone slapped my back.
“Hey, Alvertium, you good?”
I glanced up. Another Hunter—grinning, holding half a loaf of mess hall bread like it was a trophy.
I forced a smirk. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Lie.
I wasn’t tired.
I was unraveling.
Later, I trudged back to the C-Rank dorms, ignoring the hallway noise, skipping the post-lunch sparring matches. All I wanted was to collapse into my 14%-compatibility bed and pretend the world didn’t exist.
Instead, I got Pleit.
Standing there. Waiting.
Arms crossed. That look on his face. The one that screamed: “I know you’re lying and I’m about to prove it with facts and a first-aid kit.”
"Let me see the wound,” he said flatly.
I sighed and peeled off my shirt without argument. He wasn’t going to leave me alone until he got his hands on it—and frankly, the sting had gotten worse.
He moved in, fingers already glowing faintly with mana.
I winced as he pressed against the skin. "Still stings?"
"Like getting stabbed by a guilt-flavored lightning bolt."
Pleit ignored the sarcasm. “It should’ve closed by now. This looks untouched.”
I kept my face neutral.
He leaned in, brows furrowed. “You’re healing everywhere else fine. But this? It’s like it’s resisting.”
His pupils dilated, just slightly. Wound Echo. His gift kicking in.
Then: silence.
Then: “Alvertium.”
The tone was all danger.
“We’ve been looking in the wrong place.”
My stomach knotted.
“That blade,” he said, eyes sharpening, “was in the cave system near the Scribes. You told me it was deeper in the forest. Why’d you lie?”
I kept my voice even. “It wasn’t like that. I was tracking it. Thought I was closer. Got turned around.”
Pleit stared through me. “You don’t get turned around.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I got distracted. Trees all look the same when you’re bleeding out.”
He didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press. Yet.
Then he switched gears. “The cave Tipo mentioned… the one near the Scribes…wasn’t that near the last dragon sighting?”
My pulse jumped. Shit.
“I was trying to handle it solo,” I said. “Wanted to prove something. Got cocky.”
Pleit frowned. “You think you’re that good?”
I gave him a grin. “Guess we’ll find out.”
He shook his head, muttering under his breath. Then: “We will check the site tomorrow. First light.”
I hesitated—just a second too long.
“Fine,” I said. “Whole morning. I’ll show you everything.”
Pleit raised an eyebrow, surprised by my sudden cooperation. “Alright. Just before breakfast.”
I groaned. “I’ve been skipping breakfast.”
“Too bad.”
He turned to leave, already planning tomorrow’s investigation like a true over-prepared menace.
I collapsed onto my bunk the moment the door shut.
Stared at the ceiling.
Hazel eyes, blade precision, that reading.
She wasn’t a Scribe.
She was a Hunter.
And I needed to know who.
And why.
And what the hell she thought she was doing out there alone.
Maybe I’d give the blade back.
…
No.
It’s mine now.
