Calista stirred, the dull ache in his body a quiet reminder of yesterday's ordeal. His limbs protested as he shifted, sore but no longer unbearable. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, familiar.
It took a moment to register that this wasn't the guest room.
The bed beneath him was softer, the sheets finer, the faint traces of gold embroidery unmistakable. This was Bastet's room. And wrapped around him, like some oversized, impossibly smug feline, was Bastet herself.
Her arms curled around his waist, one leg draped lazily over his, tail flicking idly against the blankets. Her breathing was steady, warm against his neck, a stark contrast to the cool morning air seeping in through the window.
He let out a slow breath, testing the weight of her hold. Secure. If he wanted to escape without waking her, he'd need strategy.
Careful, calculated movements.
After a thousand calculations, he shifted just enough to slip his arm free—
A low hum vibrated against his skin, more amusement than sleep-dazed confusion.
"Where do you think you're going?" Bastet's voice was a soft murmur, still thick with sleep.
Calista didn't pause in his efforts. "Breakfast won't make itself."
Her hold tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. "Mmm… no. Too early." A yawn stretched through her words, her fingers trailing absentmindedly along his side, pressing lightly against the sorest spots. Not enough to be cruel, but enough to make him exhale sharply through his nose.
Bastet purred. "See? You're still in no shape to be playing house."
Calista gave her a dry look. "So the solution is staying here all day?"
"Of course." She shifted, resting more of her weight against him, effortlessly pinning him down with ease that had nothing to do with strength and everything to do with sheer, infuriating stubbornness. "We sleep in. Then tonight, we eat out. Simple."
His lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't recall agreeing to this."
Bastet cracked an eye open, emerald glinting with sleepy satisfaction. "You didn't protest when I pulled you into bed last night."
That, unfortunately, was true. When she had kept him in the main bedroom with that look—that expectant, knowing look—he hadn't had the energy to argue. Even now, after resting, he wasn't particularly inclined to fight her on it.
But still.
A quiet exhale. He made one last attempt at untangling himself, a slow, subtle shift of his legs—
Bastet didn't even lift her head. She simply curled tighter, pulling him flush against her, her tail curling around his thigh. "You really should just accept your fate."
A long silence stretched between them. Calista weighed his options. Continued resistance would only encourage her to be more insufferable. And while he certainly could force his way free, it would hardly be graceful. Not to mention, he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't appreciate the comfort.
"…Fine," he relented. "But if I wake up starving, I'm blaming you."
Bastet huffed a laugh, the sound warm and pleased. "I'll allow it."
With that, she settled back down, her grip easing just enough to be comfortable, but never fully letting go. Calista sighed, allowing himself to relax, just this once.
The streets of Orario would wait. For now, this wasn't such a terrible way to start the day.
…
The air in Orario had shifted by the time they finally stepped outside—cooler now, edged with the promise of nightfall. Lanterns flickered to life along the streets, casting warm pools of light across cobblestone paths. The city was alive in that comfortable, rhythmic way it always was at this hour. Merchants haggled over closing sales, adventurers fresh from the Dungeon clinked their coin purses in satisfaction, and the scent of grilled meat and baked bread curled enticingly through the air.
Calista adjusted his sleeves, his usual grace unbroken despite the dull ache still threading through his limbs. He could move easily enough now, but exhaustion still clung to him at the edges, an invisible weight pressing against his ribs. He wasn't particularly eager to cook—not tonight.
Bastet, as usual, strolled beside him with an effortless sort of poise, tail swaying behind her as she lazily scanned their surroundings. It didn't escape him that she hadn't left to take an odd job today. No doubt she had decided, without a word, that keeping an eye on him took priority.
He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or begrudgingly grateful.
"Haven't eaten out in a while," Bastet mused, stretching her arms above her head. "So, what's the plan? Something cheap and quick, or do we indulge a little?"
Calista exhaled, gaze flicking over the bustling storefronts. "I'd rather avoid anything too crowded."
She hummed, tapping a finger against her lips. "That rules out most of the marketplace. Maybe one of the smaller taverns on the east side?"
He considered it, weighing options in his mind, but then—
"Oh my, fancy seeing you two again."
A soft, lilting voice carried through the evening air, smooth and teasing. Calista turned just in time to see her—the gray-haired waitress from The Hostess of Fertility, smile warm yet laced with something unreadable.
He'd forgotten to get her name last time. How rude.
Bastet arched a brow, smirking. "Seems we've been spotted."
The waitress approached with an easy stride, hands laced behind her back, head tilting just slightly as she appraised them. Her gaze lingered a fraction longer on him—perhaps noting the stiffness in his movements, the subtle tension in his frame.
"Rough day?" she asked, voice light but holding the kind of insight that made it impossible to lie.
Calista met her look with his usual ease. "I've had worse."
She let out a quiet hum, expression unreadable for half a second before her smile returned, softer this time.
"I see."
Then, with an effortless shift, she clasped her hands together. "Well, in that case, you should dine at the Hostess. It's been a while, no?"
Bastet shot him a pointed look—one of those come on, you know you want to expressions.
Calista considered resisting for the sake of principle. Then he caught another waft of warm, seasoned air from inside and decided against it.
"…I suppose we might as well," he relented.
The waitress's smile brightened. "Wonderful. Come along, then. I'll make sure you get the best seat."
They started toward the entrance, but as they stepped inside, Calista spoke, his voice smooth but carrying just enough curiosity to make it clear he wasn't about to let this go unnoticed.
"I neglected to ask last time," he said, matching her stride with ease. "May I have your name?"
The waitress blinked, then let out a small, knowing laugh. "Oh? Took you this long to ask?" She tapped a finger against her chin, considering him for half a moment before finally offering a playful tilt of her head.
"Syr Flova. But you can call me Syr."
Calista held her gaze for a moment, then gave a small nod. "A pleasure, Syr."
Her smile lingered, a quiet amusement flickering in her eyes. "Likewise, fancy boy."
Bastet chuckled under her breath, clearly enjoying herself far too much. Calista merely exhaled and followed Syr deeper into the tavern.
At the very least, the meal would be interesting.
Syr led them through the lively tavern. The Hostess of Fertility was as busy as ever, filled with the usual mix of adventurers unwinding after a long day in the Dungeon and locals simply enjoying a good meal. The scent of sizzling meat and freshly baked bread curled through the air, mingling with the faint spice of wine being poured at nearby tables.
She guided them toward a quieter corner, where the noise wasn't so overwhelming, and gestured smoothly for them to take a seat. "It's been a little over a week since you two last stopped by," she said, amusement lacing her voice as she set menus down in front of them.
"Must be keeping busy, huh?"
Calista settled into his chair with practiced ease, folding one leg over the other. "The Dungeon doesn't clear itself," he said lightly. "I've been focusing on progressing deeper. We usually eat at home, but considering my… current condition, cooking wasn't particularly appealing."
