Morning arrived with a gentle insistence.

  The sheer curtains glowed with pale amber light, the same hue Haven gave every dawn. From far below came the steady hush of the sea—patient, rhythmic, unhurried. It was his third morning in this world, and Will was startled by how easily his mind had begun to accept its cadence.

  Strange to think that only a few hours had passed outside. Three days here, and in the real world Adrian had probably just grabbed lunch.

  He lay still for a moment, listening. No footsteps. No machinery. No city noise. Just air breathing through the suite and water shifting in the distance. The quiet should have unsettled him; instead, it steadied him.

  His thoughts drifted—first to Brat, his sharp-tongued little shadow built from neural echoes. A mischief engine in bare feet. Will felt a tug of affection, warm and involuntary. Brat reminded him of Mira—quick, bright, fearless—and the memory softened him. Noah’s quiet steadiness followed. They were safe. They had to be. And when this was done, he would see them again.

  He exhaled slowly and rose.

  The bedclothes were cool beneath his hands as he crossed the suite. In the bathroom, he leaned over the sink, studying the mirror. The face that looked back was still as young as when he first woke in this world—mid-twenties, maybe—sharp lines, rested eyes, skin unmarked by strain or age.

  “Not bad,” he murmured.

  No razors on the counter. No bottles. No clutter. “Perks of the VIP build,” he said under his breath. No shaving required in paradise.

  He stepped into the closet. One section always seemed prepared for him, holding the clothes the system deemed appropriate for the day. Today was the same as yesterday: navy-and-gold training garb, folded neatly. Beside it sat the Brooch of Verdant Grace on a small gold plate, its tiny amethyst grapes pulsing with a faint, violet light.

  He dressed quickly. The mithril mail slid into place beneath his tunic with a cool pulse. When he pinned the brooch to his lapel, the grapes pulsed one final time before settling.

  He closed the mirror door and took one final glance at his appearance. Fabricated or not, he looked good.

  Back in the sitting room, morning light poured through open windows. Breakfast waited on the table—warm bread, sliced fruit, and a pot of steaming coffee. Everything arranged with the same precise hospitality as before. But one new detail stood out: a thin white vase holding a single blue rose, bright as magic.

  He hadn’t seen Marin since his first day. Maybe she’d left it. Maybe the system had. Either way, it made him smile.

  Then he noticed the Training Room door standing slightly ajar.

  Curiosity nudged him. He crossed the suite and pushed it open.

  Silence greeted him—no quip, no theatrics. The room looked unchanged until he glanced up. Above the mounted weapons, set neatly in a place of honor, hung a curved black fang. His first trophy. The brass plate beneath it pulsed once: Rats in the Vineyard.

  [TROPHY DISPLAY UNLOCKED — 1/???]

  A quiet pride stirred in his chest.

  He stepped back into the sitting room, then out onto the balcony. The view opened wide—sun-washed rooftops, the faint rise of voices, and the soaring heights of the Crown Tier. The world held its illusion with startling warmth, and for the first time he let himself admit he was beginning to enjoy it.

  Back inside, he ate. The food was impossibly vivid—flavor rendered with care, coffee deep and bright. He finished quickly, setting the cup down as his gaze drifted across the quiet suite.

  Where was Brat?

  The air shimmered.

  A moment later, the boyish figure resolved fully, barefoot and grinning.

  “Ready for the day ahead?” Brat asked, bright as ever.

  Will couldn’t help but smile back. “Lead the way.”

  The corridor was quiet as Will stepped out of his suite. Kellan, the young dawn-watch guard, straightened at once and gave a small bow.

  “Good morrow, Your Highness,” he said, voice clear and eager. His armor still shone brightly, like polish fresh from the smith.

  Will returned the nod. “You must be the third one.”

  Kellan blinked—uncertain whether it was a test or a joke. Brat stood beside Will, half a grin already forming. “The third watch,” he supplied. “Midnight to eight. You’re getting the hang of palace routines.”

  When they reached the bottom landing, Will casually looked behind him and blinked—Kellan was gone, and Taren was in his place, helm tucked under one arm. The change must have happened somewhere along the way.

  He exhaled softly. “There’s not even a hand-off? No salute? Not even a ‘Tag, you’re it’?”

  Brat smirked. “It’s magic.”

  Will chuckled, shaking his head as they followed the halls toward the kitchens.

