The apartment felt too hot, too small, too crowded for the kind of night they’d had.

  Eric stood at the stove with his sleeves shoved up past his elbows, stirring macaroni with the stubborn focus of a man who needed something—anything—normal to do with his hands. The pot was boiling too hard, water slapping against the rim like it was trying to escape. A second pot sat beside it with instant mashed potatoes thickening unevenly.

  It wasn’t much. But it was food. And right now, food was the only thing he could offer.

  Mike sat on the stool near the counter, elbows on knees, beer loosely dangling from his fingers. Michelle stood with her back to the opposite counter, arms folded tight, trying to look composed and failing. The living room behind them was dim, shadows pooling around the couch where Celeste lay unconscious, armor intact except for the dents and cracks she’d earned earlier. Her hair was a tangled fan across the cushions.

  Eric kept his eyes on the stove.

  Not the couch.

  Not her.

  The stove.

  Mike and Michelle exchanged a look—one of those silent, uneasy glances people share when they’re trying to figure out which one should say something.

  Michelle gave him a look that was half exasperation, half panic barely held in check. Mikes' raised eyebrow only earned him a helpless shrug and a “don’t look at me” gesture.

  Mike snorted and looked down at his beer like it might offer advice. It didn’t.

  Eric swallowed, grabbed the cheese packet, and tried not to think about anything.

  “Mike,” he said quietly, never turning from the stove, “toss me a beer.”

  Mike blinked. “A beer? Now?”

  Eric flicked a glance over his shoulder—just enough for a moment of eye contact. “She’s gonna be starving when she wakes up. I’m gonna need it.”

  Mike made a soft, understanding grunt and pulled a can from the cardboard ring. He cracked it open and tossed it high.

  Eric turned, caught it cleanly without hesitation, popped it, and took a long drink.

  When he lowered the can, both Mike and Michelle were staring at him like he’d just grown wings.

  “What?” he asked, a little sharper than intended.

  That was all the permission Michelle needed.

  She pushed off the counter, expression cracking into something raw. “What? What?! Eric—what the hell is she? What is that armor? And what—what happened out there? You—you should not be alive right now!”

  Eric closed his eyes briefly.

  Here it came.

  Michelle barreled on. “I have responded to car crashes where people hit trees at thirty miles per hour. They die, Eric. They don’t walk away. They don’t stand up. They don’t—” Her hands flew in a half-circle gesture toward him. “—they don’t go home and make macaroni and potatoes like they didn’t just get—” Her voice pitched into something close to hysterical. “—launched through half the park!”

  “Michelle—” he started.

  “And since when do you know how to fight like that?!” she cut in, voice shaking. “You don’t do that. People don’t do that. I’ve seen clips, I’ve seen sparring—hell, I’ve seen plenty of drunk assholes try to throw down—but that wasn’t human. That wasn’t training. That was—”

  She dragged a shaking hand through her hair. “That was CGI. Cartoon bullshit. That was anime. Wind slicing trees. You speaking some language I’ve never heard. Her doing—doing whatever the hell she did…”

  Eric’s grip tightened around the beer can as heturned back to the stove. He didn’t face her. Couldn’t face her.

  He didn’t know what part of the truth was safe to say. Didn’t know how much danger the wrong answer brought to this world. Last week Nytheris barely felt real to him anymore—now it was banging on the door again, demanding to be acknowledged.

  “I’ll answer,” Eric said quietly, eyes still on the stove. “Most of it. But I don’t know what’s going on yet. I don’t know who’s coming next. And until I do, all I can give you are basics.”

  Michelle opened her mouth—probably to demand more—but then her face crumpled in a way she clearly hated showing. She turned her head away, blinking too fast before she swallowed her frustration.

  Mike just nodded once. Slow. Steady. “Basics are better than bullshit.”

  Silence stretched between them for a few seconds, the only sound the hiss of overboiling pasta.

  And Michelle’s eyes narrowed.

  “Eric,” she snapped, shoving him bodily aside, “did you seriously leave the burner all the way up? Macaroni doesn’t cook at DEFCON ONE.”

  Eric lifted his hands in surrender. “I was gonna turn it down.”

  “When? When the pot learned to scream?”

  He bit back the sarcastic retort sitting on his tongue.

