Not My Fight
Daedalus Street was a shortcut.
Not a good one—just functional. The kind of route you took when avoiding Guild patrols mattered more than comfort. Twisted alleys snaked between buildings that leaned into each other like conspirators, their weathered stone facades close enough to block out most of the morning sun. What light did filter through came in narrow shafts, painting the damp cobblestones in uneven patches of pale gold and shadow. The air smelled of old stone and moisture that never quite dried.
Runners used it. People who didn't want questions. Hiding in the shadows.
I kept my head down, hood up, hands loose at my sides.
The knives sat at my hips—familiar weight now. Not new anymore. The armor felt right too. Leather across my chest and shoulders, metal plates riveted in place. Light. Functional. Didn't slow me down.
I wasn't stronger than I'd been a week ago. Just cleaner. No hesitation when I moved. No panic when things got close. I still couldn't win a real fight. But I didn't freeze anymore. That counted.
The street ahead curved left. I followed it, boots quiet on worn stone. Then I heard voices—raised, sharp.
I slowed. Stopped at the corner. Looked.
Three people stood in a loose cluster about twenty feet ahead. Two adventurers—leather armor, standard gear, swords at their hips. One tall and broad-shouldered. The other leaner, quicker-looking. And a third man. No armor. Clean clothes. A ledger tucked under one arm. Handler.
Facing them was a girl.
Gray fur caught what little light penetrated this far into Daedalus Street. Tall—taller than me by half a head. Broad shoulders packed with muscle beneath light armor. A thick tail swished behind her, low and agitated. Short sword at her hip. Her arms were crossed. Chin up. Eyes hard.
Wait. I know her!
Floor 3. The goblin kick. She was the one with that grey-haired girl.
"I said no," she repeated, voice flat. "Those were my kills. Solo claim."
The handler adjusted his ledger. "Guild records show joint engagement. That means split credit."
"Joint engagement?" Her tail lashed once. "I didn't see either of them land a hit."
The tall adventurer stepped forward. "We drew aggro. That counts."
"Drawing aggro by running past screaming isn't tactics."
The lean one sneered. "You call us cowards?"
"I'm calling you opportunists."
The handler sighed. "Miss Raska, the materials have already been logged. If you want to dispute—"
Raska. So that's her name.
"I'm not disputing. I'm telling you. Those drops are mine."
Silence stretched.
The tall adventurer's hand drifted to his sword hilt. Not drawing. Just resting there.
I should keep walking. Not my problem. Not my fight.
Despite that I watched.
The handler glanced at the sword. Then at Raska.
"Let's be reasonable," he said carefully.
"I am being reasonable." Her eyes didn't leave the tall one's hand. "I'm still talking."
The tall adventurer's fingers tightened on the hilt. "Maybe we're done talking."
That was the line.
Steel cleared the sheath—six inches. Not fully drawn. Just visible. Just enough.
If she's with that girl...
The handler stepped back. Raska's hand hadn't moved to her sword. She wasn't going to draw first.
My boots were already moving.
I didn't run. Didn't charge. Just stepped into the space between them. Dead center. Where all eyes had to shift.
"Weapon's out," I said, voice flat. "That's not appropriate."
All three of them turned. The tall one's hand stayed on his sword. "Who the hell are you?"
"Nobody." I kept my hands visible. Relaxed. "But you draw that blade in a non-combat zone, someone reports it. Then it's paperwork."
The lean one stepped closer. "You, her backup?"
"No."
"Then get lost."
I didn't move. The handler cleared his throat. "Sir, this is a private—"
"When you pull steel outside the Dungeon," I said, "it stops being just between you."
The tall one's jaw tightened. His sword slid another inch.
I sighed. "Yeah. That's what I thought."