  As they entered, they found the kitchens already alive with motion. Steam curled through shafts of sunlight, and the air smelled of butter, citrus, and freshly baked bread. Alonna, her sleeves rolled and hair pinned back, presided with practiced command.

  As a tray of pastries passed, Will reached out and snatched one. Alonna’s wooden spoon shot up in mock outrage.

  “Your Highness!” she scolded, barely hiding a grin.

  Will laughed and dodged the playful swing. “Can’t a prince sample his own kitchen?”

  Brat grinned. “Truly, royal manners at their finest.”

  [SOCIAL SYNC: +0.25]

  [CURRENT: 22.25]

  Will grinned back. For the first time, he felt he was playing the part perfectly.

  They passed through the far doors into the kitchen herb garden, skirting the servants’ tables beneath the olive trees before reaching the set of worn stones that marked the round training yard. The air was cooler here, touched with salt and the echo of steel from distant drills.

  Will took it in, the quiet order of the place, before his gaze landed on the waiting figures. “A fairly serious welcoming committee this morning,” he said.

  Within the stone boundary of the training yard, a small unit of armored figures waited at attention—identical guards, silent, faces hidden behind helms of dull steel.

  Will walked into the circle of stones while Brat waited just outside them, somehow having acquired a small dagger that he was using to clean his digital nails. “In the room,” he said, “it’s about timing. Out here, it’s about weight. The system likes gravity.”

  Will nodded, anticipation rising. He summoned his sword from the inventory, the blade forming cleanly into his hand, and activated his shield.

  The first guard stepped forward. Its sword gleamed as it raised its shield. Will met the blow cleanly, muscle memory guiding him. The pattern was precise and controlled. As he moved, the faint yellow stamina bar appeared in the corner of his vision, flashing once as it stabilized, already beginning its rhythmic cycle of drain and refill in time with his exertion.

  Brat’s voice carried across the yard. “Intermediate Champion protocols. Real timing. Real mass. Coordination drills—Champions are the line, built to anchor the melee.”

  Another guard advanced. Two against one now. The sound of steel on steel echoed across the yard. Will blocked, turned, countered; his shield moved like instinct, his sword followed. His breath came steady.

  A third joined, and suddenly it was a dance. Their strikes fell in rhythm, his movements threading between them with surprising grace.

  His confidence built—steadier, sharper, every impact absorbed without hesitation. It felt good. Real.

  Then something flickered: a ripple of static along their cuirasses, footfalls slipping out of sync. A faint red glow spread from the slits of their visors. The rhythm broke and increased, tempo doubling as if a hidden metronome had jumped a beat. The surge caught Will off guard; his blocks grew clumsy as the three guards pressed harder.

  “Brat?”

  “This isn’t—” Brat started, then stopped. His usual confidence wavered. “It shouldn’t escalate this fast.”

  Breathe. Center. Hold. His Composure Skill steadied him just enough to keep panic from taking root.

  The guards came at him again, faster. Their strikes landed heavier; the clang of steel turned chaotic.

  “Brat, this is getting—”

  “Keep your guard up!”

  The next impact smashed into his shield, driving him backward. The green HP bar flared to life beneath the crest.

  [HP –38 | STATUS: Dazed (2 sec)]

  Before he could recover, a blade slashed across his chest. The fabric tore, mithril mail flashing beneath.

  [HP –55 | IMPACT ABSORBED BY MITHRIL MAIL]

  He barely had time to brace before a dagger punched into his thigh.

  [HP –79 | CRITICAL INJURY: Pierced Thigh]

  Pain lanced up his leg. He gasped, collapsing hard to one knee.

  Silence fell.

  The guards froze, their eyes dimming back to normal. They bowed in unison, sheathed their weapons, and then wandered off from the yard in whatever fashion their program dictated.

  Will stared at the dagger still lodged in his leg, the sight oddly surreal. His breathing was ragged. He grabbed the hilt, tore it free, and flung it aside. The weapon hit the ground and dissolved into a scatter of light.

  Brat dropped beside him, the smirk gone—expression sharpened into something human. He wasn’t looking directly at Will; his eyes tracked an empty patch of air, fingers moving as if flicking through invisible menus only he could see.

  “You weren’t supposed to bleed,” he muttered. “That’s not… standard.”