Bastet, already draped over her seat like she had no intention of moving for the rest of the night, smirked. "He means he's injured and I refused to let him overexert himself."
Syr's eyes flickered between them, sharp and knowing. "Ah, so that's why you were moving a little slower than usual." She propped her hands on her hips, head tilting slightly. "Nothing serious, I hope?"
"Manageable," Calista replied smoothly. He was not about to provide details for her to pry at.
Syr hummed, unconvinced but willing to let it slide. "Well, I'm glad you decided to stop by. Last time you were here, it was for a celebration, wasn't it?" Her gaze flickered with amusement as she leaned slightly on the table. "Something about moving into a townhouse?"
"Correct," he acknowledged. "Settling in has gone well enough."
She gave an approving nod before shifting her attention toward Bastet. "And you—last time, I couldn't help but notice," she said, her voice carrying an easy curiosity. "You're a goddess, aren't you?"
Bastet's emerald eyes gleamed with something playful as she leaned forward, resting her chin on one hand. "Observant, aren't you?" she purred. "Yes, I am."
Syr merely smiled, unfazed. "I don't see too many smaller Familia in Orario these days, especially not ones that keep to themselves. Makes me wonder—what's the Bastet Familia all about?"
Calista observed the way Bastet's expression flickered—just a shade softer, though still carrying that lazy amusement. "We're a family before we're an army," she answered, her voice smooth but carrying weight. "I want a Familia where no one is left behind."
Syr's eyes lingered on her for a moment longer before she straightened, giving a thoughtful nod. "I like that." Then, in a seamless shift, she clapped her hands together. "Well, then. What are we eating tonight?"
Calista glanced at the menu, scanning the options briefly before setting it aside. "Pasta."
Bastet, without missing a beat, grinned. "Seafood platter."
Syr chuckled, taking the menus back. "Straight to the point. I like it. And drinks?"
"Wine," Bastet answered easily.
"Milk," Calista added.
Syr blinked, then stifled a quiet laugh behind her hand. "Milk?"
Calista met her gaze, unwavering. "Milk."
Her lips curled, her amusement evident. "Alright, alright. Wine for the goddess, milk for the fancy boy. I'll get your orders in." With a smooth turn, she disappeared back toward the kitchen, leaving them with the comfortable hum of the tavern around them.
Bastet took a lazy sip of the complimentary water that had been set at the table, tail flicking idly. "Milk," she repeated, her smirk deepening.
Calista ignored her.
…
The pasta was good. Rich, well-seasoned, with just the right balance of sauce and bite to the noodles. The Hostess of Fertility's reputation wasn't unwarranted—every dish that came out of their kitchen was prepared with care, and it showed.
Calista ate at a steady, measured pace, careful not to push too fast with his body still recovering. Across from him, Bastet picked delicately at her seafood platter, plucking pieces apart with nimble fingers, savoring every bite. She always did prefer dishes she could pick at, something about the slow indulgence suiting her nature.
Syr had been by their table three times now.
It wasn't unusual for a waitress to check in, but this was bordering on excessive. She lingered just a moment too long, her gaze assessing rather than simply polite. Calista noticed. Bastet noticed. Neither of them said a word.
On the fourth pass, she didn't even ask about their food. Instead, she leaned lightly against the table, her expression far more subdued than before.
"Did you hear about the Killer Ant swarm yesterday?" she asked, her voice softer, lacking its usual playfulness.
Calista lifted his glass of milk, taking a sip before responding. "I was there."
Syr blinked, straightening slightly. "You were—?" Her lips pressed together for half a second, then she exhaled, folding her arms. "Then you already know how bad it got. Seven adventurers dead before the Guild managed to send a proper response team." Her gaze flickered to him, watching, searching. "A mess like that doesn't happen often on the upper floors."
He held her gaze, unreadable. "No, it doesn't."
She waited, but when no further reaction came, she let out a slow breath and glanced away. Bastet, for her part, didn't say anything, though her tail flicked lazily behind her chair.
"Well," Syr murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Thought I'd mention it. You seem like the kind to pay attention to things like that." She lingered just a moment longer before flashing a quick, subdued smile. "Let me know if you need anything else."
And then she was gone.
Calista continued eating, unaffected.
Bastet speared a piece of fish, chewed thoughtfully, then tilted her head. "So," she said, drawing out the word. "Are you heading back to the Dungeon tomorrow?"
"Yes."
She hummed, swirling her wine in her glass. "Not taking another day to rest?"
"No. The swarm only proved how weak I still am." He placed his utensils down, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "I'll hold off updating my Falna until the end of the week."
Bastet arched a brow, then gave a slow, knowing smile. "Ah. So you want to see how much you can push yourself before we check your numbers."
Calista didn't confirm or deny it, but they both knew she was right.
She chuckled, stretching out under the table, and a moment later, he felt the light brush of her foot against his calf. A slow, absent movement, playful but not distracting. He didn't react.
They finished the rest of their meal in comfortable silence.
The final clink of valis on the counter signaled the end of their meal. Calista gave a short nod of thanks to the staff before turning toward the door, Bastet following at his side with a satisfied hum. The night air greeted them with its usual crispness, the streets of Orario calmer now, though the liveliness never truly faded.
Just as they were about to step outside, a familiar voice stopped them.
"Calista."
He turned, finding Syr standing nearby, her usual easy smile in place, though there was something just a shade different—an intent behind it.
"I need a favor."
That was… unexpected. He arched a brow, tilting his head slightly in curiosity. "A favor?"
She nodded, resting a hand on her hip. "Can you stop by the Hostess before heading into the Dungeon tomorrow?"
It wasn't a particularly demanding request, but the specificity of it stood out.
"I need to head to the Guild first," he said, giving her a measured look. "It wouldn't be much of a detour, but it would add a few minutes."
"That's fine," Syr replied smoothly. "Just drop by. I promise it won't take long."
He studied her for a moment, but she gave nothing away beyond the same soft confidence she always carried. Eventually, he gave a small nod. "Alright. I'll meet you here."
Syr's smile widened slightly, as if she'd expected no other answer. "See you in the morning, then."
With that, they stepped out into the cool streets.
Bastet wasted no time linking her arm around his. Given their height difference, the motion was slightly awkward—her being noticeably taller meant her arm curled lower than was natural, but she didn't seem inclined to let go.
"You're humoring her," she said, her voice amused as they strolled through the quieter roads toward their townhouse.
"I agreed to a minor inconvenience."
"A favor," Bastet corrected with a slow, knowing smirk. "You don't seem the type to indulge in those lightly."
Calista exhaled through his nose, but didn't argue.
They made their way home in comfortable silence, the distant hum of Orario's nightlife fading as they reached the quieter northeastern district. When they arrived, Calista moved toward the guest room without hesitation—only for Bastet's fingers to curl lightly around his wrist.
