Two days passed. Alph confirmed his decision to Haldrix, and the elder runesmith's joy lit his amber eyes like forge-coals. Varrick accepted the news with resigned silence, though he prepared Alph's portion of supplies without complaint. When Alph offered thanks, Varrick waved it aside, citing the bond between master and apprentice.

  Departure morning arrived. Sunlight broke across Val Karok’s rooftops as Thorfin and Rugnir appeared at the smithy threshold, armor strapped tight, weapons gleaming.

  Alph adjusted his pack as the straps dug into his shoulders, his fingers verifying the buckles were secure. He exhaled, and his breath fogged in the cold morning air.

  Thorfin hefted a reinforced crate onto the cart. The wood groaned under the strain. Rugnir moved with quiet efficiency, securing straps and checking knots. From the smithy's depths, Haldrix's voice drifted, muttering about "fragile components" and "proper insulation." Alph didn't turn. Varrick stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

  Thorfin loaded the last of Haldrix’s equipment onto the creaking cart, a brass-bound chest whose contents rattled. Rugnir wiped his hands on his trousers, his sharp eyes scanning the street. "Done," he said.

  Varrick’s silence weighed more than the pack. Alph’s knuckles turned white where his fingers gripped the leather straps. The smithy’s warmth clung to his neck, fading as he stepped into the street. He kept his gaze forward. Behind him, Varrick’s broad frame filled the doorway, arms crossed and beard catching the forge’s amber glow. The scent of hot metal lingered in the air like a warning.

  No words passed between them. No goodbyes. The cart wheels creaked against the stone as the morning cold seeped into Alph's marrow.

  This isn’t over.

  Thorfin’s gauntlet struck Alph’s shoulder; the cold metal bit through the fabric.

  "Let’s move."

  The wheels ground forward against the cobblestones. The city’s early stirrings drowned the groan of the cart. The Undermantle’s entrance yawned, a jagged maw of darkness. Alph tightened his grip on the pack straps as the stone tilted into a deep incline.

  The underground chamber swallowed sound. Nylessa descended the stone steps. Torchlight flickered in iron brackets, casting jagged shadows across rough-hewn walls. The air tasted of stale smoke and mineral dust.

  Rook sat at a crude wooden table, a ledger spread before him. His tangled beard obscured his jaw; his frayed tunic was stained with a dozen days of wear. He did not look up.

  "I'm going on an expedition with Alph," she said.

  Rook's pen stopped mid-stroke. He turned a page with deliberate slowness, as though the words required processing through stone.

  "What kind," he said. Not a question.

  "Titan's Wound."

  Rook set down his pen. He turned to face her fully, his winter-frost eyes narrowing. "No."

  Nylessa's jaw tightened. "It's already decided."

  "Then undecide it."

  "I'm telling you, not asking." Her voice took on that edge, the one that belonged to spoiled nobility masquerading as a rogue. "I'm going."

  Rook returned to his ledger. "Not guild business. Not your concern."

  "I don't care if it's guild business or not." Nylessa stepped closer, her shadow merging with his on the stone wall. "I'm going, and you're going to accept it."

  "I'm not." He didn't glance up.

  "Rook."

  "No."

  The word fell like a closing door. Nylessa's hands clenched. She wanted to slam the table, to remind him that she had her own freedom. The words gathered at her teeth, bitter and sharp.

  "You can't forbid me," she said instead.

  "I'm not the one forbidding you. You should have stopped him when you had the chance." He turned another page. "You are not to throw your life away."

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  Nylessa forced a slow breath into her lungs. The heat in her chest cooled as she abandoned her rage, recognizing that fury would not move Rook. She abandoned her entitlement. Instead, she settled into a tactical mindset, analyzing the situation like a mark. Logic was her only surviving lever.

  "I owe him a training debt," she said. "I am close to advancement only because he helped me in sparring."

  Rook finally looked up. Surprise flashed in his eyes. "You're close to Tier 3?" His voice went flat again, though. "Debts still don't justify risking your neck."

  Nylessa leaned forward, palms flat on the table. "You took him on. That means something."

  Rook’s pen stilled. "And?"