  Will pressed a hand to his thigh. Blood welled between his fingers—bright, convincing, wrong in every way. The green bar hovered just above halfway, then began ticking slowly upward as his regen took hold; below it, the stamina bar pulsed and also began its slow refill. The wound still gaped, sluggish to close.

  Taren approached without a word and held out a green vial. Will accepted it, uncorked it, and drank. The liquid burned sharp and clean, tasting faintly of fresh apples. His HP bar surged to full, then winked away. As he stood, the skin sealed, and moments later the torn cloth began to knit itself together in smooth, precise lines, like text across a screen. Taren gave a curt nod and returned to his position.

  Will exhaled shakily. “I’ve never been stabbed before,” he said quietly. “I thought pain was dialed down here.”

  Brat’s mouth tightened. “It wasn’t just the aggression of the guards—it was the bleed and pain effect. Two separate anomalies.” He hesitated. “Congratulations. You’ve discovered a feature that doesn’t exist.”

  Will gave a short, uneasy laugh, dismissed his equipment, and let the silence stretch.

  A pointed clearing of a throat drew Will’s attention. He turned to see Lord Derran standing stiffly at the edge of the stones marking the boundary of the training yard, the morning light catching the silver filigree of his collar.

  “Your Highness,” Derran said, brisk and precise. “The forgemaster requests you at your earliest convenience. His work progresses.”

  He stepped forward and produced a sealed letter, the wax stamped with a black anvil on gold—Thane’s sigil. Will brushed his palms on his trousers before taking it.

  “Efficient as always, Derran.” He broke the seal, glancing down at the tight script.

  Brat drifted closer, craning his neck. Being shorter, he gave a small hop to peek over the page. Will smirked and lowered the letter slightly.

  Brat squinted. “Forge summons. Intermediate class progression flag.”

  Will read the message for a moment, then nodded and handed the letter back to Derran. “I just hope this one doesn’t involve rodents,” he said.

  Under his breath, Brat muttered, “Romance quest flag triggered,” and snorted a laugh.

  Will shot him a look—half amused, half exasperated—before turning back to Derran.

  “Thank you, my lord. Please tell the forgemaster I’ll come shortly.”

  Derran’s expression remained perfectly composed, though one brow might have twitched. “The forgemaster will be expecting you,” he said, offering a precise bow before turning away across the courtyard. His footsteps faded into the echo of the palace corridors.

  Will watched him go, then exhaled, tension easing slightly as he rolled his shoulders.

  Brat tilted his head, watching him. “Well, you should get changed into something more comfortable—your royal walking-around clothes.”

  Will glanced over. “What’s on the agenda for the afternoon?”

  “A couple of errands,” Brat said. “We’ve got Thane at the forge, and before that, your first visit to the Temple of the One. Pick up some potions, pay your respects, you know—keep the narrative tidy.”

  Will huffed a laugh. “A royal field trip, then.”

  “Exactly,” Brat said cheerfully, already turning toward the palace steps. “Try not to bleed this time.”

  The Crown Tier shimmered in the late-morning light as Will and Brat stepped out from the palace and walked toward the town square. The fountain at its center sent silver arcs of water into the air, scattering light across polished stone. Merchants set out their wares, well-dressed citizens strolled through the plaza, and servants hurried between errands.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Will’s blue coat caught the sun as he walked, the fabric gleaming with subtle golden embroidery at the cuffs and collar. The prince was a familiar figure here, and passersby greeted him warmly with bows, smiles, and murmured blessings. Brat’s outfit complemented his own: a blue tunic and light-gray shorts that subtly echoed Will’s colors. Taren followed at a measured distance, five paces back, silent and watchful.

  They crossed the square slowly, the air filled with the sounds of chatter and the scent of spiced meats from open stalls. Before reaching the temple, they paused to browse a few stands. Will lingered at a food vendor’s cart, drawn by the smell of sizzling meat on skewers. He was gifted two.

  He was already getting used to the idea that the Prince never paid for anything in his own city as he handed one skewer to Taren, who looked faintly surprised but accepted. Will took a bite finding the flavor was smoky and rich—one more small pleasure grounding this strange world.

  The Temple of the One sat opposite the palace, its white-marble fa?ade veined with gold, tall doors open to a wash of blue light from within. Its spire rose above the rooftops like a quiet sentinel.