He turned just slightly, meeting her expectant emerald gaze.
"You're sleeping in my room again."
"That wasn't a question."
She smiled. "It wasn't meant to be."
Calista toyed with the idea of resisting—pride, principle, some half-buried instinct—but it flickered out as quickly as it sparked. What was the point anymore? With a breath more exhale than sigh, he let himself be drawn inside, silent and resigned, like a prisoner who'd long since stopped rattling the bars.
…
The early hours of Orario were always calmer, the streets not yet fully awake, save for those with reason to be up before the sun had fully risen.
After his usual visit to the Guild—checking in with Eina, saying their hellos—Calista altered his route slightly, making his way toward the Hostess of Fertility. It was a small detour, barely an inconvience.
Syr was already waiting outside.
She spotted him quickly, her ever-present smile curving her lips as she stepped forward. In her hands, neatly wrapped in cloth, was what looked unmistakably like a lunchbox.
"I made this for you," she said, holding it out without hesitation. "For lunch in the Dungeon."
Calista stared at the offering, expression unreadable. His gaze flickered briefly to her face—calm, assured, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and took it.
"Thank you," he said smoothly. "I'll repay you for this."
Syr shook her head, the motion light, easy. "No need," she said, clasping her hands behind her back. "Just stop by every morning instead. I'll prepare lunch for you."
That was… unusual.
He didn't comment on it.
People acted strangely when attraction was involved—though he didn't quite understand what about him had warranted such attention from her, it wasn't particularly difficult to recognize the signs. He supposed he couldn't blame her.
Still, this was abnormal behavior.
He didn't press her on it.
Instead, he dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Then I suppose I'll see you tomorrow."
Syr's smile lingered, something just beneath it unreadable. "Looking forward to it."
With that, he turned, making his way toward the Dungeon. The weight of the lunchbox in his hand was light, but the implications behind it were something else entirely.
…
The past week blurred into a cycle of steel, sweat, and silent exhaustion. Calista descended into the Dungeon each morning, pushing himself to the limits of what his body could endure. Bastet must have realized he was staying longer—she had yet to say a word about it. Eina had commented the first few times, but when it became clear that he wouldn't be swayed, she settled for the occasional exasperated sigh.
The stone corridors of Floors 5-9 had become familiar, each turn and passage etched into his mind through repetition. The monsters were no different. Frog Shooters lurked in the shallows, their bulbous eyes tracking his movements before extending their tongues out. War Shadows slipped between the cracks of dim light, their skeletal frames lunging from blind spots with lethal precision. Killer Ants scuttled in numbers, their thick carapaces crunching beneath his blades. Purple Moths drifted in erratic flight, seeking to spread their numbing powder before an arrow cut them from the air.
Each day followed the same rhythm. Draw. Loose. Step. Strike. Dodge. The engagements blurred together, instinct guiding him more than thought. He fought as long as his body allowed, stretching his endurance further with each dive. He was no stranger to these creatures anymore, their attacks predictable, their weaknesses laid bare after countless encounters. His swords bit through the gaps in an ant's armor before it could react. Arrows found a Frog Shooter's wide eye. A well-timed sidestep put him out of reach of a War Shadow's claws, his counterstrike swift and final.
By the end of the seventh day, the numbers told the story of his week: thirty-six Frog Shooters, forty-one War Shadows, fifty-five Killer Ants, thirty-seven Purple Moths.
Each night, he surfaced at dusk, the scent of dungeon stone clinging to his skin. Syr's lunch always found its way into his hands in the morning, and he ate it without fail, though he still wasn't sure why she insisted. Did she simply appreciate beauty? Or was there something more? He had no answer, and he had no time to dwell on it.
A familiar chittering echoed through the tunnels, the rhythmic clatter of hardened limbs against the cavern floor.
Calista exhaled, shifting his stance as four Killer Ants emerged from the darkness. Their red compound eyes gleamed with eerie focus, antennae twitching as they locked onto him.
Four. Half of what he had faced before. Half of what nearly tore him apart. That time, he hadn't been able to kill even one. He'd barely escaped.
But that was then.
The first ant lunged.
Calista moved.
His body flowed through the opening like water, twin short swords flashing in the dim light. A clean, diagonal cut split the nearest ant's exoskeleton, dark ichor spilling from the wound. He stepped into the motion, twisting his wrist to drive a second blade into the next ant's thorax.
The chittering intensified. The others surged forward, mandibles snapping. Calista pivoted, his foot sliding over the damp stone as he cut across the third ant's side. A second slash struck the fourth, not deep enough to kill but enough to stagger.
A sudden impact rattled through his bracers as a mandible strike found him. His reinforced leather held—the blow absorbed, leaving him unharmed.
The ants regrouped, clicking in agitation, their movements erratic. Wounded, but not finished.
He didn't wait.
Calista darted forward, slipping past another bite. His blade plunged into the first ant's head, driving through to the other side. Before the corpse could hit the ground, he was already moving, twisting away as his second sword carved a rising slash through the second ant's neck. It collapsed in a twitching heap.
The last two hesitated, instinct warring with aggression.
He capitalized on it.
A feint—his foot shifting forward—drew one into attacking. It lunged, but he was already stepping past it, his sword reversing in his grip before driving straight through its head.
Only one remained.
The final ant's body was low to the ground, trembling, mandibles clicking nervously. It knew.
Calista did not give it the chance to flee.
One step, one clean motion. His blade swept downward, severing the head from its body.
Silence.
He exhaled, the tension bleeding from his muscles, though his breath remained steady. The corpses twitched as residual nerve signals flickered through their severed limbs. Calista flicked the blood from his swords, the motion practiced, efficiently.
Four bodies at his feet. A stark contrast to the eight that had once driven him to the brink.
He collected the magic stones, fingers brushing over the rough edges of chitin as he searched for any valuable drops.
When there was nothing left to linger on, he stood, sheathing his blades in a smooth motion. His gaze flicked down the tunnel, shadows stretching ahead.
Tomorrow, he will descend again.
…
The Guild at night was quieter, but never truly empty. The usual din of voices had softened, replaced by the rustle of parchment, the occasional murmur of transactions, and the steady flicker of lantern light casting long shadows across the polished floors.
Calista approached the counter with unhurried steps, the pouch of magic stones resting lightly in his grip. He placed it down with a soft clink, the weight of a day's worth of work exchanged for valis.
Eina didn't blink at the amount.
She counted with practiced efficiency, her movements precise, detached. The silence between them stretched—not uncomfortable, but different. Before, she might have filled it with a sigh, a remark about his recklessness, a lingering look that betrayed her concern. Now, she merely did her job.
When she finally looked up, she hesitated. Then, after a breath, she spoke.
"I've been… distant."
Calista said nothing, waiting.
