The Recipe
The Dungeon's exit spat them back into midday heat.
Stone gave way to open air so abruptly that Elara's lungs stalled for half a breath. Cool, mineral-heavy dampness was replaced by dry Orario summer, the sun hanging directly overhead—white, merciless, pressing straight down on the plaza outside Babel. Sweat prickled beneath her armor almost instantly, the familiar shock of transition rippling through her muscles.
She adjusted the strap of her pouch, feeling the weight of spring-water vials knock softly against one another, bundles of gathered material shifting against her hip. Intact. Nothing cracked. Good.
Around them, adventurers spilled out in loose clusters. Some loud, laughing too hard, already recounting close calls that hadn't been close enough. Others moved with limps they hadn't earned yet, eyes distant, steps heavy. The usual midday churn—repair vendors calling out prices, runners weaving between groups, a god's laughter ringing out somewhere too bright, too careless for the place it echoed from.
Elara's gaze lifted despite herself.
Babel Tower rose above it all, white stone gleaming, impossibly tall. From here, the upper floors vanished into glare—where gods held court, where Familias with names and histories occupied clean halls far removed from Dungeon rot and blood.
Far above the margins.
She looked away.
"Hey."
Raska's voice cut in from her side.
Elara turned. The werewolf watched her with ears flicked forward, tail swaying lazily behind her. Sweat darkened the fur at her collar, but her grin was easy, unbothered.
"You've been quiet since we left the Dungeon," Raska said. "You look worried."
"No," Elara replied. "Nothing."
Raska held her gaze a moment longer, searching for something Elara wasn't offering. Then she shrugged, stretching her shoulders with a lazy roll of muscle.
"Alright. Suit yourself." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "This is where we part ways. Good luck with Naaza." Her grin sharpened. "Don't let her cheat you."
"I won't."
"Yeah, you will," Raska laughed, already turning away. "See you around, Elara."
She disappeared into the crowd, tail vanishing last.
Elara remained where she was for a moment, letting the noise flow around her, then turned toward home.
---
The walk back was familiar enough that she barely had to think about it.
Stone streets smoothed by decades of traffic. Afternoon crowds thinning as she moved farther from Babel's shadow. The smell of street food faded, replaced by dust and sun-baked brick. Her boots scuffed quietly against cobblestones worn into shallow dips, each step releasing stored heat.
The Dungeon's dampness clung stubbornly to her clothes, evaporating slowly beneath the sun. Sweat cooled at the base of her neck. She ignored it.
Voices blurred around her—merchant haggling, adventurers laughing too loudly, children darting past with wooden swords raised high. Orario's restless rhythm, constant and indifferent.
Her route took her past the Guild.
She slowed.
Just slightly.
The wide double doors stood open, adventurers flowing in and out in steady rotation. Through the windows, clerks bent over desks, heads close together, quills moving without pause. Reports being filed. Injuries logged. Names entered and crossed out.
Eina would be in there.
The reception hall on the main floor, likely at her usual counter near the central staircase.
Elara's hand tightened on her pouch strap, knuckles whitening briefly.
Should I report that boy?
The image surfaced without invitation.
That boy on the third floor. Face kicked hard enough to snap his head back. Blood running freely.
Cloth armor. A broken sword that should've been scrapped.
He stood up anyway.
Eina would want to know. Filing meant follow-up. Follow-up meant intervention.
She'd lecture him. About equipment. About minimum standards. About not diving alone dressed like a corpse waiting for paperwork.
She'd worry.
Elara exhaled slowly.
No.
Maybe he was already registered. Maybe Eina already knew and had tried—unsuccessfully—to correct him. Maybe he was another name already flagged, already counted among those who didn't listen.
And if this was his first week—
If this was how he handled his first real hit—
Then he'd either learn fast—
—or someone would get killed trying to help him.
Elara looked away from the Guild entrance and kept walking.
Behind her, the doors swung open again. Another adventurer entered. Another report filed.
The city moved on.
---
Her apartment building sat a few streets away from the main flow.
Two stories. Plain brick. No ornamentation. Functional. Affordable. The kind of place meant for people who worked for a living and didn't expect statues.
The stairwell smelled faintly of old wood and stone dust. Her boots echoed softly as she climbed to the first floor, each step releasing a familiar creak. She knew exactly which boards complained and which railings shifted under the weight.
The hallway was narrow, lined with identical doors.
Hers was the second from the end.
She stopped.