  “I didn’t realize we had a temple in the city,” Will said as they walked toward it.

  “Of course we do,” Brat replied, then smirked. “Right here in River City with a capital T—”

  Will cut him off. “Don’t.”

  Brat grinned. “Fine. Spoilsport.”

  Will nodded toward the rising spire. “So, The One—what’s the story?”

  Brat’s voice slipped into its familiar mix of teacher and companion. “The developers figured magic was enough for Haven. Why build a pantheon when you already have power that bends reality? So instead of gods, they made a philosophy. The One isn’t divine; it’s belief in magic’s structure, in its rules, in the balance magic gives this world. Faith in the system itself. The priests just ritualized it.”

  Will considered. “Outside of some minor stuff, we haven’t seen much magic yet.”

  Brat’s eyes glinted. “Just you wait.”

  They climbed the steps to the entrance, sunlight glancing off the marble.

  Inside, the air was cooler, touched by the faint scent of incense and a low hum that might have been a chorus or an engine. Priests in white and gold moved between the columns, their steps even and precise.

  One of them, a tall man with iron-gray hair and silver trinkets woven into his locks, looked up as they entered and approached at once. The High Priest inclined his head deeply. “Your Highness. The blessings of The One upon you. It honors us to receive you within these walls.”

  Will paused, a split-second gap in his memory that was immediately filled by a sotto voce whisper from below.

  “Merov.”

  Will nodded smoothly. “High Priest Merov. It is a pleasure as always.”

  “The Festival of Tides draws near,” the priest continued, his voice calm and resonant. “We prepare for its rites already. I trust you will attend?”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Will said. “Though today, I believe I’m here on more practical matters.”

  Brat leaned close again. “Potions. Ask for potions.”

  Will cleared his throat. “Yes—potions. I was told the Temple could help.”

  The High Priest smiled faintly. “Of course. Brother Alric will assist you.” He gestured to a younger priest hovering behind him. “Acolyte, escort His Highness and his companion to the inner chambers.”

  The acolyte bowed and led them down a quiet corridor lined with columns and pale light. At the end of the passage, he opened a carved oak door and stepped aside. “Brother Alric will see you now.”

  The chamber beyond was smaller and warmer than the grand hall, shelves lined neatly with scrolls and glass vials glinting in the soft light. As they entered, Will’s gaze caught on an inscription carved into the stone lintel above the shelf opposite the door. The symbols pulsed faintly, their curves shifting as he studied them.

  [SKILL CHECK: ARCANE LITERACY (BASIC)]

  [SUCCESS: 22% INTERPRETATION ACCURACY]

  A few words surfaced—unity… return… light—before the rest blurred into flickering gibberish. Will frowned.

  Brat glanced up. “Old system text. Leftover from early builds. Devs never cleaned it up—probably a rush job. Don’t stare too long; sometimes it loops.”

  Will blinked and looked away. The faint hum steadied again.

  Brother Alric looked up from a table, expression brightening. “Your Highness,” he said warmly. “The High Priest said you were in need of supplies?”

  Will smiled. “Something like that. You keep quite the storeroom.”

  “A little order keeps the chaos out,” Alric said with a chuckle. “Even faith benefits from good shelving.”

  Will studied him and felt a faint recollection. “I’ve seen you at the palace, haven’t I?”

  “Aye, Your Highness. Minor rites and blessings. Mostly kitchen prayers and garden dedications these days.”

  Will grinned. “The cooks like you. Anyone who blesses their bread earns loyalty.”

  Alric laughed softly. “Now then—how can I help you?”

  Brat murmured, “Potions. The good kind.”

  Will nodded. “Potions—the good kind.”

  Alric’s smile widened. He crossed to the shelves, selecting three green, three yellow, and three blue vials and arranging them neatly on a polished counter.

  Brat nodded toward them. “Standard issue. Each restores half your bar—health, stamina, or mana.”

  Will inspected the vials. “Just put them in my inventory?”

  Brat nodded. “Remember the upgrade from yesterday? The one you ignored after the Rat King?”

  Will hesitated, then reached out. As he placed the potions in his inventory, a new line of icons shimmered into view: three potion emblems, color-coded for Health, Stamina, and Mana, slotting neatly beneath the familiar grid. Above it, the usual coin icons hovered—Platinum, Gold, and Silver, each marked 100.

  “That’s tidy,” Will admitted.

