The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, amber shadows across the cobblestones of the royal district as the procession split.
The paladins and priests, draped in the heavy silver of their order, moved with a practiced, military cadence.
They were eager to report to the High Temple that their mission—a harrowing brush with the shadows of Yatan—had been completed without a hitch.
Isabel, however, did not follow the silver capes. She remained a step behind Arthur, her hand resting habitually on the shaft of her spear.
To any observer, she was the picture of a loyal guardian, but her mind was a swirl of curiosity and something she refused to name as affection.
"Sir Arthur," she said, her voice cutting through the rhythmic thud of their boots. "May I ask a question? Our path leads away from the barracks and the noble estates. Where exactly are we going?"
Arthur didn't turn immediately. He looked tired; the lines around his eyes seemed deeper in the twilight, a physical manifestation of the mana exhaustion he'd been fighting off.
He offered her a simple, lopsided smile—the kind of smile that didn't belong on a hero of his stature, yet fit him perfectly.
"We're going to an inn, Isabel," he replied. "Since I'm currently homeless, I'm going to talk to a friend. I need to ask him to let these children stay with him until I can afford a house of my own. A hero without a hearth—it's a bit pathetic, isn't it?"
Isabel nodded slowly, satisfied but internally noting his humility. "Practicality is never pathetic, Sir Arthur."
They continued their trek, a strange parade consisting of a adventurer swordsman, a cold-eyed Rebecca's Daughter, and nine children who huddled together like a flock of nervous sparrows.
After ten minutes of navigating the winding streets of the lower district, they arrived at a sprawling, two-story establishment that pulsed with the muffled roar of laughter and the clinking of tankards.
Ozuna's Inn.
The sign swung lazily in the breeze, bearing the crest of a silver coin—the mark of its owner, Airgid.
As the oak doors swung open, the atmosphere inside shifted instantly. The common room was a chaotic tapestry of mercenaries, laborers, and travelers, but the noise died down to a low hum as the newcomers entered.
It was a study in contrasts. The men in the room, mid-swig or mid-jest, froze. Their eyes locked onto Isabel.
Her beauty was of a lethal, celestial sort—white hair that seemed to capture the moonlight and eyes like chips of gold.
Then, the gaze of the women in the room shifted to Arthur. They didn't see a tired traveler; they saw the broad shoulders, the rugged jawline, and the quiet, simmering power that radiated from him. Their stares were heavy with unmistakable lust.
Arthur, used to being the center of a different kind of attention on the battlefield, simply paid them no mind. He walked toward the bar with a focused stride.
Isabel, however, was not so dismissive.
She felt the oily weight of the men's stares and the predatory hunger of the women looking at Arthur.
Her expression didn't just harden; it turned glacial. She swept a freezing glare across the common room, her hand tightening. To the women eyeing Arthur, she released a focused, razor-thin spike of killing intent.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. A mercenary at the front table suddenly choked on his ale, and a group of barmaids scrambled toward the kitchen, their faces pale.
"Airgid!" Arthur called out, oblivious to the psychic warfare Isabel was waging.
Behind the bar, a man the size of a bear turned around. Airgid's face was a map of scars and laugh lines, and at the sight of Arthur, his features transformed.
"Arthur!"
The large man vaulted over the counter with surprising agility. The two men collided in a firm, rib-cracking hug before breaking away to shake hands, their laughter booming over the now-silent room.
To the children, who had spent their lives fearing the shadows, the sight of such genuine, unadorned friendship was a revelation.
"Hahaha! Arthur, you bastard, I didn't expect you back so soon," Airgid roared, clapping a hand on Arthur's shoulder that would have floored a lesser man.
"Yeah, same here," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a more serious register. "I'll be forward with you, Airgid—I need help. If it's not too much trouble, can you let these children stay here for three weeks, maybe a month? Just until I find a permanent place for them."
Airgid's gaze drifted past Arthur. He saw the nine children—small, thin, and wide-eyed—hiding behind the skirts of the intimidating, white-haired woman. His rugged face softened.
"Sigh... Arthur, you can stay as long as you need. I'll help with the kids—not just because you'll need the hand, but because you saved my twin daughters' lives. I owe you a debt that a few rooms and some stew can't even begin to touch."
Internally, Airgid was already spinning a different web. He knew his daughters, Alfia and Meteria, both harbored feelings for the man standing before him that bordered on worship.
A month under the same roof? Airgid smiled inwardly. In his mind, there was no better man to join the family tree than the one who had literally pulled his children back from the brink of death.
"Thank you, Airgid," Arthur said, leaning against the bar as the children began to cheer and explore the nearby stools. "As much as I'd love to catch up and sink a few ales, I have to head out. Time is of the essence with the current state of the capital."
