Lyan stood in the corridor like he belonged there.
Not like a trainee lingering after curfew, not like a boy who'd been caught doing something wrong—more like a door that had decided to be locked.
Lantern light washed over him in soft gold. One side of his face was warm, the other cut into shadow. His posture was relaxed, almost courteous, and that made the threat worse. He didn't need to look angry to be dangerous.
My knuckles pulsed. The skin was still tender from yesterday, and the memory of my fist connecting with Arlo's face was fresh enough to make my stomach twist.
My fingers twitched anyway.
Then I forced them open.
Not because I was brave—because I'd been taught, just hours ago, that my body would betray me if I let it.
So I breathed.
Slow.
Measured.
And kept my hands where I could see them.
Lyan's gaze flicked to my bruised knuckles and back up to my face. His mouth curved slightly, like he found my effort amusing.
"I heard you punched Arlo," he said softly.
The words felt like cold water poured down my spine.
He tilted his head, studying me as if I were a tool he'd just found on the ground.
"Good," he added.
My throat tightened. I tried to step around him.
Left.
Lyan shifted—same pace, same angle—blocking the path without ever touching me.
"Move," I said, keeping my voice flat.
"You're in a hurry," he replied, polite as a receptionist and just as empty. "After all that drama."
He leaned in just enough for his breath to brush my ear.
"Blood on his mouth. A girl crying. People love a story," Lyan murmured. "And you gave them one."
Heat crawled up my neck. My jaw clenched.
I didn't speak. I didn't bite.
Lyan watched my face the way hunters watched prey—waiting for the moment it forgot itself.
"You know," he continued conversationally, "a rumor can be shaped. It can be a mistake. One moment of exhaustion."
His eyes sharpened.
"Or it can become a pattern," he said. "The violent kid. The unstable kid. The one Sir Erdallion shouldn't waste time on."
My heart thudded hard.
He wanted fear.
He wanted me to move first.
I swallowed, and instead of giving him any emotion, I gave him a question.
"What do you want?"
For the first time, his smile faltered—only a little, only for a heartbeat—like he hadn't expected me to ask it so cleanly.
Then it returned, smoother.
"My father returns home tomorrow," Lyan said.
The words were casual, like he was discussing weather.
"My older brother too," he added, and something in the way he said it carried weight. Pride. Awe. The kind of name you said with respect even if you didn't want to.
"They're… extremely strong," Lyan said, as if strength were an inheritance like land.
He took a small step back, giving me a false sense of space.
"I want you to come to our estate," he said.
My stomach dropped. "No."
Lyan didn't react to my refusal. His eyes remained calm, almost bored.
"There will be a welcoming gathering," he said. "My father enjoys seeing how his son has grown. My brother enjoys seeing it even more."
He smiled.
"You'll be my duel opponent," he said. "A sparring match. In front of them. You understand."
I did.
The words translated themselves in my head without permission.
Punching bag.
A demonstration.
Something to be struck so Lyan could look impressive.
My chest tightened.
"No," I repeated, sharper.
Lyan's gaze hardened slightly. "It's just a spar."
"I said no," I snapped, then forced myself to exhale so my voice didn't turn into a shout. "You can tell everyone whatever you want about me. I don't care."
It was partly a lie.
But I meant it enough to say it.
Lyan stared for a long moment.
Then he sighed—soft, annoyed, like I'd become inconvenient.
"Fine," he said, and the word sounded like he was dismissing a servant, not negotiating with a person.
He started to turn away.
And then he stopped.
His head angled back toward me.
"Austere," he said.
My blood went cold.
The name didn't sound like a last name in his mouth. It sounded like a key he'd found and intended to use.
"You don't get to refuse everything," he said quietly. "Not when you're so desperate for answers."
My breath hitched.
I forced myself not to move.
Not to step closer.
Not to grab him.
Not to beg.
"About what?" I asked, even though I already knew.
Lyan's smile returned, slower and sharper.
"Your sister," he said.
The air seemed to thicken around my ribs.
For a heartbeat, my breathing stuttered—too fast, too shallow—panic rising like a hand on my throat.
Then I remembered the drill.
In.
Hold.
Out.
I steadied myself, and when I spoke again, my voice was thinner but controlled.
"What do you know?"