  Brat shrugged. “Quality-of-life upgrade.”

  Will glanced at Alric, who now stood with the politely idle stillness NPCs adopted when not engaged. “Why do we have to come here for potions? Seems… inconvenient.”

  Brat perched on the edge of the counter, bare feet dangling. “As you know, Haven wasn’t built out like the main world. It was a test shard—used for the early NeuralSync trials. Even when it became a VIP zone for investors and high-level employees, it was never meant to be a complete game. Just polished enough to feel exclusive.”

  Will nodded. “So… less finished.”

  “Exactly. Some systems were placeholders. Like this one.” Brat gestured around the chamber. “Designers probably wanted players to visit the Temple at least once if they followed the class quests. Adds gravitas.”

  He swung his legs lightly. “You could also get potions from the Mage Guild—if you’d gone Arcanist. But that door’s closed for you.”

  Will raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t visit the building?”

  “Oh, you could walk through the front door,” Brat smirked. “But the rest isn’t even rendered. Just a gray box behind the entry hall.”

  Will considered that. “So there’s a Mage Guild. Others too?”

  “Sure,” Brat said, counting on his fingers. “There’s the Merchants’ Council—they show up during the Festival of Tides arc—and the Adventurers’…well, technically, the Adventurers’ Union.” He wrinkled his nose. “But again, placeholder. In the main world, that’s your go-to for quest chains and contracts. Here, it’s window dressing. You’ll find a couple of low-level escort or fetch quests if you’re desperate for XP, but nothing special. We can visit later if you want, though. Bit dull.”

  Will smirked. “Haven wasn’t designed for class completions, was it?”

  Brat sighed. “Most past guests came to drink, fight, and spend time at the Bordello.”

  Will laughed under his breath. “And were you their training avatar too?”

  “Nope,” Brat said easily. “Some of my core routines come from the default training module, and I’ve got all the old logs. But my personality matrix?” He tapped his temple. “Built from your neural scans and memory patterns. So in a way, I’m brand new. Your personal buddy, fresh from your subconscious.”

  He paused, then added with a small grin, “And before you ask—no other player had one like me.”

  Will blinked. “Meaning…?”

  “Meaning the big guy himself built my higher layers.”

  Will frowned slightly. “Who?”

  Brat’s expression softened in a way it rarely did. “Adrian. I’m his way of watching out for you.”

  Will let the words settle, a quiet pause opening between them. For the first time, he really looked at Brat—not just the irreverent guide or the comic commentary, but the piece of Adrian’s care woven into the world with him. Something shifted, subtle and steady.

  As their conversation wound down, Alric’s eyes brightened slightly—his idle state breaking as he seemed to register them again. He straightened, folding his hands with a faint smile.

  Will returned it. “Thank you.”

  Alric inclined his head. “May The One keep you steady on your path, Your Highness.” He hesitated, then added softly, “The world grows uneasy beyond the Wastes. They say Gareth stirs again.”

  Will paused mid-step. “Gareth?”

  “The ruler of the Wastes,” Alric said with a faint shudder. “Old legend, of course. Some call him the Archmage of the Shifting Glass.”

  Brat leaned in with a smirk. “Every story needs a big bad. Don’t worry—it’s just story flavor. Never touches Belhaven.”

  [SOCIAL SYNC: +3.50]

  [CURRENT: 25.75]

  Will blinked. “That’s… high.”

  Brat frowned. “Yeah… introducing Gareth shouldn’t have moved the needle at all.”

  They exchanged a glance as the prompt faded.

  They followed the acolyte back to the central nave, toward the glare of the open marble doors. Will stepped into the sunlight, with the hum of the Temple following them out, faint and constant.

  Will and Brat—followed now by Serah, the unnoticed guard rotation no longer surprising him—walked at a leisurely pace from the town square through the winding streets toward the lower tier of the city. Belhaven unfurled below them, sunlight glinting on white stone and bright rooftops. The terraces dropped in gentle arcs toward the bay, where gulls wheeled above masts and sails, their cries threading through the sea wind.

  Brat walked in silence beside Will, his usual commentary muted. Every so often, he flicked his gaze toward empty air, expression distant, as if reading a screen Will couldn’t see. Will decided not to ask.