"I don't want you to think it's because of you," she continued, fingers briefly tightening around the edge of the counter. "I had a talk with someone. About getting too close to adventurers."
She didn't have to finish the thought.
Because they die.
Calista regarded her for a moment before replying, his voice as steady as ever. "Then you have nothing to fear."
Eina frowned slightly. "That's not—"
"The only way I'll die," he said, just as smoothly, "is if I kill myself."
Her breath caught. Not a sharp intake, not an audible reaction, but something minuscule, something in the way she stilled. She didn't laugh.
She only exhaled, slow and controlled. "…That's not funny."
"It's not meant to be."
She studied him for a long moment, and though her expression flickered between frustration and reluctant relief, something in her finally eased.
"…Are we good?"
He tilted his head slightly, considering, then shook it once. "No hard feelings."
Eina let out a quiet breath. "Good."
Calista tapped a finger lightly against the counter. "Though, I did think I might've done something wrong."
She blinked. "Wrong?"
"During our last hangout."
Her mind blanked—then flooded with lingerie.
Heat rose to her face in an instant.
"No—!" She coughed, straightening as if sheer posture alone could physically push the memory out of her mind. "No, nothing was wrong. At all. Completely fine."
Calista's lips curved—just slightly. Amused. Knowing.
Eina caught it immediately.
"I have work to do," she said too quickly, turning back to her paperwork.
Calista inclined his head, stepping away, his movements unhurried. The tension from before had faded, settled into something familiar. The weight between them had lifted.
And as he stepped out into the cool night air, he found himself satisfied.
…
The warm glow of lanterns spilled from the windows of the Hostess of Fertility, casting golden light onto the cobbled streets. The usual rowdy laughter and clinking of mugs hummed from within, muffled by the thick wooden doors. Calista stepped up to the entrance, the cool night air carrying the faint scent of baked bread and roasted meats.
Syr was already waiting outside, leaning casually against the doorframe with her arms crossed. She brightened as he approached, her silver hair catching the light.
"You're later than usual," she remarked, pushing off the frame with a teasing lilt in her voice.
Calista handed over the empty lunchbox she'd given him earlier. "The Dungeon doesn't operate on a set schedule."
Syr took the box with a knowing smile. "Still, you made it. You always do."
A routine, then. It had become one without him realizing.
He gave a nod, glancing down at the lunchbox. "The meal was excellent, as always. Thank you."
Syr hummed, slipping the box under her arm. "You say that every time, but I never get tired of hearing it." She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "Did you eat properly, or did you just pick at it between fights?"
He smirked. "I have my priorities, but I assure you, I didn't waste it."
"That better be true," she warned, mock-serious. "It'd be a shame if I had to start force-feeding you."
"Now there's a terrifying thought."
She laughed, soft and amused. "I'd do it."
"I don't doubt it."
For a moment, neither spoke. The night air settled between them, comfortable. There was no need for more words.
Then, with one last glance toward the tavern, Syr offered him a small wave. "Get some rest, Calista."
He dipped his head in response before turning away, slipping into the quiet streets.
…
Calista lay on his stomach atop the bed, bare-backed, while Bastet languidly draped herself over him. Her golden-brown skin was warm against his, her chin resting on his shoulder as she traced lazy patterns across his back.
"You've been working hard, little moon," she murmured, voice thick with drowsy amusement. "Let's see the results."
She pricked her finger, the warmth of her divine ichor pressing into his back as his Falna unraveled beneath her touch. The familiar sensation of his body adjusting, adapting, hummed through him—a quiet validation of his efforts.
Strength: I-77 -> H-120
Endurance: I-74 -> H-113
Dexterity: H-152 -> G-220
Agility: H-120 -> H-145
Bastet exhaled, shifting slightly, her weight sinking deeper against him. "Strength, Endurance, Dexterity, Agility… all climbing nicely. A solid seven-day run."
Calista hummed in acknowledgment, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the wooden beams above. The grind had been relentless, but worth it.
Then—
Bastet sighed, dramatically draping herself further over him, her weight pressing down like an overgrown cat. "But still no magic."
He chuckled. "Surprising, isn't it?"
"Tragic," she corrected, voice thick with lament. "If only we could afford a Grimoire… I bet you'd have the most beautiful magic."
He arched a brow, twisting his head slightly to glance at her. "You're assuming I'd have any talent for it."
"I know you would," she purred, nuzzling against his hair. "A spell woven in elegance, power, and poise. You'd make it look effortless."
Calista huffed, amused but unconvinced. Magic had never been something he longed for. And yet…
Magic: I-0
The number sat there, stark and absolute. Everything else climbed, progressed—except for Magic. He'd never given it much thought before, but the sheer contrast gnawed at something in the back of his mind.
Bastet seemed to sense it. Her fingers traced his spine in idle patterns, soothing yet deliberate. "It doesn't bother you?"
He exhaled. "Not enough to care." A pause. "But I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel… odd."
Her lips curled in a knowing smile against his shoulder. "Perhaps one day, then."
"Perhaps."
Calista let the thought linger between them before speaking again. "I'll be heading deeper next." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "Floor 10-12"
Bastet hummed against his shoulder, neither surprised nor dissuasive. "The next threshold," she mused, lips brushing against his skin as she shifted. "Have you been studying?"
He nodded. "The monsters are tougher, more organized. Orcs won't be the worst of it. Imps can tire you out, Hard Armoreds are just that, and Silverbacks…" His fingers tapped absently against the mattress. "They're fast. Strong."
She let out a soft purr, her fingers tracing over the exposed markings of his Falna. "And you?"
He knew what she meant. His stats were rising, but numbers alone weren't everything.
"I'm ready," he answered. Not arrogance, not recklessness—just certainty.
Bastet didn't argue, didn't try to stop him. She never did. Instead, she nuzzled against his hair, her voice warm with amusement. "Then we should celebrate after."
He blinked, turning his head just enough to catch her gaze.
She smirked. "Your first dive into the deeper floors. That calls for a night out."
He considered it. It had been a while since the last time. A week, at least, since they'd spent an evening outside of this quiet home.
He gave a slight nod. "Fine."
Bastet chuckled, pleased, before lazily stretching out over him. "Mm, then it's settled. We'll make a night of it."
The weight of her draped over him, the warmth of her presence—it was grounding in a way he wasn't sure he could put into words.
Neither of them said much after that.
The candlelight flickered, dimming as the wax burned low.
Eventually, Bastet shifted off him with a satisfied sigh, stretching like a feline before padding toward the other side of the room. Calista sat up, rolling his shoulders, before reaching for his nightwear—simple silk, light against his skin.
Bastet had already slipped into something similar, though her draped fabrics were far lazier, barely secured at the shoulders as she moved about with the ease of someone utterly comfortable in her space. She snuffed out the last candle, the room settling into quiet darkness.
