The safehouse was quieter than usual. A rare moment of stillness settled over the cramped space, the usual hum of conversation and weapons being sharpened replaced with the soft crackling of the hearth and the occasional sound of shifting fabric as someone adjusted their position. The past two days had been spent recovering, licking wounds both physical and mental, and despite the relative peace, Char could feel the exhaustion lingering in the air like a ghost.
He sat on one of the old wooden chairs by the window, the light of the fading afternoon spilling onto the table before him. His body ached. His ankle still throbbed from the awkward landing during the fight with Edmund, and his shoulders were stiff from the bruises Tess had given him in training. He had cuts, too—thin, shallow slices on his arms from when he'd barely dodged Edmund's summoned swords.
And yet, despite it all, he felt... good.
Different.
Two weeks ago, he'd been nothing but a stray—a useless outsider stumbling through a world he didn't belong in.
Now, things had changed.
Tess had stopped looking at him like he was fragile. Ishmael actually listened when he spoke. Marin, though still sarcastic and sharp, had checked his wounds with a quiet care that surprised him. Even Callen, ever the loudmouthed flirt, had started including him in their usual teasing without hesitation.
He was part of the group now.
It felt surreal.
He looked around the safehouse, taking it in.
Tess sat cross-legged on the floor, absently flipping a dagger through her fingers, her other hand occupied with what looked like an old map. Ishmael was on the couch, arms crossed, staring into the fire as if lost in thought. Callen sat near the table, boots propped up on a chair, chewing on a strip of dried meat while Marin leaned against the wall near the doorway, cleaning the blade of her short sword with a cloth.
It was such an ordinary scene.
For a long time, he'd thought of them as nothing more than characters, figments of his own imagination given flesh and breath. But here, in this quiet moment, they didn't feel like words on a page.
They were real.
And he was part of their world now, whether he liked it or not.
"You're staring, Char," Marin's voice cut through the silence, her sharp eyes flicking toward him. "You plotting something, or just admiring us?"
Char blinked, startled out of his thoughts. "Uh—no, just thinking."
Callen grinned, tossing a small piece of dried fruit at him. Char caught it instinctively. "Dangerous habit, that."
Tess smirked. "Especially for him."
Char rolled his eyes and bit into the fruit, chewing as he leaned back against his chair. "Funny. I was actually thinking about how different things feel now."
Ishmael glanced at him. "Different how?"
Char hesitated, trying to put it into words. "I guess... before, I felt like I was just tagging along. Like I wasn't really supposed to be here." He paused, glancing at each of them. "But now, I don't know. It feels more... normal, I guess?"
Tess raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying we've stopped treating you like a stray dog."
He flushed. "Not exactly how I'd put it, but—yeah, something like that."
Marin snorted. "Well, you did throw a knife into Edmund Ardent's shoulder. That's worth at least some respect."
"Right?" Callen leaned forward, waving a hand. "One minute we're getting our asses handed to us by some shadow-dancing swordsman, and the next thing we know, Char—our Char—comes flying down from the skylight like some kind of hero."
"I did not 'fly down,'" Char muttered, face burning. "I fell. Badly."
Tess smirked. "And sprained your ankle."
Callen gasped in mock offense. "Which makes it even better! A dramatic, messy landing, and yet, you still managed to throw that dagger like a pro." He patted Char's shoulder. "Truly, an underdog story for the ages."
Char groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Please, never call me an underdog again."
Laughter rippled through the room, warm and genuine.
Even Ishmael smiled slightly, though he quickly hid it behind his usual stoic mask.
Char exhaled, something unfamiliar and light settling in his chest.
Maybe things weren't as hopeless as he'd thought.
*
The morning air was cold and bitten through Char's jacket, the kind of crisp chill that settled into his bones and refused to leave. He pulled the fabric tighter around himself, exhaling a cloud of mist as he sat on the worn stone steps outside the safehouse. His body still ached, but he could move now without wincing too much. His ankle, though stiff, wasn't as bad as it had been days before.
He watched the others train.
Tess was sharpening her daggers, testing their balance with an occasional flick of her wrist, the blades spinning through the air before she caught them with ease. Marin was running through forms with her short sword, precise and fluid, her movements like a well-rehearsed dance. Ishmael, ever the quiet force, was near the treeline, working through strength drills—his muscles coiling as he lifted a heavy stone, throwing it, then retrieving it again.
It was the kind of morning that Char had only written about before—quiet, purposeful, and brimming with an unspoken energy.
"Shouldn't you be up and moving too?"
Char turned to find Callen sitting beside him, hands resting on his knees, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The rogue had appeared so silently that Char hadn't noticed him approach.
"I thought I'd take a minute to enjoy the cold," Char replied dryly.
Callen snorted. "Right. And you're not stalling because you're still sore?"
Char huffed but didn't deny it. "I got thrown off a building, sprained my ankle, and got tossed around by Tess in training. I think I deserve a break."
"Mm. Fair point."
They sat there in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the others. It was strange, Char realized—this was the first time he and Callen had spoken one-on-one. Usually, Callen's attention was spread among the group, teasing Marin, irritating Tess, or engaging in casual conversation with Ishmael.
But now, for the first time, Callen's focus was entirely on him.
"So," Callen said eventually, tossing a small rock between his hands, "what do you think about our mysterious visitor?"
Char blinked. "Visitor?"
"You know—our shadow-wielding, sword-summoning nightmare?" Callen tilted his head. "Edmund Ardent?"
Char's pulse skipped before he forced himself to remain still. "Oh. Right."
Callen shot him a look. "You gonna tell me you've never heard of him before?"
Char made a face. "Why would I have?"
"Because no one knows where the hell he came from," Callen said, tossing the rock up before catching it. "People don't just show up with that kind of skillset out of nowhere."
He wasn't wrong. Edmund Ardent was an anomaly.
Even Char, who had created this world, hadn't expected him to appear so soon.
But he couldn't exactly say that.
Instead, he shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. "Maybe he's some kind of mercenary."
Callen eyed him. "You don't actually believe that."
Char hesitated. "I don't know what I believe."
Callen exhaled through his nose, leaning back on his elbows. "You know, I can usually tell when people are lying."
Char stiffened.
"Relax," Callen chuckled. "I'm not gonna grill you for information you don't have."
Char swallowed, tension easing slightly. "Good, because I really don't know anything."
"Mm." Callen didn't sound convinced, but he didn't push. Instead, he stretched his arms behind his head and watched the sky, his usual easygoing expression returning. "Still, the way that bastard fought—it wasn't normal."
Char looked away. "Yeah. I know."
Callen studied him for a long moment before shifting the topic.
"You did good, though."
Char blinked. "What?"
"That fight," Callen said, grinning slightly. "You actually managed to land a hit on him. None of us expected that."
Char flushed. "It wasn't anything special."
"Oh, please." Callen nudged him. "Admit it, you felt pretty damn cool."
Char rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched despite himself.
"Alright, maybe a little."
Callen grinned, leaning back again. "Knew it."
The wind picked up slightly, rustling through the trees. The others continued their training, the sounds of blades clashing and footfalls on dirt filling the air.
And for the first time in a while, Char felt a little lighter.