  Michelle took over the stove with the irritated efficiency of someone who needed something practical to cling to. She turned the flame down, stirred the pasta, and shot him a glare that wasn’t entirely anger—more grounding, more you are not allowed to collapse.

  Eric let out a breath that felt heavier than it should’ve been.

  He moved to grab a bowl.

  But then—

  Something tugged at him.

  A faint, instinctual pull.

  His eyes drifted—slowly—toward the couch.

  Toward her.

  Celeste lay still, pale under the low apartment light. Her breathing shallow. Her hair brushed against her cheek. The cracked armor over her torso rose and fell faintly with each slow breath.

  Eric stared.

  He didn’t mean to.

  It just… happened.

  A series of emotions churned across his face in waves he couldn’t suppress: recognition, grief, guilt, fear, something dangerously close to tenderness. It all flickered too fast to name.

  Mike’s eyes sharpened. He’d seen that look before—on exhausted soldiers staring at old photographs, on friends remembering fallen squadmates. On himself, once or twice.

  “Eric,” Mike murmured, soft and low. “You okay?”

  Eric didn’t answer.

  He took a few steps forward. Then a few more.

  Michelle noticed the silence and followed Mike’s line of sight. She froze, spoon halfway up the pot.

  Eric came to stand beside the couch, gaze locked on Celeste’s face. His breath caught in his throat.

  Mike approached carefully, grabbing his beer and one more from the ring out of reflex. He didn’t open it—just held it loosely as he stepped up beside Michelle.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “What’s wrong?” Michelle whispered.

  Eric didn’t answer.

  His eyes drifted from her face… to the chestplate.

  And something in his expression clicked from emotional to analytical, from overwhelmed to focused.

  “Don’t do it, man,” Mike muttered under his breath. “Whatever you’re about to do—nope, don’t like it.”

  Eric raised his hand.

  A sliver of darkness—thin, sharp, shimmering like a blade made of absence—slid into being between his fingers.

  Mike blinked. “Okay—that’s new.”

  Michelle stiffened. “Eric—what the hell is that?”

  Eric exhaled. “Something I haven’t used in a long time.”

  Mike’s eyes darted between the construct and Eric’s face. “Okay but—dude—you’re staring at her chest like you’re about to get slapped by karma in front of your ex.”

  Michelle shot him a look that could’ve curdled milk.

  "Mike!" She hissed.

  "What? I'm adding commentary," Mike responded with a momentary stab of merriment.

  "Stop adding commentary!" She barked, to which Mike lifted his hands in mild surrender.

  Eric ignored both of them.

  “We met far away from here,” he said quietly. “Different world. Different sky. Same problems.”

  The construct stretched, lengthened, flickering like a scalpel pulled thin. Eric twirled it once between his fingers.

  “Magic,” he said. “Gifts. Whatever name you want. This is just… me.”

  He shifted his grip.

  Placed the tip at the seam of Celeste’s chestplate.

  Michelle tensed. “Eric—wait—”

  He pushed.

  For a breath, the armor resisted.

  Then the construct cut through it like hot water through ice.

  The metal parted soundlessly.

  Michelle gasped.

  Mike whispered, “Holy shit…”

  Eric carved through the remaining straps with fluid, practiced motions. Plate by plate, buckle by buckle, the armor gave way under surgical precision until he lifted the chestpiece free entirely.

  And beneath it—

  A harness.

  A ring of metal and crystal shards nestled directly over her sternum, bound by leather straps. The shards pulsed faintly—one fiery red, one cold blue.

  Michelle choked on her own breath. “Oh my god—what—what is that—Why would you risk causing her any more injury when I've seen your knife skills in a kitchen."

  Eric gave her a flat look and stabbed the construct straight through Celeste’s upper arm.

  Michelle screamed. Mike jerked backward so fast he nearly tripped.

  Celeste didn’t move.

  The blade slid through her skin like it wasn’t physical at all.

  Eric withdrew it and held it up between them. “Harmless. Unless I want it to do damage.”

  Mike stared at the hovering construct. “How do you—how do you even know that? Wont the murder-elf be pissy?”

  Eric looked at him. “Mike. Her name is Celeste. And because I didn’t want to hurt her.”

  He offered the construct out, hovering in the air.

  “Try.”

  Mike hesitated.

  Eric nodded.