As Calista lay back, the sheets cool beneath him, Bastet slid in beside him, shifting close but unintrusive. A familiar presence.
There was nothing more to say.
The night stretched on, steady and unbroken, as they drifted into sleep.
…
The early morning air was cool, crisp against Calista's skin as he moved through the quiet kitchen. The scent of cooking filled the space—something light but rich, balanced flavors that wouldn't weigh too heavy in the stomach. Bastet slept soundly, curled beneath the layers of their shared bed, her breathing slow and steady.
She'd stir soon enough. And when she did, there'd be a meal waiting.
Calista plated the food with precision, setting it neatly on the small table before slipping out of the house without a sound.
...
The Guild was quieter than usual at this hour, the hum of activity still just a whisper on the wind. A few bleary-eyed adventurers milled about—early risers, night owls, or the unlucky caught between both. The clink of valis and mutter of strategy echoed sparsely off the stone walls. Calista made his way to the reception desks, where Eina sat alone, already elbow-deep in a fresh stack of documents.
She spotted him at once, emerald eyes narrowing slightly. "You're here even earlier."
Calista rested an elbow on the counter, meeting her gaze with calm ease. "I wanted to inform you—I'm heading deeper. Floor ten through twelve."
She exhaled, setting down the paperwork. "At least you're keeping your promise," she muttered.
"You sound almost impressed."
"I wouldn't go that far." Her fingers tapped idly against the desk. "You've been reading up?"
"Of course."
She gave a slight nod, approving despite herself. Then, after a beat, she slid a folded parchment across the counter. "Here. Floor ten through twelve, properly mapped."
Calista picked it up, checking its details. The layout, monster analysis—everything he'd expected.
"That'll be five hundred valis," she noted, waiting expectantly.
He paid without complaint, tucking the map away. Then, before she could return to her work, he added, "I'll treat you tomorrow night."
Eina blinked, caught off guard. "…What?"
"You've been overworked, haven't you?" His tone was light, teasing. "Consider it a stress relief measure."
She huffed, crossing her arms. "And here I thought you didn't concern yourself with such things."
"I don't," he admitted. "But you do."
She gave him a look but didn't refuse.
"Fine," she relented. "But if you die before then, I'll be mad."
"I'd expect nothing less."
He left her with that, stepping away as she sighed, already rubbing her temples.
…
The tavern doors were open, the scent of fresh bread and simmering stews spilling into the street. The morning rush hadn't fully hit yet, leaving the space quieter than usual.
Syr stood near the entrance, waiting with a small wrapped lunchbox in her hands.
"Punctual as ever," she remarked, offering it to him.
He accepted it with a small nod. "It's a habit."
She didn't respond immediately. Instead, she lingered, gaze thoughtful.
Something on her mind.
Calista didn't press. If she wanted to say something, she would.
After a moment, she simply smiled, a touch softer than usual. "Be careful today."
"I always am."
She didn't argue, only watching as he turned to leave.
Something about her expression lingered in his thoughts longer than he expected.
…
The dim cavern stretched before him, jagged stalagmites casting long shadows across the uneven terrain. Faint light pulsed from the Dungeon's veins, bathing the stone in a dull, flickering glow. Calista perched atop a rocky outcrop, low to the ground, his breathing steady as his sharp gaze tracked the lone Orc below.
A massive brute, easily twice his height. Its thick hide bore a mottled mix of green and gray, scarred from countless battles. Even at rest, its muscles twitched, nostrils flaring as it scanned its surroundings. It was slow, but a single misstep could make that irrelevant.
His fingers brushed over the fletching of an armor-piercing arrow, sliding it free with practiced ease. Drawing the bowstring, he took a slow breath, shoulders rolling into position. The Orc hadn't noticed him. That was about to change.
The bowstring thrummed.
The arrow struck true, burying deep into the brute's shoulder. The impact sent a ripple through its massive frame, a guttural bellow tearing through the cavern as it staggered, its tiny eyes snapping toward the source of pain.
Calista was already nocking a second shot.
This one found the Orc's gut, sinking into thick flesh. It snarled, wheezing out something between a growl and a cough, but there was no hesitation in its charge. Blood pounded in its ears, rage eclipsing pain. It moved—faster than it had any right to—but not faster than he'd expected.
Calista descended from his vantage point, boots landing light against the rock. Distance control. That was key. He needed one more shot before it reached him—just one more to slow it down.
He loosed an arrow mid-stride.
It whistled past the Orc's side. A miss.
No time to correct.
Calista abandoned the bow, drawing both short swords in a fluid motion. The steel gleamed under the Dungeon's glow as he settled into stance, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet.
The Orc was on him.
A fist the size of his torso crashed down, fast, brutal—missing by a hair's breadth as Calista twisted aside, the force of the blow sending cracks through stone. Debris scattered at his feet.
Another attack followed, a wild backhand swing. Too close to evade cleanly.
He raised an arm to brace—impact slammed into his reinforced bracer, force jolting through his frame. The blow wasn't bone-shattering, but it sent him skidding back, boots scraping against the cavern floor.
Still standing.
The Orc rumbled in frustration, heavy breath curling from its maw. It lunged again.
Calista moved first.
His first blade sliced across its ribs, a clean arc of steel and momentum. The second followed, stabbing deep under thick muscle.
The Orc roared, staggering back, its own weight betraying it. Blood slicked the ground beneath its feet.
It was dying. But not dead.
A final, desperate swing. Reckless.
He weaved beneath it, the air brushing past his cheek as the strike missed its mark. The Orc was wide open.
Calista stepped in.
Both blades plunged into its chest, piercing through flesh, muscle, life itself. A choked gasp, a twitch of movement—then nothing. The brute collapsed, its massive frame kicking up dust as it hit the ground.
Silence settled.
Calista exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he sheathed his blades. He crouched beside the body, retrieving what arrows remained intact. His fingers brushed against the cooling skin—one fluid motion later, the Orc's magic stone was in his grasp.
A clean victory.
He stood, brushing dust from his cloak. One fight down. The first of many.
…
Calista moved carefully, the lingering ache in his ribs a reminder of his earlier battle. The potion had done its job—his body felt whole again—but the tension of Floor 10 remained.
A faint chittering echoed from above.
His breath remained steady as he stepped forward, boots light against the uneven stone. The sound was distant, indistinct—until it wasn't.
A high-pitched screech tore through the silence.
From the ceiling, a blur of dark wings dropped.
Calista had only a moment to register the movement before the creature slammed into him, its leathery body striking with jarring force. Clawed feet scraped against his shoulder, fangs snapping just shy of his face before it flapped away, circling back into the darkness.
The attack left no more than a shallow scratch, but that wasn't the concern.
A Bad Bat.
Its piercing red eyes gleamed in the dim light, its grotesque form twitching mid-air as it tracked his movements. This wasn't like the sluggish brute he'd faced earlier—this was speed, unpredictability.
