Ragnar trailed Aria through the narrow hallway toward the back of the house, the floorboards creaking under his boots like accusations.
The laughter from the kitchen earlier still echoed in his ears—bright, purposeful, the sound of people who actually gave a damn about finding the demon rift.
Meanwhile, he'd been tangled in sheets with Mia, chasing heat instead of purpose. The guilt sat heavy in his chest, a stone he couldn't swallow.
'I have to stop this,' he thought, jaw tightening.
'No more running. No more excuses. I'll listen. Really listen. Be there when they need me, not just when it's convenient.'
They reached the back room. The door stood half-open, spilling warm lamplight and soft voices into the dim corridor.
Inside, the girls clustered around the scarred wooden table—Sarah, the others—grinning like they'd won something precious.
Bella sat in the center, arms crossed, her mouth a thin line of conflict, eyes darting between them.
Ragnar stepped in. "What's going on?"
Heads turned. Sarah's smile widened, slow and knowing. "We were just asking Bella who her mysterious friend is."
Relief washed through him, sharp and sudden. 'Finally. She told them.'
He kept his face neutral, but inside the knot in his gut loosened a fraction.
They still had to track down that damned fang, deliver it, settle the blood debt hanging over them all. One less secret meant one less weight.
He met Bella's gaze for a beat. "Sorry," he said quietly. "It's… it's really important to them. Life-or-death important."
Bella exhaled through her nose, shoulders dropping a little. "It's fine. My problem's with her, not you lot."
He almost smiled—almost—but caught it, pressing his lips together instead.
He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat, elbows on the table, forcing himself to hold her eyes.
"What's her name? And does she really know the demon rift's location?"
He paused, softening his tone. "I'm not doubting you. I just need to be sure."
Bella leaned back, fingers drumming once against the wood. "She's the only person on this continent obsessed enough to map every monster colony, every rift scar."
"If anyone has it pinned down, it's her."
"Her name?"
She glanced sideways, toward the shadowed corner of the room, then let out a short, angry breath. "Lucy. And she's an archmage."
The way Bella's face hardened at the name—jaw clenched, eyes narrowing—made it clear. Sworn enemies, the kind who'd rather see each other burn than share air.
Ragnar's stomach twisted. 'Great. Unpredictable and hostile.'
He rubbed a thumb along the edge of the table, buying a second. "You sure she'll help us? Even with… whatever's between you two?"
"She said she would." Bella's voice was flat, but steady. "That's all I can give you."
He nodded slowly. "What does she want in exchange?"
Bella's lips curved, not quite a smile—more like a warning. "That woman's strange. Unpredictable as a storm."
"Could be a smooth river stone one day, the heart of a duke-level demon the next. You'll never know until you're standing in front of her."
Ragnar swallowed. Hard. 'Of course. Because nothing's ever simple.'
The fear flickered low in his gut—no pattern to read, no logic to lean on. He hated that most of all.
He forced his voice even. "One last thing."
Bella shifted, settling more comfortably into the chair, the tension in her shoulders easing like she'd finally shed part of the load. "Shoot."
"How strong is she?" He leaned forward slightly. "Would she be a threat to us?"
The room went still. The air felt colder, thicker.
Ragnar's pulse hammered against his ribs; he could hear it in his ears.
Bella stared at the table for a long moment. Then she sighed. "She's not bad. Not evil… most of the time."
"As long as we don't poke her, she's chill."
"But?"
"But she's way stronger than me."
The words landed like a fist. Bella was demi-god tier.
Way stronger meant tiers beyond—levels Ragnar couldn't even picture without his chest tightening.
He exhaled slowly. "Thanks for your time, Bella."
She nodded once.
He pushed back from the table and stood. His legs felt heavier as he climbed the stairs, each step dragging like wet sand.
The hallway light flickered overhead, throwing long shadows.
Aria had watched every shift on his face downstairs—the flicker of hope, the slow drain of color when Bella answered that last question.
Now she followed quietly behind.
At his door she knocked softly. He opened it, meeting her eyes.
She didn't say anything; she didn't have to. The overthinking was written all over him—tight jaw, distant stare.
She stepped inside, took his hand, and tugged him toward the bed.
They sank onto the mattress together. Her fingers laced through his.
Ragnar turned his face into her hair, breathing in the quiet scent of her—lavender and warm skin and something steady that felt like home.
Her body pressed close, soft and warm against his, grounding him.
The storm in his head quieted, breath by breath.
His eyelids grew heavy. For the first time in hours, the weight on his chest felt bearable.
He slept.