  The road widened as they reached the harbor. Sailors and merchants called greetings, bowing slightly when they recognized the prince. The Dawnstar rocked gently in its private slip, the royal pennant snapping in the steady breeze. Will caught himself smiling; whatever this place was, it had a way of feeling real.

  “Still pretty for an illusion,” Brat said absently, following his gaze.

  “Still mine,” Will said—quiet, certain.

  They turned down the narrow lane that led toward the forge.

  Soon they reached it, the open front alive with heat and the steady rhythm of hammer on steel. Sparks leapt into the air, fading as they drifted toward the harbor breeze. The scent of oil and iron mingled with the faint salt of the sea.

  Thane straightened from the anvil as they entered. His dark hair caught the forge light, copper threads igniting in the glow. There was an easy steadiness to him, strength without arrogance, and Will felt the faint pull of that same quiet magnetism from their first meeting.

  “Your Highness,” Thane said, voice steady. “Good to see you’ve not been frightened off by a little work.”

  “Not yet,” Will said, smiling. Brat offered a small wave but said nothing.

  Thane set the hammer aside and reached for a cloth. “I’ve been looking into your sword.”

  Will summoned it, the Royal Sword of Valcairn flickering into his grasp. Its short, slightly curved blade caught the forge light as he turned it in his hand, the surface gleaming like liquid silver.

  Thane’s gaze followed the motion, expression thoughtful. “A fine blade,” he said, taking it carefully and laying it across the bench. “But it can be stronger. I’ve been studying its matrix—trying to understand what it’s meant to become.”

  He turned, gesturing to a weathered map pinned beneath a lump of ore. The parchment showed Belhaven’s coastline and the stretch of cliffs beyond the harbor’s curve.

  “Here,” Thane said, tapping the western edge. “There’s a cavern system below these cliffs. The old smugglers used it before the Crown sealed the routes. I believe the metal we need comes from a living source there—the horn of an Iron Drake.”

  “Drake?” Will asked. “As in… dragon?”

  “Smaller,” Thane said, mouth quirking. “But the scales and bone harden like tempered steel. If you bring me one of its horns, I can reforge your sword properly.”

  Will studied the map, tracing the curve of the bay. “That close?”

  Thane nodded. “A path begins just past the outer docks, near the lower seawall. At low tide, you’ll find the first cavern entrance. Go at first light; the water will be out and the footing sound.” His tone softened slightly. “Don’t go before then. The tide takes more than it returns.”

  Brat leaned an elbow on the table. “So—dawn adventure, dangerous caves, rare monster. Classic structure.”

  A faint shimmer registered in Will’s vision.

  [NEW QUEST UNLOCKED: “Echoes Beneath the Cliffs”]

  Objective: Retrieve the Iron Drake’s Horn from the caverns below the Western Cliffs.

  Reward: Experience + Sword Upgrade

  “Bring what you find,” Thane said. “We’ll begin the reforging when you return. And once it’s done,” he added with a quiet half-smile, “we’ll celebrate properly.”

  Will smiled, a warm flush rising in his cheeks. “Deal.”

  [SOCIAL SYNC: +0.50]

  [CURRENT: 26.25]

  Brat brightened. “Progress marker unlocked. Social Tier Two achieved. Dinner with the blacksmith. Very respectable.”

  Will dismissed the sword and turned toward the open bay. Outside, the sea blazed gold beneath the late sun. The forge’s heat gave way to salt air and the distant cry of gulls. From the chimney above, a plume of smoke rose, curling skyward before flickering once like light across broken glass.

  Will glanced at Brat. “So, what’s next?”

  Brat perked up immediately. “How about an early stop at the tavern? All you had for lunch today was that meat on a stick, and you still owe Florian another visit.”

  A single clean note rang out behind them as Thane’s hammer struck the anvil, following them down the harbor lane.

  He and Brat had lingered after leaving the forge, wandering Belhaven’s winding streets as craftsmen shuttered their shops for the night. The city moved with an easy rhythm that felt familiar now—measured, human, alive. Mage-lights shimmered above the lane, their light glinting on damp stone, while the distant sea whispered against the docks.

  They began the slow climb from the lower tier, the path curving upward between stone terraces and weathered walls. Behind them, the harbor spread in sheets of light, the smell of salt and smoke trailing up on the breeze. As the road leveled at the middle tier, The Gilded Oar came into view at the bend of the harbor road, its sign swaying gently on brass hinges. Warm light spilled from the open windows, the sound of laughter and strings carrying out into the street.