He stepped back, bow already in hand, an arrow nocked in one fluid motion. Control the fight. Kill it before it gets close again.
The string snapped forward.
The arrow cut through the air—only to miss.
The Bat twisted sharply, moving in erratic, unnatural jerks. Its shrill, grating screech filled the cavern, sending vibrations through the air. The walls seemed to tremble, the flickering Dungeon light wavering at the edges of his vision.
A pulsing, disorienting hum pressed against his skull.
His fingers tightened around the bow. The shot had been difficult before—now, his vision swam slightly, his balance subtly off. The screech had done something. Debilitation? Aimed disruption?
Not good.
The Bat shrieked again, folding its wings inward as it shot toward him.
He moved, dodging to the side—too slow.
Its fangs raked across his arm, another minor wound, but it wasn't the damage that mattered. It was the fact that it kept hitting while he failed to land a single strike.
The bow wouldn't work. Not like this.
In a single, practiced motion, he slid it behind him, drawing his twin short swords instead. The familiar weight balanced in each hand as he adjusted his stance, eyes locking onto the erratic fluttering of the creature above.
He struck.
The Bat darted away.
His blades cut through empty air, missing entirely as the creature wheeled upward, letting out what could only be described as a mocking screech.
A flicker of frustration threatened to creep in. He pushed it down, steadying his breath. Fighting its movement is pointless. It's too fast, too reactive.
Which meant—
He stopped chasing.
Lowering his center of gravity, he let the blade in his right hand dip just slightly, keeping his gaze locked not on the Bat's movements, but on its rhythm. It keeps swooping. Same angles. It expects me to react late.
He waited.
The Bat shrieked again, diving at him.
This time, he moved first.
His right blade shot up, piercing straight through the creature's thin chest just as it descended. The impact was sharp, a sickening crunch beneath the steel as the Bat let out a pained, warbling cry, its wings spasming as it recoiled.
Not fast enough.
His left sword struck an instant later, slicing deep through the leathery membrane of its wing.
The creature flailed, its flight unstable, dipping lower than before.
It wasn't dead yet.
One last desperate screech split the air, and another tremor of sound pulsed outward. His head rang from the force, but he didn't falter.
The Bat lunged.
He didn't dodge. He didn't need to.
He stepped forward, twisting his body with the motion—and let his blade find its mark.
The strike plunged straight through the creature's center, steel piercing through flesh and sinew.
The Bat gave one final, shuddering spasm. Then, it went still.
Calista withdrew his weapon, letting the lifeless form drop. It hit the stone floor with a soft, unceremonious thud.
Silence returned.
The distant chittering had faded. The cavern held its breath.
Calista took a slow, measured breath, rolling his shoulders before bending to retrieve what little remained—magic stone first, then his fallen arrows. He glanced at the cut on his arm—barely more than a scratch. Nothing worth wasting another potion over.
With a final glance around the cavern, he sheathed his swords, exhaling softly.
As Calista was about to leave he froze.
Something was watching.
A whisper of movement. A flash of red eyes.
Laughter.
The first firebolt streaked toward him.
He twisted, the heat licking past his shoulder. Then they came—small, hunched figures darting between the rubble, their skin an ashen gray, fanged grins stretching wide. Imps.
A blur from the left. Clawed fingers raked against his armor. Another from the right—more a test than a strike. A third, nearly unseen, hurled a blade. The impact glanced off his bracer with a sharp clang.
Testing him.
A taunt.
Calista stepped back, weight settling, eyes narrowing as the Imps circled. The laughter rose again, shrill and mocking.
He pulled an arrow in a single smooth motion, drawing it back. The nearest Imp was still moving, ducking erratically—predict the rhythm, don't chase it.
He loosed.
The shot missed, the Imp twisting away at the last second, its grin widening.
Chittering excitement.
Calista exhaled, adjusting his aim, leading the next target. The string thrummed, and the second arrow struck true.
A sharp cry. The Imp staggered, clutching at the shaft buried deep in its side. Its laughter turned to snarling fury.
The others stopped to watch.
Then they moved.
The injured one scrambled back, allowing the others to charge.
One feinted high—a distraction. The second lunged low, trying to hook his ankle.
He sidestepped, but the third was already waiting.
Contact. A sharp jolt as his footing wavered—not down, but enough.
The next instant, his bow was away, blades drawn.
The first Imp came fast. He met it head-on, steel flashing as his sword carved across its chest. It hissed, retreating a step too late. His second blade struck in the same breath, slicing deep into its side.
Blood spattered stone.
It fell back, breathing ragged.
Calista turned, already shifting to the next.
A blur of motion—then smoke.
A thick, choking burst filled the air, the Imps vanishing behind the haze. A rock hurtled toward him, missing by inches.
His grip on his swords didn't change.
He listened.
A footstep, too eager.
Calista pivoted, swinging wide. His blade caught flesh, and the wounded Imp let out a gurgling shriek as it crumpled to the ground.
One down.
Another rushed forward, desperation replacing cunning.
The first strike missed. The second didn't.
His sword plunged deep, driving through its ribcage. Its body spasmed, then fell limp.
Only one remained.
The last Imp stood frozen, its grin long gone. It hissed, glancing toward the darkness beyond.
Then it bolted.
Calista didn't pursue.
He watched as it disappeared, the echo of its retreating chitter fading into the depths of the Dungeon.
The silence that followed was almost louder than the fight.
Calista inhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before flicking the blood from his blades. He sheathed them without ceremony, stepping over the fallen as he retrieved the magic stones.
…
The taste of honeyed bread clung stubbornly to his tongue, dense and cloying like something embalmed in syrup out of spite. Syr couldn't cook to save her life—every bite a challenge, every chew a test of endurance—but he'd still eaten every last crumb. Her lunch had been a brief moment of quiet—a necessary pause before the relentless grind continued.
Now, the Dungeon stretched behind him, the echoes of battle still fresh in his ears.
Floor 10 had proven itself a worthy opponent.
Bad Bats swarmed from the darkness, shrieking as their talons scraped against his armor. The Imps cackled, their movements erratic, smoke and fire disrupting his vision. The Orcs—seven of them through the dive—were the worst. Each blow they landed was like a hammer to his frame, relentless and punishing. He had dodged, countered, struck back harder, but it had cost him. Too much.
His body knew it, even if his composure did not.
Cuts wept sluggishly against torn fabric, bruises darkened beneath the shredded remnants of his armor, his movements fluid despite the damage he had sustained. The potions had only delayed the inevitable. He had used them sparingly, stretching every drop, but in the end, even magic had limits.
And so did he.
Yet, he walked.
The deeper floors faded behind him, the light shifting subtly as he neared the surface.
Other adventurers parted without a word.
A glance. A hesitation. Then space.
Not a single one moved toward him. No questions, no offers of aid. Just quiet, wary avoidance.
