Sanè said it aloud. "That's why we survived last time."
Number 12 nodded. "Yes. And because that Hellforged expert wasn't truly trying to kill you and 111."
Number 200's head tilted. "Then what's the purpose of them trying to stop us?"
Number 12's voice softened slightly. "That's not for us to wonder. Sometimes a warning is the real weapon."
She paused, then added, "That's also why I didn't try too hard when I faced Mabel Maverick."
Sanè's eyes narrowed. "You held back?"
Number 12 didn't answer directly. "You don't show your full blade unless you have no choice."
Ahead, the road curved.
And beyond the curve, a town appeared—a small, quiet, and strangely named town.
A wooden sign stood at the entrance, carved with simple letters: "HER GRAVE"
Number 200 stared at it for a long moment, then said in her usual dry tone, "What kind of name is this. Her Grave?
No one replied.
They just walked in.
Her Grave was the kind of town built for people passing through, not people staying.
The streets were narrow. The buildings leaned slightly as if it was tired. Lanterns hung from posts, casting warm light that didn't quite chase away the town's gloom.
The air smelled of roasted meat, damp wood, and of old smoke.
The group kept their hoods up as they walked. Even so, the masks drew eyes.
A masked group was not common here. Not unless they were mercenaries or they were trouble.
They found an inn near the center of town.
It was simply called The Hollow Heart.
Inside, the warmth hit them first—heat from a large hearth and the hum of low conversation.
People sat at wooden tables with mugs of ale and bowls of stew. A few looked up when the masked ones entered. Some quickly looked away while others kept staring.
The group chose a table slightly to the side.
They sat down without speaking.
A blonde waitress approached soon after. She was young, with quick eyes and a practiced smile that didn't reach them. She did not ask why they wore masks. She did not ask their names.
"Food and drink?" she asked.
Number 111 ordered first, simple. "Stew, bread and water."
Others ordered the same. Safe choices.
The waitress nodded and left.
When the food arrived, the group revealed another detail of their masks.
There was a small click near the jawline. A hidden latch.
With a careful motion, each of them loosened the lower segment so their mouths could eat and drink, while their faces remained mostly concealed. The upper mask stayed fixed. Their eyes stayed hidden.
To anyone watching, it was unsettling—like seeing a creature open part of its face while keeping the rest secret.
They ate quietly.
Around them, conversations continued.
And because people in inns loved rumors more than truth, the talk drifted quickly toward Dravenloch.
"I heard the wormhole didn't open on its own," a man said from a nearby table. "Someone opened it."
Another scoffed. "Nonsense. Dravenloch is cursed. Always has been. Wormholes open because the city is rotten."
A third voice joined, thick with wine. "You don't know anything. Maybe the Maverick family angered the High Council."
Someone laughed. Someone spat.
Then a different man leaned in, lowering his voice like it made him wise.
"The Skull Family went there to help, didn't they? You think they did that out of kindness?" he said. "Skull blood doesn't move without a reason."
A woman across from him rolled her eyes. "Maybe they were just helping."
The man took a mouthful of wine and wiped his beard. "Skull? Helping? That's funny."
The group listened silently.
Sanè didn't like how easy it was for strangers to speak about cities they hadn't bled in.
But that was the world.
Then the blonde waitress returned.
This time, she did not come with food.
She walked straight to Number 12 and placed a folded letter on the table, as if it was part of the meal. She did not explain. She did not hesitate.
Then she turned and walked away.
Number 12 stared at the letter for a moment, then picked it up.
She opened it. Read it.
And immediately her posture changed.
Not dramatically—just enough for the others to notice.
When she finished, she folded it again, held it over the candle on the table, and set it alight.
The paper curled and blackened.
Ash fell into the candle's dish.
Sanè's voice was low. "What is it?"
Number 12 looked at Sanè. "A summons."
Number 111 leaned forward. "From who?"
Number 12 didn't answer. Instead she said, "I'm leaving."
Sanè stiffened. "Now?"
"Yes," Number 12 replied.
She stood and looked at the group. "Four of you come with me."
Four masked ones—those who had been quieter, less numbered in the group's usual talk—rose immediately.
Number 12 turned back to Sanè, then to 111, 123, and 200.
"You four stay," she ordered. "Lay low. Don't start fights...don't reveal anything. Just watch and learn."
Sanè' said almost monotonous. "And if something happens?"
Number 12's tone was calm. "Nothing will happen if you stay smart."
She placed coins on the table—enough for rooms.
Then, without another word, she left the inn.
Four masked ones followed.
Sanè watched the door for a long time after they were gone.
The inn grew louder as the night deepened.
People drank. People argued. A few sang badly. Dice clicked on tabletops. The fire cracked and threw shadows across the walls.
Sanè, 111, 123, and 200 stayed at their table, doing exactly what they were told.
They laid low.
They watched.
For them, it felt like watching a different world. In Dravenloch, they had to toil....they didn't have the chance to enjoy stuffs like this....cause every street had carried fear. In the road beyond it, every shadow had felt like danger.
But here, in Her Grave, people laughed while holding mugs. People flirted. People complained about weather and taxes like the sky had never torn open anywhere.
Number 123 whispered, almost stunned, "Do people always live like this?"
Number 111's voice was bitter. "People pretend."
Sanè didn't speak. He just watched.
The way the bartender wiped a glass like it was a ritual. The way travelers leaned in close to share secrets. The way locals stared at the masked group and then looked away too quickly.
It was strange, seeing normal life up close. It felt fragile.
Number 200 sat upright, still and alert, scanning the room like a statue made for war.
Hours passed.
Then the inn's door opened again.
Cold air slipped in.
And with it came a new presence.
A group of four stepped inside—two men and two women.
They caught the room's attention instantly, not because they were loud, but because they carried themselves like they belonged somewhere more expensive than Her Grave.
The two women were strikingly beautiful. Not the soft beauty of ordinary life, but the kind that looked crafted—sharp cheekbones, confident eyes, and the calm expression of people who knew exactly how much power their faces gave them.
The men with them were well-built, armed, and quiet. Their eyes scanned the room the way trained fighters did, measuring exits and threats.
The group ignored everyone's stares.
They walked deeper into the inn and sat at a table not far from Sanè's group.
Close enough to feel.
Number 200's spine stiffened.
Number 111's hand moved slightly under the table, ready.
Number 123 swallowed.
Sanè' didn't move at all, but their attention sharpened like a blade being drawn.
The new group didn't order immediately. They spoke quietly among themselves. The blonde waitress approached them with the same careful smile, but her shoulders were stiffer now.
Sanè watched the waitress carefully.
Because something about her earlier delivery to Number 12 felt like a hidden system.
And hidden systems were never harmless.