The heavy doors of Cyria’s office hissed shut behind them. As they drifted toward the elevator, Aiven let out a breath he felt he’d been holding since they walked in.

  "Virelle," Aiven said, his voice low and strained. "That was incredibly dangerous. You barely grazed her. If you had actually hit her, we wouldn't be going on a mission—we’d be in a high-security cell or worse."

  Virelle didn't look at him immediately. She adjusted her translucent sleeves, her hair swaying with a calm, rhythmic grace as she hovered beside him.

  "An act of necessary intimidation, Master," she replied, her voice regaining its smooth, melodic silk. "That fox treats the world like her personal chessboard and everyone on it like her mindless pawns. If I had simply sat there and allowed her to tease us into submission, she would have assumed we were merely another set of minions. I had to make it clear: no one ridicules my Master, and no one dictates terms to us without understanding the cost of a mistake."

  Aiven opened his mouth to argue, to tell her that Cyria held all the cards—the warrants, the safety of Marnie—but he stopped. He thought about the way Cyria had grinned after the blast. She hadn't looked angry; she had looked impressed.

  "...I suppose you have a point," Aiven admitted reluctantly. "Being too submissive would probably just make her lose interest or try to push us even harder. Power seems to be the only currency she truly respects."

  Virelle tilted her head, her violet-magenta eyes sparkling. "Precisely. And besides, the fox wouldn't dare try anything truly funny before we retrieve that artifact anyway. She has invested quite a lot of Vulpine’s resources into this little venture. To rat us out or sabotage us now out of pure spite would render her efforts entirely pointless. She does not seem to be a fool who throws away a winning hand."

  Aiven stopped walking, looking at her with genuine surprise. He often let her overconfidence and her theatrical antics make him think her mind was as shallow as her vanity, but here she was, making logical points.

  Virelle noticed his gaze. For a second, her smug, superior mask slipped, and a slight, uncharacteristic blush touched her pale cheeks.

  She glanced back at him, her eyes softening into that devoted look. "Master, I find you paying quite some attention to me lately, with the physical contacts and the gazes. Do you wish to hold hands again? I find myself wondering if you already miss the warmth."

  Aiven looked away immediately, his face heating up. "I—no, it's okay.”

  He started walking again, his mind racing. As their time together went on, Virelle had been getting undeniably clingier, partly due to her constantly misreading his gestures. He wondered if he should even let this be. Who are we to each other? he thought. He was her Master, her summoner—but the way they acted... was it even common for a summoner and a familiar to hold hands like a couple? But Virelle operated in such a unique way that he thinks she should not have been considered his familiar.

  With everything that had happened, from losing his home to being hunted by vampires, he had never really given the nature of their relationship much thought. It was just... Virelle.

  She was important—more important than he liked to admit—yet he still couldn’t name what she was to him.

  They walked in silence for a few more moments, the only sound the soft hum of the spire's ventilation.

  "Master?" Virelle asked, breaking the quiet. "Where exactly are these snacks we were going to get? My refined palate is beginning to demand a distraction from all this tactical talk."

  The question snapped Aiven out of his existential spiral. He looked around the vast, gold-and-marble corridor, then at the rows of unmarked doors and the silent, high-speed elevators. He realized with a sinking feeling that he had no idea where the cafeteria was, or if they were even allowed to roam this floor so freely.

  "I... actually don't know," Aiven admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was mostly just trying to get us out of that office before you fired a second shot."

  Virelle sighed, a long, dramatic sound that echoed through the hall. "It’s okay Master, I will just grab that sheep and let her guide us to the nearest place with decent cuisine."

  Aiven wanted to tell Virelle to take it easy and not drag Pelka like a sack of trash. He didn't want the poor sheep beastfolk to be too intimidated to function.

  Before he could speak, a frantic, rhythmic clatter-thud echoed from the far end of the hallway. They both turned to see Pelka sprinting toward them. She was clutching her oversized leather briefcase to her chest, her bangs bobbing with every desperate step.

  She hit a patch of particularly well-polished marble and her feet slid outward. For a moment, she looked like she was performing a frantic, uncoordinated dance. She wobbled, her briefcase flying upward before she snatched it out of the air and barely managed to regain her stance, staggering to a halt a few feet away from them.

  "Truly a marvel of kinetic grace," Virelle remarked dryly, her arms crossed as she watched the display. "I’ve seen more stability from a jelly-cube in an earthquake. Master, are we certain this creature is an archeologist and not a professional jester sent for our amusement?"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Pelka bent over, her hands on her knees as she wheezed for breath. Her heavy bangs swayed as she gasped for air. "Boss... Boss sent me..." she managed to choke out between breaths. "She said... I should guide you... to the snacks."

  Virelle’s brow arched. She drifted a few inches closer to the panting girl. "Finally, a moment of practical utility. Tell me, little snack-guide, what does this monolith offer in the way of decent sustenance? I find my patience for Vulpine's hospitality wearing thin."

  Pelka swallowed hard, her ears twitching in a mixture of exertion and nerves. "The 20th floor," she squeaked. "It's the recreational hub. There are dozens of choices... sunrise buns, custard tarts, sweet mana-glazed treats... the best on the island."

  "Then do not simply stand there vibrating," Virelle commanded, gesturing toward the elevator with a theatrical sweep of her hand. "Lead the way immediately. And for your sake, these treats better be as exceptional as you claim. The hospitality we have received thus far has been... lacking in warmth, to say the least."