He didn't blame them.
To them, he wasn't a man barely standing on his last reserves. He was an unmoving force, a bloodstained specter emerging from the depths, carrying the weight of battle with silent, unshaken grace.
Their instincts warned them: Stay away.
Even those who thrived in violence recognized something unsettling in his steadiness.
And so, the path remained clear.
By the time he reached the upper floors, the weight in his limbs had turned to something distant. Steps measured. Breath even. Each motion rehearsed in muscle memory.
Eyes followed him more openly now.
Guild workers. Vendors. Adventurers who had long since left the Dungeon for the day.
The streets of Orario weren't kind to weakness, but they weren't kind to something other either. A man should stumble when he was broken. Should groan, lean on something, show the wounds he bore.
He did none of those things.
And they didn't know what to make of it.
The door clicked shut behind him.
One more step.
Then, his body failed.
Calista felt the moment his strength slipped—not in pain, not in shock, but in the quiet certainty that this was inevitable. His limbs had carried him further than they should have, his body nothing more than a finely tuned instrument playing its last note.
The floor never came.
Instead—warmth.
Arms enveloped him, firm yet gentle, catching him before the fall. A familiar scent wrapped around him—spiced incense, soft jasmine, the lingering warmth of sunlit silk.
His head rested against golden-brown skin, the steady rise and fall of breath beneath his cheek.
A hand cradled the back of his head, fingers threading lightly through sweat-dampened scarlet strands. Another pressed against his back, grounding him.
"Shhh… I've got you," a voice murmured, low and smooth, edged with something almost fond.
Bastet.
He might have answered. Might have said something—an apology, perhaps, or some effortless quip to make light of the fact that he had collapsed before he even made it to bed.
But the moment was fleeting.
His vision blurred, muscles slackening in the security of her hold. The exhaustion he had kept at bay, the wounds he had ignored, the weight of it all—it caught up to him.
And for the first time since stepping onto Floor 10, Calista let go.
The last thing he felt before the darkness took him was the press of a palm against his cheek, the whisper of a sigh against his temple—
And the faintest trace of a purr.
…
Bastet barely heard the door close behind them before Calista's weight shifted against her. His legs gave out, the last of his strength failing him, but she caught him with ease, her arms securing him before he could hit the floor.
"Shhh... I've got you," she murmured, her voice low, steady.
He didn't respond. Not even a flicker of resistance.
Bastet's emerald eyes narrowed as she took in the state of him—bloodstained, armor shredded, bruises blooming beneath torn fabric. Yet even in collapse, his body held an unnatural poise. Grace Unbroken. It held him together even when his body was long past its limit.
It was infuriating.
With a breath, she adjusted her hold and carried him inside.
Her tail flicked as she maneuvered them toward the bathroom. She wasn't leaving him like this.
The reinforced leather armor was ruined. Splintered bracers, gashed plating—nothing worth salvaging. She stripped it off him piece by piece, working efficiently.
Underneath, his body was a map of bruises, cuts, and raw scrapes. The worst was a deep gash along his ribs where the armor had been torn open. It had stopped bleeding, but it would scar if left untreated.
Bastet clicked her tongue and moved him into the warm water.
His body remained unnaturally still, the same composed stillness that had made him impossible to read since the moment he received his Falna. The warm water should have made him flinch, his injuries should have drawn a reaction, but nothing came.
She sighed, cupping water over his skin, washing away the grime and blood. Her fingers traced over the worst of his wounds, her touch gentle yet deliberate. He needed healing, but she wasn't a goddess of medicine. She could ease some of it—enough that his body could handle the rest.
When she finished, she dried him off and carried him to bed. She dressed him in soft, loose robes, knowing he'd hate waking up in filth. He barely stirred as she settled him against the pillows.
Only then did she sit beside him, brushing damp strands of scarlet hair from his face. His breathing was slow, even. Sleeping, at last.
She exhaled, shifting her fingers to his back.
His Falna pulsed under her touch, divine energy flowing between them. She traced the symbols, updating the status that had earned him these wounds. His stats had grown—Endurance up, Dexterity sharper, Strength inching higher—but at what cost?
When the update was done, she let him rest.
Bastet moved to the kitchen, rolling the tension from her shoulders. She needed food. Something warm, something steadying.
She cooked for herself, simple fare—grilled fish, roasted vegetables, fresh bread. Something with heat to fill the quiet. She poured herself a small cup of honeyed wine, leaning against the counter as she ate, ears flicking at the stillness of the house.
Her eyes drifted back toward the bedroom. He hadn't stirred.
A sharp knock at the door snapped her attention back.
Her tail stilled.
Few people had a reason to come here. Fewer still had the audacity to knock this late.
She set her cup down and moved, silent as shadow, to the entrance. Her fingers hovered near the handle, senses sharpened. Then, she opened the door.
Bastet opened the door, her emerald gaze settling on the anxious figure standing outside. Eina Tulle, Callista's ever-diligent Guild receptionist, looked rattled. Her usually neat posture was tense, her green eyes darting past Bastet as if expecting someone else to answer.
"He didn't come," Eina blurted, not even waiting for Bastet to speak. "He always comes to exchange his stones after a dive. But today—nothing." Her fingers clenched the hem of her vest. "He said he was going to Floor 10-12."
Ah. That explained it.
Bastet leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing as her tail flicked lazily. She took a moment to savor this—Eina's concern, her worry, the fact that someone other than herself was fretting over Calista. He had a way of making people care, despite how much he pretended otherwise.
Eina misread the pause entirely. "Did he come home?" Her voice dipped lower, edged with something Bastet recognized—fear. "Lady Bastet, please—"
"He made it out," Bastet assured, her voice smooth, warm, a hand reaching to gently still Eina's fidgeting. "But he's injured. He pushed himself too hard."
Relief hit Eina so hard she had to steady herself against the doorframe. "Idiot," she muttered, shaking her head. "Absolute reckless—" A deep breath, shoulders squaring, professionalism slipping back into place. "He's sleeping?"
Bastet nodded. "Out cold."
Eina exhaled through her nose, pinching the bridge of it like she was already building up for a scolding. "So much for our drink tomorrow. I should've expected this."
"You should still come by." Bastet stepped aside, gesturing toward the warm-lit kitchen behind her. "I made dinner. Stay."
Eina hesitated, the battle of obligation and exhaustion clear in her stance. "I should go—"
"You should eat," Bastet countered smoothly, tilting her head. "You can't nag him properly if you pass out from worry."
That earned her a reluctant glare. "...That's not how that works."
Bastet smirked. "It is now."
A pause. Then, with an exasperated sigh, Eina stepped inside. "Fine. But only because I want to be at full strength when I scold him later."
Bastet purred in amusement as she shut the door behind her. Good. Calista had more people who cared.