Lyan's eyes gleamed faintly at that—like he'd just found the crack he wanted.
Not because I'd shouted.
Because I'd asked.
He leaned closer.
"I saw a message," he said. "From my brother's long-range device. A report."
My heart pounded.
He gave me exactly one line, and nothing more.
"Floor 43 isn't the real end of that expedition," Lyan whispered.
The words hit like a hammer.
The Abyss.
Myrina's last known floor.
The place people spoke about as if it were a grave marker.
Not the real end.
My stomach twisted, and for a second I saw Finn's empty seat again, saw Marcen Halwick's empty gaze, saw Myrina's back disappearing into darkness.
Lyan watched every flicker on my face.
He didn't need to say I've got you.
It was written in the way he waited.
Then he straightened, satisfied.
"Tomorrow," he said. "You come to the Vonel estate. Alone. You don't tell anyone about this conversation."
He spoke it like an order.
"And in exchange," he continued, "maybe I'll tell you what else I saw."
My nails dug into my palms.
Every part of me wanted to spit in his face.
Every part of me wanted to run to Ash, to Miss Nanda, to anyone and ask what to do.
But Myrina's name sat inside my chest like a hook.
And Lyan had yanked it.
I swallowed hard.
"Fine," I said.
Lyan's smile widened slightly.
I lifted my head, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
"But I'm not going there to be used," I said.
Lyan's brow lifted.
I kept my voice steady, even as my heart pounded like it wanted to escape.
"If I'm going," I said, "I'll fight you properly. I'll do anything for Myrina."
For a heartbeat, Lyan looked genuinely surprised.
Then he laughed.
Not loud.
Not joyful.
A soft, contemptuous sound, like an armored knight watching a worm wriggle and decide it could bite steel.
"Even better," he said. "Try."
His amusement sharpened, turning into something pleased.
Because if I fought back, he could beat me harder.
And call it a lesson.
Footsteps approached from the side corridor—measured, familiar.
Lyan's expression smoothed instantly. He stepped back, posture turning harmless in the way practiced liars did.
Ash appeared at the edge of lantern light, bandages bright against the dark.
He glanced between us, eyes curious.
Lyan leaned in close one last time, voice soft enough that only I could hear.
"Don't make me wait, worm."
Then he walked away like he owned the corridor.
Ash watched him go, then looked back at me with a faint grin.
"Well," he said, tone light, "looks like you made a good friend. He looked fancy."
My throat tightened.
I couldn't explain. Not without breaking the condition. Not without dragging someone else into it.
"I'm going to rest," I said quickly.
Ash nodded, accepting it without pushing.
"Rest well, Trey," he said.
I turned and walked away before my face could betray how hard my mind was shaking.
***
Sleep didn't come gently.
It came in pieces.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lyan's smile.
Every time my chest tightened, I heard that one line again:
Floor 43 isn't the real end.
And somewhere under it all, I felt the weight of tomorrow waiting.
At some point, exhaustion finally dragged me down.
***
Morning light woke me.
Not the warm comfort of sunrise—more like a spotlight forcing my eyes open.
For a moment I lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself last night had been a dream.
It wasn't.
My knuckles still ached.
My legs still felt heavy.
And the word estate still sat in my stomach like a stone.
I sat up slowly and forced myself to breathe.
In.
Hold.
Out.
I didn't chase the fear. I didn't feed it.
I let it exist and tried to keep my body from obeying it.
Today wasn't a class day. The guild wouldn't be gathering trainees into neat rows. Miss Nanda wouldn't be there to cut through chaos with her voice.
That meant no structure.
No safe routine.
Just choices.
I stood and dressed carefully, like I was putting on armor even though it was just cloth. I tightened my laces. Checked my emblem twice. Flexed my fingers until the stiffness eased a little.
Then I stared at my reflection for a moment.
Ten years old.
Too small.
Too weak.
Yet about to step into a noble estate like a lamb walking into a pen.
My stomach turned.
I remembered Ash's drill again—how my hands had tried to clench, how breathing had held them open.
I swallowed.
I'll do anything for Myrina.
The thought steadied me more than fear ever could.
I left my room and headed downstairs.
***
The guild lobby was already busy.
Not as frantic as quest rush hours, but busy enough—adventurers coming and going, people arguing at counters, papers moving like a river.