  Pelka let out a tiny, frightened bleat and turned on her heel, leading them toward the elevators with a renewed—if slightly terrified—sense of urgency.

  Aiven followed behind, feeling a strange mix of secondary embarrassment and genuine amusement. He watched Virelle floating beside the trembling Pelka, her head held high and her hair flowing behind her as if she were a queen surveying her new, slightly clumsy kingdom. Virelle acted as though she owned the Spire, and Aiven found himself suppressing a small, tired smile.

  The elevator doors opened to the 20th floor, and for a moment, Aiven forgot they were fugitives.

  The recreational hub was massive, defined by floor-to-ceiling glass windows that offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of Fangreach. Beastfolk of all kinds moved through the space—felines carrying sleek tablets, canines sharing trays of steaming food, and reptiles engaged in quiet, focused conversation. Despite the crowd, there was no shouting, no clatter of dropped plates. It was an ecosystem of organized comfort.

  Virelle drifted into the room. She looked around with a slight, approving tilt of her head. "After enduring the barbarian establishments of Lowhaven, it is mildly refreshing to see a civilized environment. At least these creatures understand the value of a quiet floor."

  They took a seat at a secluded booth made of polished driftwood. Virelle immediately turned her gaze toward Pelka, who was standing beside the table, clutching her briefcase as if it were a shield.

  "You," Virelle commanded, gesturing vaguely toward the food kiosks. "Go and procure the top recommendations of this establishment. I wish to see if Vulpine’s culinary standards match its architectural vanity."

  Aiven instinctively reached for his pouch, his mind calculating the dwindling silver coins. "Wait, Pelka... how much is this going to cost?"

  Pelka blinked, her bangs swaying as she let out a small, nervous squeak. "Oh! Cost? No, sir. For high-clearance guests, all services on this floor are provided at no charge. I-I’ll be right back!"

  She took off toward the kiosks, stumbling only slightly as she rounded a corner.

  Aiven watched her go, then leaned back against the padded seat. The clinical, high-tech atmosphere was a world away from the soot-stained streets of Lowhaven, yet sitting here with Virelle across the table, he couldn't help but remember their first breakfast together. He thought of the cheap, oily flatbread and the charred vegetables they had eaten at that rickety stall near the docks. Back then, everything was simpler—terrifying, but simpler.

  He looked at Virelle, who was idly watching a holographic display of the island's weather patterns. A question he had been holding onto since the very beginning finally clawed its way to his throat.

  "Virelle," Aiven whispered, leaning in closer. "Can I ask you something? About the very first day?"

  Virelle turned her gaze toward him, her eyes softening. "Ask, Master. My wisdom is, as always, at your disposal."

  "During that first quest... the trash duty in the burrow," Aiven started, his voice barely audible. "Before I summoned you, I heard a voice. A girl's voice, crying out for help inside my head. It felt like it was coming from the center of the dungeon. Was that... was that you?"

  Virelle’s expression didn't change, but her prismatic orb slowed its rotation. She looked at him for a long beat, then shook her head slowly. "I have no recollection of such a thing, Master. And logically, it is impossible.I would never find myself in a position to beg for assistance."

  Aiven slumped slightly. He realized then that Virelle didn't have much of a memory to draw from in the first place. Aside from the flashes of her destroying an island—the white light and the falling marble—her past was a void.

  Virelle noticed his perplexed, disappointed expression. Her smugness wavered, replaced by a flicker of genuine effort. She closed her eyes, her brow furrowing as she tried to reach back into that darkness, seeking something beyond the destruction.

  Suddenly, her posture stiffened.

  "Ah—!" Virelle let out a sharp, jagged sound, her hands flying to her temples. Her face winced in a mask of sudden, searing pain, and her lavender mana sparked erratically around her fingertips.

  "Virelle!" Aiven surged forward, his right hand catching her wrist. He remembered the agony she had endured at Aelira’s hut—the labyrinth of glass that threatened to shatter her mind. "Don't try to remember. It’s okay."

  Virelle’s breathing was ragged, her eyes wide and watery as she looked at him. The pain subsided, leaving her looking dejected. She lowered her hands, her hair drooping.

  "I... I apologize, Master," she whispered, her voice fragile. "I wished to provide you with the answers you seek, but it feels as though there is a wall of thorns inside my mind. Every time I reach for a thread, it cuts back."

  "It's fine," Aiven said, his voice firm with a protective warmth. "I don't need the answers right now. We'll find another way."

  A heavy silence settled over the table, the merry hum of the recreational hub now feeling discordant and intrusive.

  "Here we are!" Pelka’s voice broke through the gloom as she arrived, balancing a wide silver tray. On it were several porcelain plates filled with delectable treats—custard-filled pastries topped with caramelized sugar, delicate reef-fish tartlets, and vibrant tropical parfaits. The sweet, buttery scent was overwhelming.

  "The top recommendations!" Pelka announced, her ears twitching with pride as she set the tray down. "And I got the gold-flecked tortoise buns too."

  Virelle looked at the lavish spread, then at Aiven. The appetite she had boasted about only minutes ago seemed to have vanished entirely.

  The treats sat there, beautiful and untouched, as the shadows of the past grew longer.