  Will paused, letting the moment breathe before stepping inside. Two days since his last lunch here, and the city felt comfortably alive in the evening air.

  Inside, the tavern pulsed with warmth and rhythm. The music was bright, the air alive with talk and the scent of roasted spice. The Gilded Oar was busier than he remembered, a blend of sailors, merchants, and locals unwinding at day’s end. Mage-lights glowed softly along the beams, their light dancing in rhythm with the music. Will crossed the room, greeting a few regulars as he passed—nods, smiles, easy words that came naturally.

  Behind the bar, Florian looked up, grin instant and bright.

  “Your Highness returns. Your usual table is available, as always.”

  Will made his way to the familiar window seat near the bar, glancing up at him with a half-smile. “That sounds less like hospitality and more like you were waiting for me,” he said, voice warm, almost teasing.

  Florian’s eyes gleamed. “Maybe I was. Call it good instinct.”

  Brat slid into the chair opposite, glancing toward the bar. “Observation,” he murmured lightly. “The bartender is deeply smitten.”

  Will ignored him, smiling as Florian approached. “So, what do you recommend this evening?” he asked, lowering his voice just a touch. “From the menu, that is.”

  Florian’s grin turned sly. “We’ve a fine quail tonight, roasted with herbs from the upper gardens. Pairs nicely with the white citrus wine.”

  “Perfect,” Will said.

  Florian moved through the tavern, helping the other staff when needed but always circling back to Will’s table. Their conversation flowed easily whenever he returned, laughter slipping naturally between them.

  Brat settled back, keeping time with the tune. “This place cheats,” he muttered softly. “Too perfect by half.”

  Will only smiled as Florian set down the meal. The smell of roasted quail and citrus filled the air. Florian leaned lightly on the edge of the table. “Busy day?”

  “Long,” Will said, lifting his glass. “But a good one.”

  “Then the evening should follow suit.”

  They talked as the tavern filled, then settled into a natural rhythm. At some point, Florian joined him properly at the table, the two of them talking about nothing and everything. Will found the rhythm of their exchange strangely effortless—Insight humming quietly beneath every nuance, reading tone and intent before they surfaced. Rhetoric smoothed the conversation further, each phrase falling neatly into place. Their ease felt familiar, the weight of a shared history clicking into place as the system filled the gaps between Will and Prince William.

  Will realized how effortless it was—how natural. A conversation that made him reluctant to pull away. He wished, suddenly and sharply, that he’d met someone like Florian in the so-called “Waking World,” as Brat put it.

  As the night drew on, the crowd began to thin. One by one, patrons drifted out into the harbor air until only a handful remained—regulars finishing their drinks, the trio by the hearth playing softer now. Florian glanced toward the bar.

  “Lessa will close up later,” he said. Then he turned back to Will, his tone gentle. “It’s late. You should walk me home.”

  Outside, the town was hushed. The harbor lights shimmered across the tide as they stepped into the street. Florian walked close beside him, their arms brushing now and then as they moved through the quiet lanes. Serah followed a short distance behind, silent and unobtrusive.

  They walked slowly, neither speaking much. When they reached Florian’s narrow doorway, Brat gave a low whistle. “Well then,” he said lightly. “I’ll grant you some privacy—wouldn’t want to glitch the moment. See you at first light.”

  Brat turned, walking a few steps before his form began to fade—de-pixelating slowly until the street was empty.

  Florian faced Will, the faint glow from a nearby window catching in his green eyes. “You’ve got an early start tomorrow,” he murmured.

  “I do,” Will said softly.

  “Then let this be a proper farewell.”

  He stepped forward, and Will met him halfway. The kiss was slow and certain—a moment that felt more real than anything else that day. When they parted, the city seemed to hold its breath.

  Florian smiled faintly. “Sleep well, my prince.”

  “You too,” Will murmured.

  With a nod and a graceful step, Florian entered his house and shut the door with one last wink. A soft light bloomed in the windows a moment later, amber and steady against the deepening twilight.

  Serah waited by the corner, eyes forward, ready to escort him home. Will said nothing as they fell back into step toward the palace.

  A faint pulse shimmered through his vision, soft and gold before fading.

  [SOCIAL SYNC: +2.00]

  [CURRENT: 28.25]