I scanned the room immediately.
Vira wasn't there.
Nerissa was still gone with Sir Erdallion.
And at the counter with no line—of course—the mysterious receptionist sat with her glasses, head down, writing like the world would end if she paused.
I almost went to her.
Almost.
But something in me hesitated—an instinct that said don't put yourself under that gaze today.
Not when I already felt fragile.
So I turned away.
Two other receptionist counters were open side by side, both staffed and both with lines. Adventurers queued with different kinds of impatience:
Some with stamped quest sheets to submit.
Some with bandaged arms and hopeful eyes, ready to claim rewards.
Some holding new forms, registering for the first time.
Some who didn't look like any of those—quiet, still, watching more than waiting.
I scanned the lines quickly.
The left line was shorter.
I moved fast.
Too fast.
My shoulder clipped someone—hard.
My foot caught on the edge of their boot.
The world lurched.
And I hit the floor with a thud that rattled my teeth.
For a heartbeat, the guild didn't even react. Life continued like I'd been a chair falling over, not a kid collapsing.
Then a few heads turned. A few people stared at me like I was dumb.
Heat rushed into my face so fast it burned.
"I'm sorry!" I blurted, panic pushing me to the ground. I bowed so low my forehead nearly touched the floorboards. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
A voice answered, cold but soft.
"It's fine."
I froze.
That voice wasn't a receptionist's.
It wasn't an adventurer's casual growl.
It sounded… composed. Controlled. Like it didn't waste emotion on accidents.
I lifted my head.
And my breath caught.
A woman stood in front of me, tall and still, and the first thing my mind noticed wasn't her face.
It was the fact that when I hit her—hard enough to send myself flying—she hadn't even shifted her weight.
Not a wobble.
Not a step back.
As if I'd bumped into a stone statue.
Then my eyes traveled upward and everything else followed.
Long white hair spilled down her back like silver cloth. Her crimson eyes caught the lobby's light and held it, sharp and bright like polished gems. Her armor looked expensive—clean lines, reinforced plates, the kind of equipment that didn't just protect, but announced status.
She wasn't smiling.
She wasn't frowning.
Her expression stayed calm and distant, like she was watching the world from behind glass.
For a second, I forgot how to speak.
Then the silence became awkward, and she tilted her head slightly as if assessing whether I was injured or simply stunned.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yes—yes," I stammered, scrambling to my feet. My legs wobbled from embarrassment more than soreness. "I'm okay. I'm sorry."
Her gaze flicked briefly to the receptionist lines, then back to me.
I swallowed and gestured toward the line as if that could fix what I'd done.
"D-do you want to… line up?" I asked. "You can take my place."
She shook her head once.
"No," she said.
Then she lifted her chin slightly and pointed—not at the lines.
At the empty counter.
At the mysterious receptionist.
"I have business with Evelyn," she said.
The name landed.
So the mysterious receptionist wasn't just "the rude one."
She had a name.
And this knight said it like she expected Evelyn to matter.
I nodded quickly, still flushing. "I understand."
I stepped out of her path and bowed again. "Sorry."
She didn't respond. She simply moved toward Evelyn's counter with that same quiet certainty—boots clicking softly, posture perfect, as if the crowd parted for her without her asking.
And the crowd… did.
Eyes followed her.
Not just mine.
Everywhere I looked, adventurers were glancing, staring, pretending not to stare.
All of us wondering the same thing:
Who is she?
I exhaled shakily and turned back toward the line.
I slipped in behind the last adventurer on the left counter, trying to shrink into invisibility.
But my attention kept drifting—pulled like a magnet toward Evelyn's counter.
The knight reached it. Evelyn finally looked up, expression unchanged.
I couldn't hear everything over the lobby noise.
But I caught pieces.
A flat voice—Evelyn's—saying something about timing.
And then, clear enough to slice through the murmur:
"…Lord Vonel…"
My stomach dropped.
Vonel.
The same name that had trapped me last night.
My hands went cold.
I stared at Evelyn's counter—at the knight standing there, at the avoided desk that suddenly didn't look avoided anymore.
And the thought struck me with sudden clarity:
I wasn't just walking into a sparring match.
I was walking into a world where names were weapons—
and the Vonel name had already started moving before I even knew how to get to their gates.