…
The soft clink of plates and the crackle of the hearth filled the small townhouse as Bastet and Eina sat across from each other, dinner winding down. The tension that had once been knotted in Eina's shoulders had mostly faded, replaced by a tired ease. The half-elf still carried the remnants of her earlier worry—Bastet could see it in the way she absentmindedly pushed food around her plate—but at least she was eating.
Bastet, on the other hand, was more focused on her newfound entertainment: getting to know Eina Tulle.
"You're younger than I expected," Bastet mused, sipping from her wine cup. "For someone so skilled at worrying, I thought you'd be an elder."
Eina huffed, rolling her eyes. "Fifteen is old enough to deal with adventurers who don't take care of themselves."
"Mmm, so you took one look at my Calista and decided to add him to your collection?" Bastet teased, tilting her head. "Tell me, do all reckless adventurers come preassigned to a half-elf handler, or is that a special service?"
Eina gave her a flat look. "No, just the ones who seem determined to give me a heart attack."
"Ah," Bastet hummed, setting her chin in her palm, "so he's special."
Eina exhaled in exasperation. "Not in a good way."
Bastet laughed, the rich, warm sound filling the space. "Oh, I don't know. You came all this way for him, didn't you?" Her emerald eyes gleamed, sharp yet amused. "You might act annoyed, but you care about him."
Eina didn't argue. She just took another bite of her food, chewing deliberately.
Bastet let the quiet settle before leaning back slightly, swirling the last of her drink. "And what about you, Eina?" she asked, her voice dipping into something softer, more thoughtful. "You spend all your time guiding adventurers, but what do you do for yourself?"
Eina blinked at her, caught off guard by the shift in the conversation. "I—" She hesitated, then frowned slightly. "I read sometimes. I like to learn about the Dungeon, about how people survive in it."
Bastet lifted a brow. "That still sounds like work."
Eina pursed her lips. "It's useful."
"Mmm-hmm," Bastet hummed knowingly. "And when was the last time you did something just because it made you happy? No studying, no worrying—just for yourself?"
Eina hesitated again.
Bastet clicked her tongue. "A shame. You're good company, you know. You should let yourself enjoy it more."
Eina looked away, fiddling with her cup. "I'm not bad at enjoying things, I just… have responsibilities."
"So does Calista, and yet he somehow finds time to browse tailor shops for hours." Bastet smirked. "You should take notes."
Eina huffed a quiet laugh. "I doubt I'd look as good in half of what he wears."
Bastet grinned, pleased to have coaxed a bit of humor out of her. Then, as the evening began to settle into something calmer, she decided it was time for her real game.
She leveled Eina with a slow, considering look, tail flicking idly behind her. Then, with all the weight of a protective father, she asked, "So, what exactly are your intentions with my Calista?"
Eina choked. "What?!"
Bastet pressed her lips together, feigning seriousness. "You heard me. I've seen how you look at him, all that exasperation, all those worried sighs… a little too much focus on his well-being, don't you think?"
Eina spluttered. "I—he's my—adventurer! I'm his advisor!"
Bastet hummed. "So you say." She leaned in, eyes glinting with mirth. "But you're very invested."
Eina buried her face in her hands. "Why are you like this?"
Bastet chuckled, resting her cheek against her palm. "Because it's fun."
Eina groaned, but when she finally lifted her head, there was an exhausted amusement in her gaze. She shook her head, stabbing the last piece of food on her plate. "Gods, no wonder he's so insufferable—you encourage him."
Bastet merely smiled, satisfied.
When dinner finally wound down, Eina stretched slightly before standing, brushing imaginary wrinkles from her vest. "I should go. Thanks for dinner."
Bastet walked her to the door, leaning lazily against the frame. "Of course." Then, more sincerely, she added, "And thank you."
Eina blinked at her. "For what?"
"For being his friend." Bastet's voice was warm, but there was a quiet weight to it. "He doesn't do much outside of the Dungeon. It's good to know someone's looking out for him."
Eina looked away for a moment, like she didn't quite know what to do with that. Then, after a beat, she gave a small, knowing smile. "Someone else, you mean."
Bastet's lips curled slightly, but she didn't deny it.
Eina sighed. "Yeah, well. Someone has to scold him when he gets himself nearly killed." She turned toward the street. "See you around, Lady Bastet."
Bastet watched her go, tail flicking once before she murmured, "See you around, Eina."
The house was quiet now, save for the soft creak of the floorboards beneath Bastet's bare feet as she made her way to the main bedroom. The scent of warm spices and lingering candlelight clung to the air, but her focus remained fixed on the figure lying in the bed.
Calista.
He hadn't stirred since she put him there. His breathing remained slow and even, his scarlet hair spilling over the pillow in careless waves. The candlelight softened the sharp elegance of his features, the usual poised control relaxed in sleep. Bastet leaned against the doorway for a moment, watching him.
How many times had she seen him like this? Too exhausted to move, too stubborn to admit weakness, always pushing himself to the brink. And yet, never once did he show it. Not in his posture, not in his words. Grace Unbroken ensured that no matter how much he suffered, the world would never see it.
It was heartbreaking.
Bastet exhaled, stepping closer. She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. He didn't react. Even unconscious, his body remained perfectly still, as if even in rest, he had to maintain the illusion.
"Idiot," she murmured, a whisper of fondness hidden beneath the exasperation.
He gave everything to the Dungeon. Every drop of effort, every ounce of will. It was the only thing he allowed himself to have—this endless climb for strength, this ceaseless march forward. She had hoped that, with time, he would find something more. That he would let himself live, not just fight.
But here he was. Pushing past his limits. Again.
She let her hand linger against his temple for a moment before pulling away. There was no use lecturing him now. He wouldn't listen, even if he were awake. He never did.
Bastet sighed and slipped under the sheets, settling beside him. The warmth of his body seeped into her own, familiar and steady. It was a comfort she rarely let herself acknowledge.
He wouldn't say it, but she knew—deep down, in the quiet places neither of them spoke about—he was grateful for this. For her.
She closed her eyes, listening to the soft rhythm of his breath.
Tomorrow, he would wake up, pretend nothing was wrong, and carry on as if he hadn't nearly collapsed in the streets of Orario. He would meet Eina's scolding with that same unshakable composure, smile his knowing little smile, and continue diving deeper into the Dungeon.
And Bastet—Bastet would keep catching him. Again and again.
With a quiet sigh, she slipped beneath the sheets, the warmth of his body grounding her. He wouldn't ask for comfort. So she would offer it, silently, until the moment he finally can.
She closed her eyes.
And, for tonight, she would keep him safe.
---
A/N: A little behind the scenes but I use a tabletop dice thingie for battles and encounters, for his dive through floor 10-12 i decided to keep his encounters floor 10 already, and wowzers he came out of there at like 1 HP even with potions :O, yeah hes a bit underlevelled.