Her gaze drifted—just for a second—to the door directly across from hers.
Eina's.
Closed. Quiet.
I should visit her today.
The thought settled easily.
Even if it's just small talk.
Eina was good at that. At filling silence without pressing. At making the ordinary feel lighter.
Elara unlocked her door and stepped inside.
Later.
---
The air inside was still, holding the day's warmth without the sun's weight. Afternoon light slanted through the single window, illuminating dust motes drifting slowly through the room.
Not flashy.
Just hers.
Shelves lined the walls—rough wood, unvarnished, crowded with glass vials, bundled herbs tied with twine, handwritten notes pinned where they'd been most recently needed. A workbench occupied the far wall, scarred with old burns and water stains. Mortar and pestle. Scales. A small burner blackened by use.
Everything had a place. Everything existed to be used.
Elara set her pouch down and pulled off her gloves. Her fingers ached faintly—residual tension from hours of grip and control. She flexed them once, then tied her hair back.
"Now then," she murmured, rolling up her sleeves. "Let's see if Naaza's recipe actually works."
The scroll.
She unrolled it carefully, smoothing the worn parchment flat against the bench. Naaza's handwriting crowded the page—tight, deliberate, no wasted space.
Powdered Azure Vein Crystal—finely ground.
Distilled spring water—seventh floor or deeper.
Crushed dusk-moss spores—dry storage only.
Amber resin stabilizer—heated, not boiled.
Elara frowned.
"…How did she even think to mix these?"
On paper, it shouldn't work. Azure crystal was volatile. Dusk-moss clumped in liquid. Resin introduced at the wrong stage caused catastrophic separation.
This wasn't experimentation.
It was calculated.
Her hands moved.
Crystal into the mortar—pale blue, translucent, sharp-scented. She ground it slowly, listening to the change in pitch as the fragments reduced to fine powder. Water into the copper dish, heated gently, never rushed.
The crystal went in first.
It hissed softly, vapor rising, the mixture darkening—wrong, unstable.
She didn't react.
She waited.
Adjusted the heat. Tilted the dish to even distribution. Added the spores a pinch at a time, watching the surface tension tighten instead of break.
Better.
The resin came last.
Elara held the vial over the flame, counting silently. Five. Six. Seven.
She poured.
And didn't stir.
She watched instead—seconds stretching as the mixture decided whether to reject the change or accept it.
Then it thickened.
Turned translucent.
Held.
Elara exhaled.
It worked.
Insane. But precise.
This wasn't a recipe written to see if it worked.
It was written by someone who already knew where it would fail—and removed those paths first.
Her thoughts drifted to Naaza.
To the way she wrote instructions that assumed competence. To how every line carried intent, every risk already tested until it obeyed.
If the accident hadn't happened—
If Naaza had been allowed to keep diving, to keep accumulating experience—
She would've developed Enigma in her own right.
Not as support.
Not as an assistant.
As one of the top item makers in Orario.
Like Perseus.
The thought lingered, heavy and bitter, before Elara pushed it aside.
She sealed the vial and set it carefully on the rack.
Almost complete.
One ingredient missing.
Blue Latheon Wings.
Fresh. Intact. Delicate enough that careless hands ruined them.
From the fourth-floor pantry.
Elara closed the scroll.
"I'll go to the Dungeon tomorrow."
She washed her hands, dried them, and pulled out a blank sheet, setting it beside the bench.
Fourth floor. Pantry. Early morning.
Latheon wings—minimum five intact specimens.
Avoid crowds. In and out.
Her quill paused.
She added one more line.
Don't get involved.
She set the quill down.
Outside, the light had shifted toward evening. Voices carried up from the street below, indistinct and constant. Somewhere, metal rang against stone.
The city moved on.
Tomorrow would come whether she was ready or not.
And the Dungeon never cared about readiness.
---
Author's Note:
Blue Latheon Wings - Rare dungeon flora that grows from wall cracks, resembling delicate wings with a faint blue luminescence. Highly valued by alchemists as a key ingredient in specialized potions. These leaves attract monsters who consume them for their properties. While Monster Pantries throughout the dungeon are typically dangerous feeding grounds, the Floor 4 pantry is notably the safest location to harvest Blue Latheon Wings, making it the preferred gathering spot for low-level and solo adventurers seeking this rare material. The relative safety of this particular pantry, combined with the material's scarcity, has made it a well-known but still challenging harvest point for newcomers to Orario's dungeon diving community.