They bowed and moved at once, joining the Maverick wardens without hesitation.
Mabel watched, her expression were unreadable.
Ban knew what she was thinking.
He is organizing my city like it belongs to him.
And she was not wrong.
He took a slow step forward, then paused—his gaze landing on her torn sleeve and the bruise beneath it.
"You are injured," he said.
Mabel's eyes sharpened further. "I am alive."
"That was not my question."
"I do not need your concern," she snapped.
Ban's tone stayed gentle. "It is not concern. It is practicality."
He reached into a pouch at his belt.
The movement was small, but it drew immediate attention from the Maverick wardens. Their hands immediately shifted toward their weapons. Though they were exhausted.....it does not affect their natural born instinct.
Mabel did not draw her blade, but her posture changed—she was ready, wary, prepared.
Ban withdrew two slim vials of glass sealed with black wax, the Skull Family's crest was pressed into the seal like a stamp of ownership. Inside the vials shimmered pale gold liquid threaded with faint light.
They were Healing potions.
Not cheap tinctures. Not the diluted mixtures street healers used. These were refined, concentrated vials—the kind reserved for noble blood and battlefield emergencies. The kind that could knit torn flesh, reduce internal bleeding, and force battered organs back into function.
The kind that were worth more than some people earned in a year.
Ban held them out to Mabel, offering them as if the gesture were simple.
"Take these," he said. "Use them."
Mabel stared at the vials without moving.
Her suspicion surfaced instantly, sharp and justified. "Why?"
Ban's expression did not change. "Because you lead Dravenloch's defense. If you collapse, your city collapses further."
Mabel's voice turned low. "So you want my city to survive."
Ban smiled faintly. "I want it stable. There is a difference."
Mabel's jaw tightened.
She knew potions like these were precious even to great families. And the Maverick Family, despite its name, was under strain. Wormholes had cost them supplies, healers, resources, and trade. Their treasury was not endless.
Even in the Maverick vaults, high-grade healing potions were rare.
Not up to ten, if her last count was accurate.
The fact that Ban carried two on his person—and offered them—was not kindness.
It was strategy.
It was a hook hidden under silk.
But still Mabel reached out slowly and took the vials. She did not tuck them away immediately. She held them in her palm, eyes fixed on the Skull seal as if she could stare through it and see the truth inside.
"I do not trust you," she said quietly.
Ban's voice was soft. "You do not have to trust me to heal."
Mabel's grip tightened on the vials. "If these are tampered with—"
"They will heal you," Ban cut in smoothly, his voice was not just polite but final. "Use them as you wish. Or do not. But do not bleed out in front of me out of stubborn pride."
That stung. Because it was true.
Mabel forced her breathing steady. Around them, the city continued to groan and move: survivors being carried toward safety, rubble being cleared, distant shouting as the wardens coordinated the patrols.
Mabel lifted her eyes to Ban. "We are not finished with this conversation."
Ban inclined his head as if he welcomed it. "No. We are not."
For a moment, the rivalry between them felt almost louder than the city's ruin. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was old and personal, sharpened by family history and mutual contempt.
Ban stepped slightly to the side, looking past her toward the inner ring.
"Show me where it opened," he said. "I want to see the epicenter....the pattern of collapse and also the residue."
Mabel hesitated.
Not because she could refuse him, but because part of her hated the idea of bringing him closer to Dravenloch's heart. She hated giving him knowledge. Hated letting him see the city's vulnerable veins.
But the truth was unavoidable: Dravenloch had survived by a thread, and if another wormhole opened, they needed every capable fighter and every sharp mind they could get.
Even if that mind belonged to Ban Skull.
"Follow," she said at last.
She turned and started walking, and Ban fell into step beside her. His Hell-forged wardens followed like a closing door.
As they moved deeper into the city, Ban's eyes stayed calm, but his attention sharpened. He took in everything: the cracks in the streets, the scorch marks on walls, the way certain stones had melted and reformed as if touched by impossible heat.
He listened to the wardens' quiet reports. He watched how the civilians avoided certain alleys, as if they believed monsters still hid there.
And all the while, Mabel's hand stayed tight around the vials.
She did not put them away because she did not want to forget they existed.
She did not want to forget what they represented.
A gift from a rival.
A resource too valuable to be given freely.
And inside those shimmering potions—unknown to her—something else waited.
Not enough to kill her quickly. Not something crude or obvious.
Something subtle.
Something meant to open a door later.
Ban glanced at her from the corner of his eye. His voice remained mild, almost conversational.
"You look like you have not slept."
Mabel's stare did not soften. "I will sleep when the city is safe."
Ban's smile returned faintly. "Then you may never sleep."
Mabel's gaze sharpened. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"
"It is an observation," Ban said.
They reached a wide plaza where the damage was worst. Half the stonework had collapsed inward. A section of a nearby building had caved, leaving exposed beams and shattered walls. A blackened ring stained the ground where the air had once torn open.
This was the scar.
This was where the wormhole had lived.
Mabel stopped at the edge of the ruined circle. Her voice lowered, tight with memory. "It opened here. Without warning. The wards screamed too late."
Ban stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he studied the residue in the air and the unnatural pattern etched into the stone.
He looked pleased.
Not openly.
But there was a quiet satisfaction in the way he examined the damage, as though Dravenloch's suffering confirmed something he already believed.
Mabel noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Her voice turned sharper. "What?"
Ban straightened slowly. "Nothing."
Mabel's hand tightened around the vials again. "Your 'nothing' usually means you found something."
Ban's gaze settled on her, calm as ever. "You are perceptive. That is one of your better traits."
Mabel's eyes flashed. "And you are insufferable."
Ban's smile widened slightly. "That is one of mine."
The tension between them rose again—quiet, dangerous, held back only by the fact that the city was still bleeding.
Ban turned his attention back to the scar in the plaza. "We will stabilize this area," he said. "Your people will rebuild. My people will patrol the edges. If another tear forms, we will know."
Mabel's voice was cold. "And if your people 'arrive late' again?"
Ban looked at her for a long moment, then leaned slightly closer, just enough that his voice dropped.
"Then you should assume it was not an accident," he said.
Mabel stiffened.
Ban stepped back, expression returning to polite calm, as if he had said nothing at all.
Around them, Dravenloch continued to struggle toward survival.
And in Mabel's hand, two small vials glittered softly—promising healing, hiding something else, and binding her to a Skull Family kindness she did not want.
Ban had come as an ally on the surface.
But beneath the surface, his true plans were already unfolding—quietly, carefully, and with the patience of someone who knew exactly how long it took a city to fall.