Wide-planked floors stretched under mismatched furniture: a large bed tucked against one wall, sleeping pallets folded neatly in a corner chest, and an assortment of chairs and low tables arranged with the quiet practicality of people who understood tired adventurers. Two windows faced the street below, their glass rippled with age but clean, filtering warm light into streaks across the floor. The walls were stone-lined and dry, with just a hint of soot above the hearth.

  Ethan stepped inside and dropped his pack with a relieved grunt—the one that held the dimensional tents. Those couldn’t go in the pouch. Too much magic layered on magic. They had to ride old-school.

  Then he looked down at the smaller pouch still clipped to his belt.

  “Well,” he said quietly, “I guess we don’t really need to unpack.”

  He sat back on his heels, still holding the pouch. “Everything else is in here. I can pull it out whenever I want.”

  It used to be strangely comforting, having his things spread out around him. The clutter, the order, the sense of building a space—even in hotel rooms, it made things feel normal.

  Now he didn’t have to do that. Or didn’t have a reason to.

  The bag followed him everywhere. It was convenient. He knew that. But somehow, it made this room feel a little less like a place—and a little more like just another stop.

  The room itself was surprisingly comfortable. Set into one corner above the windows, a pair of low-glow stones hummed quietly—one pale blue, the other faint yellow. Cool air drifted gently across the space in a steady rhythm, not sharp, just enough to feel clean and breathable. Like someone had invented the idea of a ceiling fan without the blades.

  Ethan tilted his head toward the airflow and closed his eyes for a second. “Okay. That’s amazing.”

  Then he noticed a narrow doorway near the back wall.

  “What’s in—oh,” he said, and stepped inside.

  The bathroom wasn’t large, but it had a small stone tub inset into the floor, a basin with a polished copper rim, and three rune-etched stones aligned along a shelf near the wall: blue, red, and white. Water, fire, and cooling.

  He turned the basin’s dial and watched water pour out in a clean arc. When he adjusted the runes, the temperature shifted—from warm, to hot, to icy cold and back again.

  He stared at it like it was holy.

  Then he saw the toilet.

  “Oh my god,” Ethan breathed.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Lyra said from the doorway.

  “It flushes,” Ethan whispered. “It flushes. We have plumbing.”

  The dogs were watching him now.

  Pixie tilted her head. Is this... important?

  “It’s everything,” Ethan said, still grinning.

  Buster snorted. Humans are weird.

  He's really excited, Amelia added helpfully.

  Lyra crossed her arms. “You fought through a slaver camp without blinking. But this? This is what does it?”

  Ethan flushed the toilet again just to prove the point. “It’s a real seat. With water. I thought I was going to have to dig holes for the rest of my life.”

  “Unbelievable,” Lyra muttered. “You’re worse than Pixie.”

  Thank you, Pixie said proudly.

  Pixie had claimed one of the blankets from the room—a worn blue wool with silver fringe—and dragged it downstairs like it was sacred.

  She tried to wrap it around herself and kept tripping over the ends.

  “I shall call it Lord Fluffington the Fifth,” she declared, tail high. “Earl of Naptime!”

  Lyra finally crouched beside her with a sigh. “Hold still,” she murmured, adjusting the corners and looping it gently across Pixie’s back like a formal sash. “There. Now it’s a proper cape.”

  Pixie lifted her head like she’d just been knighted. I feel majestic.

  “You look ridiculous,” Lyra said.

  And then—she giggled.

  It caught her off guard. A quick, genuine sound that rose out of her before she could smother it. Her eyes were bright. Her shoulders lighter.

  For the first time since joining the Pack, she looked like she was having fun.

  They didn’t unpack much after that. Just enough. Lyra took the cot near the window. Amelia curled by the hearth. Buster claimed the space by the door like it had always been his. Moose lay against the stone beneath the left window, back to the wall. Pixie arranged her blanket into a haphazard nest at the foot of Ethan’s bed, where she could supervise everyone.

  After a short pause, they went downstairs.

  The inn’s common room had shifted with the evening light. More lanterns now. Tables full. Voices layered.

  Jorrin waved them to a large table near the back. Mara delivered the food personally—bowls of thick stew, crusty bread still warm from the oven, butter with salt crystals that snapped under your teeth.

  “Eat while it’s hot,” she said. “Kitchen closes at the bell.”

  Buster didn’t wait for the bell. He leaned in like it was a mission.

  Pixie had to be redirected twice not to step in her own bowl.

  The Pack didn’t stray far from the table. Moose claimed a spot near the hearth. Buster slumped into a corner where he could enjoy the heat and the attention of any child who wandered close. Amelia stayed tucked under the bench, eyes open, calm.

  Pixie was already circling the room like she owned it. Tessa scratched behind her ears in rhythm. Kip ran back and forth with a stick pretending to lead a charge. Tomlin leaned against Moose like he was a tree.