  Mike poked it.

  His finger went straight through.

  He blinked. “That feels… weird.”

  Michelle finally found her voice again. “Eric—why did you cut her armor off? And—and what even is that thing you’re holding?”

  Eric let out a slow breath, construct orbiting lazily beside him.

  “Because something is draining her,” he said quietly. “Hard.”

  Mike and Michelle both leaned in unconsciously as Eric pointed to the harness now fully visible.

  “This thing,” he said. “Whatever it is, it's pulling her mana out faster than she can regenerate it. Rest helps. Sleep helps. Food helps. But not when you’re running on empty and something is siphoning off whatever you manage to make.”

  He glanced at Michelle. “So yeah. I brought her here. Because she was going to collapse, and because the park isn’t exactly sterile. She needs stability. Food. Sleep. And time.”

  Mike’s expression softened, though confusion still swirled behind his eyes. “So… she’s your friend.”

  Eric swallowed. “Yeah. She was.”

  Michelle shifted closer, staring at the harness as if it might explode. “And this thing—what does it do?”

  Eric looked at the shards—at the faint, hungry pulse of color.

  “I don’t know exactly,” he admitted. “But whatever it is, it isn’t good. And if it keeps draining her like this…”

  He lifted his beer and took a long sip.

  “…something’s gonna blow.”

  Michelle closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady her breathing.

  Mike scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “This is insane.”

  Eric didn’t disagree.

  He just set the armor piece aside and stared down at Celeste’s unconscious face again, expression unreadable.

  Michelle took a shaky step back from the couch, hands braced on her hips, trying to process everything. Mike sank onto the edge of the coffee table, beer dangling between his fingers, staring at the harness like it might start singing.

  For a moment, nobody spoke.

  Then—

  The pot on the stove hissed sharply.

  Then louder.

  Then the unmistakable sound of boil-over doom.

  “Michelle,” Eric said without looking, “didn’t you say something earlier about turning down the—”

  “Oh my GOD,” Michelle snapped, lunging back into the kitchen as white foam spilled over the pot’s rim onto the burner. “Of all the—Eric, I JUST cleaned this stove!”

  Mike snorted. “Full circle.”

  “Shut up, Mike!” both Eric and Michelle barked.

  Michelle turned down the flame and stirred furiously while muttering something about “eternal children” and “macaroni-based crimes.”

  Mike turned to Eric, who looked… hollow. Like the armor cutting had wrung more out of him than he meant to show.

  Mike took a sip of beer, watching him. “So… you really were, what? Some kind of superpowered teenage soldier in magical Narnia-land?”

  Eric didn’t answer.

  Mike frowned. “Man. Look at me.”

  Eric lifted his head slowly—just enough for Mike to see his eyes.

  Haunted wasn’t the word. Haunted at least meant something had left. Eric looked like the ghosts were still clawing their way toward the surface.

  A tear escaped before he could stop it.

  He wiped it away with the back of his hand, closed his eyes hard, and said—without humor, without deflection—

  “Believe it or not, stranger things have happened.”

  He tried to laugh.

  It died halfway out of his throat.

  Then he turned his head—

  And froze.

  Celeste was awake.

  Just staring at him.

  Eyes open.

  Focused entirely and utterly on Eric, and visibly angry.

  “Oh, hey—good morning sunshi—”

  Her fist snapped upward.

  The punch caught him clean on the cheek and sent him sprawling onto his ass with a grunt.

  It was weak—barely more than a tap compared to how she fought at full strength—but it was fast and full of intent.

  Eric hit the carpet and let out a long, tragic groan.

  “Nooooooo… my BEER—!”

  Because yes—his freshly opened beer was now rolling across the floor in a gentle arc of doom.

  Mike choked. Michelle froze mid-motion, spoon dripping cheese powder onto the burner.

  Celeste pushed herself upright on trembling elbows, breath heaving, every muscle shaking with exhaustion. She looked like she’d poured every remaining drop of energy into that punch.

  Eric sat up, rubbing his face. “What the HELL was that for?”

  Celeste’s voice came out in sharp, clipped Elvish—each word hitting like a thrown knife:

  “For being a traitor who pretended to die!”

  Eric shot back in the same language, equally outraged and equally exhausted:

  “YOU DON’T PUNCH SOMEONE WHO MAKES YOU DINNER!”