  "And I got paid for bringing him in." Her fingers curled against the wood. "He’s worth something to this guild. You don’t just throw away assets."

  "One asset's value does not outweigh contract complications." Rook pressed two fingers against his temple. The gesture was small, deliberate, the first visible sign of strain.

  "I will only protect Alph," Nylessa said. "I won't interfere with the contracts. Whoever is running jobs at Titan's Wound, I won't entangle myself with them."

  "Your presence alone complicates the hit." He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut. "I can't trust you won't get involved when it matters."

  "This is personal business, not guild business." Her voice hardened. "My sparring partner is walking into danger. I'm ensuring he survives. That's not interference."

  Rook blew a heavy breath through his nose. He pushed his chair back, wood scraping stone, and stood. The sound grated in the small room. He paced, three steps one way, three steps back, a rhythm honed by years in underground chambers.

  "You're not thinking this through," he said.

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "Contracts are already placed. Assassins are already moving," he said. "If you go in there to muddy waters, it isn't just as simple as offering an apology. These are Tier 4 assassins."

  "Then I'll be careful."

  "You're always careful until you're not." He paused mid-stride, his head turning toward her.

  Nylessa wanted to argue, but the words wouldn't come because they weren't entirely false. So she shifted tactics instead.

  "As soon as I secure him, I withdraw," she said. "No complications. In and out."

  "Can't trust that either."

  The conversation spiraled inward, each argument met with the same refusal. Rook pressed his palm flat against his forehead, his movements heavy, slow. Frustration mounted silently between them, a pressure building in the stale air.

  Nylessa's control slipped. She had no more arguments, no more logic. He still refused.

  Her voice broke.

  "I can't let him walk into danger alone."

  Her voice emerged raw, fractured. It was not the sound of a capable rogue or an aspiring assassin, but something younger, something that did not know how to protect itself.

  Rook froze, his pale eyes fixed on her. Nylessa's shoulders slumped. Her eyes burned, tears blurring her vision. She hated the weakness they betrayed before the gnarled old half-elf, who had seen everything and forgotten nothing.

  She tried to speak again, but the words came out jagged, incomplete. "We trained together. I... he's..." She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist, frustration bubbling within her. The anger festered, directed at the tears and at herself. "He is my only friend. I just can't let him die because I wasn't there."

  Silence stretched between them. Long. Heavy. Rook didn't move. Finally, he exhaled. A sound like wind leaving a cave. He stepped forward. "Fine."

  Nylessa's shoulders caved. She pressed her face into his worn tunic, and the tears came, hot and uncontrolled. His rough, calloused hand settled on her head, patting once, then twice. He offered the awkward gentleness of someone who had forgotten comfort but remembered enough to try.

  "I am reporting this to Sourash," Rook said. His voice carried a manufactured edge, a threat meant to bite.

  Nylessa went rigid. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin a pale, sickly blue. Her breath hitched in a sharp, audible gasp as she jerked away from him.

  Rook watched the fear bloom across her features, her body rigid as prey sensing a predator. He waited, letting the weight of it settle into her bones, curious whether dread would fracture her resolve.

  Nylessa stood motionless. After a long moment, she squared her shoulders and wiped her eyes with deliberate precision. A hard edge returned to her gaze.

  "I'll handle the fallout," she said quietly.

  "Will you."

  "Yes. But I have to go."

  Rook turned away. He raised his hand in a weary gesture of dismissal, a wave that held no anger, only exhaustion. "Alright. Since you insist, I will let you join one of the security crew going to the expedition in disguise."

  Nylessa’s head snapped in a quick, avian jerk. "Thanks, Rook. I promise I'll be fine. Don't worry about me." She pivoted toward the stairs; her legs carried her forward without thought. "I am going to prepare for the journey."

  The torchlight flickered as Nylessa climbed toward the surface, each step taking her closer to an expedition she'd forced her way into.

  Rook returned to his ledger. The pen remained motionless in his grip. He stared at the ink-stained page without reading a single word.

  Brother Sourash, I am sorry, I can't watch her cry. His jaw clenched, the tension tight enough to make his tangled beard twitch.

  "I will ensure her safety, even if it costs me my life," he muttered.