Airgid nodded, though a glint of mischief danced in his eyes. He wanted Arthur to see the girls before he vanished again, but he didn't have to wait long.
Before Arthur could take two steps toward the door, the air in the inn vibrated. A blur of white and pink motion exploded from the staircase.
"Arthur! I missed you so much! Did you miss me? Did you miss me!?"
Meteria hit him like a cannonball. She tackled him with a hug so fierce it forced Arthur back half a foot. She buried her face in his chest, her voice a mix of a sob and a squeal of pure joy.
"Sister... let go of him. You're making him uncomfortable," a cooler, more composed voice followed.
Alfia walked down the stairs with a regal grace that seemed out of place in a common inn. While Meteria was the storm, Alfia was the deep, quiet ocean.
Arthur laughed awkwardly, his hands hovering for a moment before he gently returned Meteria's hug. "It's good to see you both. I hope you've been doing well. No more coughing? No more fevers?"
Meteria pulled back, her face beaming with a radiance that rivaled the sun. "None! We feel... amazing! Like we could fly!"
Alfia gave a composed, respectful nod, though her eyes betrayed a hidden heat. "We are doing fine, Arthur. Thanks to you curing our sickness, we can move freely without constraint. But more than that... the mana you stabilized within us has evolved. I can do this now."
The atmosphere in the inn changed. The rowdy patrons felt a sudden, heavy pressure on their chests. Mana began to spike around Alfia in rhythmic, light-blue pulses.
With a sharp exhale, the energy condensed. Behind her, a perfect replica of herself manifested. It wasn't an illusion; it was a shimmering, semi-transparent entity of pure light-blue energy that mimicked her every movement with a slight delay.
Arthur gasped. This wasn't just a high-level illusion spell. It was a feat of spiritual manifestation—a secondary consciousness capable of independent thought and combat.
"Impressive, Alfia," Arthur whispered, truly stunned. "To achieve a split-ego manifestation at your age..."
"Wait! Wait! Don't look at her yet!" Meteria interjected, her cheeks puffing out in a classic pout. "If she's going to show off, then I'm going all out!"
Isabel stepped back, her hand moving to her spear. She felt a shift in the local ley lines that signaled something far more dangerous than a simple clone.
Meteria began an incantation. Her voice, usually high and bubbly, dropped into a haunting, melodic chant in a language that sounded like cracking ice.
A massive, intricate magic circle erupted on the floor of the inn, glowing with a blinding white light. A localized blizzard suddenly whipped through the common room, snuffing out the hearth fires and frosting the windows. From the center of the frost, a figure emerged.
She was tall, draped in robes of woven starlight and crystalline silk. Her hair cascaded like a shimmering glacier down her back, and her skin had the pale, translucent quality of deep-sea ice. This was no mere familiar. This was a primordial force of nature.
The spirit, Tundra, opened eyes that held the depth of the arctic night. She looked around the mundane wooden inn with a mixture of confusion and regal boredom. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded like melodic crystal shattering.
"Child," the spirit said, looking down at Meteria. "For what reason have you summoned the Ruler of Winter to this physical plane? Is there a kingdom to be frozen? A god to be defied?"
The room fell into a trance. The mercenaries, the barmaids, and even the children were nearly charmed into a stupor by the spirit's ethereal, terrifying beauty.
Only Arthur, Isabel, Alfia, and Airgid—the latter through sheer stubbornness—managed to keep their wits.
Meteria puffed out her chest, standing as tall as her petite frame allowed. She pointed a finger dramatically at Arthur.
"I, Meteria, your contractor, summoned you here... to impress Arthur!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
The blizzard stopped mid-swirl. The glowing magic circles dimmed.
Alfia closed her eyes and shook her head in sheer, unadulterated disappointment.
Isabel looked on in genuine disbelief; she had seen legends written in Vatican about Tundra, a spirit capable of freezing entire cities, and here she was, being used as a "look at me" prop.
Arthur stood gobsmacked. His brain struggled to process the mana-to-motive ratio. 'What an absurd reason!' he thought, his eye twitching. 'She just summoned a spirit capable of erasing the First Servant of Yatan... just to get my attention?'
Airgid was the only one who broke the silence, letting out a deep, rumbling chuckle at his daughter's audacity.
Even Tundra, the embodiment of the eternal cold, seemed taken aback. She looked at Arthur—really looked at him—and then back to the blushing Meteria. Then, a sound like wind whistling through a canyon echoed through the room.
"Hahaha..." Tundra let out a soft, echoing laugh. "I, the Ruler of the Frost, was summoned just to impress a man you like? Hahaha... oh, child. You truly are a bold little spark."
Arthur let out a long, defeated sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked at the ruler of ice, the clone of his friend, and the nine children who were now trying to poke the shimmering spirit.
"This," Arthur muttered, "is going to take a very long while."