  Pixie lay on her side near the hearth, blanket-cape draped like ceremonial armor.

  We should have a party, she said suddenly. A real one. With food. And sparkles. And decorations. Maybe cake. Definitely me.

  Ethan looked up from his bowl. “Why would we need a party?”

  Tessa gasped. “We should have a party!”

  Ethan blinked. “Wait, that wasn’t—”

  “That’s a fantastic idea,” Tessa declared. “We’ll need streamers! And hats! And cake shaped like wolves!”

  Pixie flipped her cape dramatically. I am clearly the inspiration.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “You’re something,” Buster muttered, not moving from his spot.

  “I like her,” Tessa said, now hugging Pixie around the middle. “She thinks like me.”

  You’re hired, Pixie said through the bond. You’re now my official Party Advisor for Streamer Deployment and Cake Oversight.

  Later, as the room quieted and the last few travelers filtered out, Mara came by with a tray of empty mugs.

  She paused beside Ethan. “I hear you’re planning a party.”

  Ethan blinked. “I di—”

  We’re calling it Pixie’s Glitter Gala and Wolf-Fancy Festival! Pixie yelled directly into the bond.

  Ethan sighed. “...Yes. Apparently, I am.”

  Mara smiled. “The kids are thrilled. Let me know when you want to reserve a night.”

  She walked off without waiting for a response.

  Ethan rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “Defeated by enthusiasm,” Lyra said beside him. “You never stood a chance.”

  That’s when the door opened again—and Gwenna stepped inside.

  Still in travel leathers, bow slung across her back, eyes sharp. She scanned the room, then walked toward them like she’d never considered another option.

  “You’re here,” she said, pulling out a chair. “Good.”

  Ethan nodded. “We got your message.”

  Her gaze passed over the Pack—Pixie’s blanket-cape, Buster’s relaxed sprawl, Lyra’s watchful seat at the edge.

  “You found another one,” she said.

  “She found us,” Ethan replied.

  Gwenna gave a short nod and raised a hand to Jorrin. He brought her a drink without needing to ask.

  She set it on the table but didn’t touch it.

  “We need to talk,” she said, voice low. “But not here.”

  Ethan frowned. “Why not here?”

  “I swore an oath,” Gwenna said. “System-bound. This doesn’t get discussed in open rooms. Upstairs. Yours, if it’s secure.”

  Ethan nodded slowly. “It is.”

  Gwenna stood, mug still in hand. “Then let’s move.”

  She didn’t wait to see if they followed. She already knew they would.

  They took the stairs in silence.

  The room was just as they left it—lantern stones dimmed to a soft glow, blankets folded, the air still faintly cool from the enchanted stones in the corner.

  Ethan locked the door behind them. Gwenna crossed to the wall and tapped her fingers lightly against the frame. A shimmer of silver-blue flickered outward and vanished into the seams.

  “Privacy ward’s still active,” she said. “Jorrin maintains it. Old Guild habit.”

  The Pack settled without being told. Moose took position near the window. Buster lay down near the door, tail flicking. Amelia slipped in beside Ethan, pressed close. Pixie found her nest and turned three times before collapsing dramatically onto Lord Fluffington.

  Lyra leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

  Gwenna didn’t sit immediately. She looked at Ethan, then the Pack. Then she pulled something from her belt—a smooth black stone—and set it gently on the table.

  “I need to talk about what happened at the slaver camp,” she said.

  Ethan gave a quiet nod. “We’re listening.”

  “I didn’t just see what you fought. I saw what the system flagged. The corruption. And what you did to it.”

  Ethan frowned. “The kill message?”

  “I mean the other one.” Gwenna met his eyes. “‘Corruption Cleansed: Source – Arcane Variant Tamer.’ That one.”

  Through the bond, Ethan felt the Pack shift—focus tightening, awareness locking in.

  Gwenna nodded once. “I swore a system oath before I saw it. You remember. I offered it freely. I thought it was just a precaution. Something to show respect before you opened your screen.”

  Ethan stayed quiet.

  “If I’d known what I’d see…” She exhaled. “I would’ve handled it differently. But I can’t change that now. I can’t talk about what I saw. Not your class, not your abilities, not your logs. Not to anyone.”

  Moose’s tone through the bond was measured. She regrets it.

  “I regret it,” Gwenna said, unaware of his comment but catching the silence. “Because what I saw—it matters. I’ve been chasing rumors of corruption for months. Strange markings. Creatures behaving in ways they shouldn’t. I’ve seen goblins that bleed like they’ve been branded. Boars with glowing veins. Cave crawlers that cast spells. I’ve seen corruption. But I’ve never seen anyone cleanse it. Until you.”

  Ethan shifted. “You want out of the oath.”