  To Mike and Michelle, it sounded like an angry elderly couple arguing over a broken toaster.

  Mike leaned toward Michelle. “Is this like… normal for them?”

  Michelle stared. “I don’t—know anything anymore.”

  Celeste turned, eyes narrowing, taking stock of the strangers in the room. Her gaze landed on Mike first, then Michelle—evaluating, cataloging, judging danger.

  Then she said, in perfectly formal, precise English:

  “I am reprimanding a traitor.”

  Michelle made a noise halfway between a gasp and a squeak.

  Mike blinked hard. “Wait—you speak English?!”

  Celeste tilted her chin, deadly calm. “Yes. He taught me.” She pointed accusingly at Eric.

  Eric winced at “traitor” a second time. That one hit deeper. He stood slowly, jaw tight, and walked toward the stove.

  “Michelle,” he said quietly, “ please move.”

  She stepped aside.

  He took the pot from her, finished preparing the plates in silence, then set one in front of Celeste.

  Celeste glared down at the food like it was plotting against her. Then she glared at Eric.

  “You believe this offering will delay the consequences of your betrayal?”

  Eric rubbed his face with both hands. “No. I’m saying if you don’t eat, you’re gonna die. That thing on your chest is draining you dry.”

  For the first time since waking, Celeste looked down.

  Her armor was gone.

  Her undershirt clung to her skin beneath the revealed harness, darkened by sweat. The ring of metal housing the two elemental shards pulsed softly, faint light reflecting off her ribs.

  She touched the edge of the strap with trembling fingers.

  “You… cut off my armor?” she asked in a voice that wavered between fury and confusion.

  Eric’s hands flew up instinctively. “I sensed something draining your mana—I panicked—I wasn’t going to let you collapse out there.”

  Celeste glared at him like she wanted to stay angry.

  Her stomach, however, betrayed her with a growl that could’ve registered on seismographs.

  Mike’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

  Celeste’s pupils dilated slightly. The food’s scent finally hit her. Her jaw clenched. Her lips pressed into a tight line.

  She lasted three seconds.

  Then she lunged forward and grabbed a fistful of macaroni and mashed potatoes like someone who hadn’t eaten in days—which, to be fair, she hadn’t.

  She stuffed it into her mouth with zero dignity.

  Mike let out a low whistle. “Damn, girl can eat.”

  He opened a fresh beer and placed it on the table in front of her. “Drink?”

  Celeste looked at the can. Looked back at the food. Then took the beer, nodded once with regal solemnity—and chugged the entire thing in one pull.

  Michelle’s jaw dropped.

  Eric froze. “Mike. Did… did you just give her a beer?”

  Mike shrugged. “She earned it.”

  “She has never had alcohol in her LIFE.”

  Celeste reached over, grabbed Mike’s beer out of his hand, inspected it, then drained that one too.

  She hiccuped.

  Once.

  Daintily.

  Then blinked very slowly, wobbling slightly.

  “Ohhhh, this is bad,” Eric muttered. “She’s drunk.”

  Mike raised an eyebrow. “After one beer?”

  “She’s exhausted, starving, and mana-depleted!” Eric hissed. “Alcohol hits harder when you’re—”

  Celeste suddenly swayed sideways, caught herself with a hand on the couch, then looked up at Eric with a mixture of anger, vulnerability, and—just a hint—confusion she didn’t want to admit.

  He knelt down beside her.

  “Celeste,” he said gently, “I need to know what’s going on. Why you’re here. Why you—” his voice cracked “—why you tried to kill me.”

  Celeste stared at the empty beer can in her hand, turning it slowly, tracing the letters like they were runes.

  “I came here,” she said softly, “on an expedition.”

  Michelle stepped closer, fully tense. “Expedition… for what?”

  Celeste continued, her tone formal and flat—reciting orders, not opinions.

  “To cross the threshold. To survey the region. To prepare for occupation.”

  Eric felt his chest tighten. Oxygen left the room.

  Michelle’s heart dropped into her stomach. “What… what are you preparing to occupy?”

  Celeste looked at her like the question was odd.

  Then she looked at Eric.

  His face had gone completely pale.

  Then back to Michelle.

  “To occupy your realm,” she said simply.

  “As in… your world.”