  “I want permission,” Gwenna corrected. “System oaths can be broken with mutual consent. I’m not asking to name you or publish your profile. But I need to tell people someone exists who can fight this. Cleanse it. I have connections who can help—Guildmasters, instructors at the Academy, people with real resources. I know the Guildmaster here in Celdoras personally. Quiet man. Knows how to keep things off the record when it counts.”

  She tapped the table once, lightly.

  “And I have a standing link to the Royal Mage Academy. My contact there can open access to the satellite campus in this city—the one with the library under the tower dome. If you want information on corruption, on older systems, buried magic theory... that’s where you’ll find it.”

  She looked back at Ethan.

  “But right now, I can’t even tell them there’s a reason to look.”

  Lyra tilted her head slightly. “So you want him to untie your hands.”

  Gwenna nodded. “Exactly.”

  Ethan looked at her for a long moment. “You really think this thing’s spreading?”

  “I don’t think,” Gwenna said. “I know.”

  She knelt and unrolled a folded parchment map onto the table. Dozens of tiny marks dotted the region—ink circles and slashes.

  “I’ve been tracking corruption signs for over eight months. It started small. Goblins first, then wildlife. Then the slave camp was the worst case so far—but not the only one. It’s slow. Careful. Like something testing the edges before pushing harder.”

  She tapped the map.

  “And now I’ve found signs here. In Celdoras.”

  “Where?” Lyra asked.

  “Three places. First, Dockline. The sewers. Workers have gone missing, and there are reports of lights—red ones. Moving without source.”

  Buster groaned softly through the bond. It’s always sewers.

  “Second,” Gwenna continued, “Stone Row. The forge tier. Some of the smiths have noticed… warping. Patterns in metalwork that shouldn’t be there. Wards that burn out faster than they’re supposed to.”

  She tapped the third mark.

  “And last, the Deep Archives. Beneath the Mage Quarter. Some of the old texts have started showing corruption runes—identical patterns to the ones I’ve been tracking in the wild.”

  Amelia’s tail twitched. “That sounds like a lot,” she said through the bond.

  “It is,” Lyra said quietly, her voice steady.

  She looked at Ethan again. “You don’t have to do all of it. I won’t force anything. But if you’re willing to be on standby—to help me investigate, to cleanse what we find—I can file an official requisition. Get you listed. Logged. Paid.”

  Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Paid?”

  “I’m not asking you to volunteer,” Gwenna said. “This is Guild-grade work. Dangerous, high-value. The requisition will go through the Royal Capital. I’ll list you as contracted support for corruption suppression. “You’ll earn Bits—and you’ll earn credit.”

  Gwenna paused, then added, “And not just gold and silver. I can get you time in the Guild’s training halls—no crowds, no posturing. Quiet hours. Real instructors. If you want to sharpen what you’ve already got, or start putting structure around it.”

  She met his eyes again, serious now.

  “I can also open a door at the Mage Academy—low-tier access through my contact. Not the inner sanctum, but enough to study, to ask questions. You’d be surprised what you can learn just by walking the right halls.”

  Her voice lowered slightly. “I’m not saying I know your level. I’m not trying to out you. But if you’re new to this... I can help.”

  Lyra finally spoke. “Why us?”

  “Because I’ve never seen anyone do what he did,” Gwenna said, simply. “Because you’re a unit. Because I trust you more than the random sellswords still half-drunk in the common room.”

  She paused.

  “And because I already covered your room here,” she added. “You can stay as long as you’re helping.”

  “You what?” Ethan asked.

  “I sent word ahead,” Gwenna said, not even flinching. “I figured if you said no, I’d eat the cost. But if you said yes… I didn’t want you worrying about a place to sleep.”

  There was a long pause.

  Pixie shifted slightly on Lord Fluffington. This feels big, she said.

  “It is,” Moose agreed.

  Ethan looked at Gwenna again. “And if I say no?”

  “Then I keep going,” she said. “Alone. I’ve fought corruption before. But cleansing? That’s new. That’s you.” She stood, rolled up her map, and tucked it back into her coat. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Same time.” She moved to the door, her hand resting briefly on the latch. “Think about it. Decide what you want to be.”

  The door clicked shut behind her. For a long moment, no one moved.

  Then Pixie sat up straighter, her cape sliding slightly askew.

  “So… does this mean we have to postpone the Glitter Gala?”

  Ethan stared at Pixie for a long moment, then laughed—not because it was funny, but because it was her. One minute they were talking about corruption, Guild requisitions, and city-wide danger, and the next, Pixie was worried about party planning.

  “No, Pixie,” he said. “We’re not canceling anything.”

  EXCELLENT, she declared, standing tall on Lord Fluffington with renewed purpose. The children are COUNTING on us. Party planning waits for no one!

  They didn’t talk about it again. The Pack found their places. Eventually, even Pixie stopped moving.