Chapter 23 (Dahondevi)

  **Pov Tian Wuying - One Month Earlier**

  I walked through the streets of Dahondevi, the city's cobblestones still damp from the morning rain. The name supposedly meant "Devil's Mouth"—a fitting title for a place that served as the gateway to Pleasant Valley. Of all the cities on the continent, only two held the distinction of being official Passage Cities: Dahondevi here in Mahalo, and Ling Gu back in Yugen. Gratam liked to claim their "Dead Man's Drop" qualified, but considering there was no way to return from that cliff, no one recognized it as legitimate.

  The ability to go out, collect valuable materials, and return—that was the whole point of venturing into the valley in the first place. It's also exactly why so many guilds had chosen to set up shop along the Devil's Corridor.

  As a Blue spirit freelancer, I had my pick of whatever job I wanted. Nothing said easy money quite like that.

  The streets were crowded with locals going about their morning business. Men and women wearing colorful head coverings—turbans and hijabs dyed in shades of yellow, orange, and green—turned to look at me as I passed. Their stares lingered too long on my black hair, my slanted eyes, the way I walked without a head covering of my own. I knew I wasn't one of them, but their stares practically screamed it.

  I clutched my necklace—a simple jade pendant carved with my spirit symbol—and continued toward the central guild hall.

  The building was massive, three stories of sandstone and dark wood, with guild banners fluttering from the upper balconies. Inside, it was packed with adventurers and mercenaries alike, all looking to get themselves paid somehow. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and the faint tang of incense burning.

  I approached the main counter and presented my card to the man at the desk. He was young, maybe twenty, with light olive skin and a neatly tied orange turban. He wordlessly took my card and slid it into a receptacle box. A moment later, my information glowed into the blank space on the desk in front of him, letters of green light hovering in the air.

  "Tian Wuying," he muttered, his eyes widening slightly. "Blue Stage... combatant from Yugen." He paused, studying the display. "Are you picking up or dropping off?"

  He pulled my card from the box and handed it back to me.

  "I'm here to pick up," I said. "Any jobs for me?"

  His face scrunched up in what I could only describe as disgust. It took self-control not to emulate the expression. I wondered what about me he found so disdainful.

  "That *irritating* Dr. Ruslan from the Continental Academy is hosting an expedition," he said, practically through his teeth. "They need a security agent before I can approve their venture into the Wildlands."

  I could tell now—the disdain wasn't for me. It was for whoever this Ruslan was.

  "He can't be that bad, can he?" I asked, a mirthful smile stretching my lips.

  The receptionist looked up, his eyes devoid of humor, and rolled them. The animosity he felt was as clear as the ponds back in my hometown. "He told me if I didn't find him a security agent within the week, he'd have me fired and make the guild hire someone 'more competent' in my place."

  I grimaced. If I were in the young man's position, I'd be irritated too. Despite his difficult situation, I couldn't imagine working with someone that insufferable.

  "What other jobs do you have?" I asked.

  The man's light olive complexion paled, and his eyes widened with desperation. "Wait, what? You're not interested?"

  "Well, you haven't exactly made any encouraging statements about the contract, so why would I be?" I crossed my arms, bemused.

  "The pay is good," he blurted out quickly, fumbling around with documents on his desk. "Very good."

  "No amount of pay is going to make me want to endure some petulant man-child..."

  He slid a paper in front of me.

  I looked down.

  My eyebrows shot up.

  "...on second thought."

  **The Northern Gate - Two Days Later**

  "Are you Doctor Ruslan Sharpov?" I asked, approaching the Northern Wildlands gate.

  The man stood at about five foot eight, his frame slender—almost as if he'd starved himself every waking moment of his miserable existence. He wore the traditional Dijik scholar's coat: a long, fitted jacket in deep grey with olive trim, buttoned asymmetrically across the chest. No head covering, of course. Dijiks didn't follow Mahloan customs.

  He didn't even look at me, too busy barking orders at the workers loading massive carts with equipment and supplies. It was far too much, and it didn't take a genius to realize that.

  "Excuse me?" he said absently, waving a hand at one of the workers. "Careful with that Arc scanner! It's worth more than your yearly salary!" Then, as if noticing me for the first time, he glanced over. "Who's woman is this?"

  I took a deep breath, holding back my tongue.

  "I am no one's woman," I replied sternly.

  "That makes sense," he said, turning back to the carts. "I can't imagine many would favor such a *strange* woman, if I can even call you that."

  He seemed to default back to ignoring me.

  I counted to five in my head, feeling Yándi stir within me—a flicker of heat in my chest that I forced down.

  "I'm your security agent for this expedition," I said, my voice level. "And if I'm going to be babysitting you, I have a few requirements."

  Ruslan's face snapped up to mine, his expression contorting with a genuine effort to see me as someone with authority.

  "Now hold on just a—"

  I held up my hand, silencing him.

  "No. You listen. No one under a yellow core is coming with us. And none of these carts can come with us." I gestured to the overloaded wagons. "If you can't carry it on your back, you have no reason to bring it. Otherwise, it's just going to get lost out there."

  Despite my demands, the workers kept moving supplies into the carts. Ruslan, however, was not happy.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "Are you kidding me?" he sputtered. "Did you not think about what we're going to eat out there? What about how we're going to carry the crystals back? Did you think about *that*?"

  "Did you think about how you're going to sell your precious crystals if you get killed on your way back lugging them through Bondrill territory?" I shot back, my face placid and unyielding.

  "Give it a rest, Ruslan. She's right, and you know it."

  I watched the man visibly deflate as a woman walked around from the front of the carts. She wore the attire of an Epistar—a flowing dress in light blue with silver embroidery along the hems and sleeves. Her head was covered by an elegant hijab of the same pale blue, fastened with a silver pin. She was older, maybe in her forties, with kind eyes and a calm demeanor that seemed to put the chaos around her at ease.

  "But Mercer needs to—" Ruslan started.

  "It's okay, sir! We'll see you when you return from the Wilds!" A young man—barely more than a boy—waved cheerfully from beside one of the carts. He had bright eyes and an eager smile.

  "You little delinquent," Ruslan muttered, though there was no real bite in his tone. "You sound too excited about being left behind."

  "Whaat? Not me, sir!" The boy's grin widened mischievously. "Besides, you'll still have Milos and Zamir."

  "Ah yes, Zamir," Ruslan said with exaggerated relief. "He just hit the yellow stage a few months ago." His voice was contentious and proud, but somehow still managed to sound demeaning.

  I scoffed audibly. Such a minor achievement spoken about with such excitement. In Yugen, we'd be embarrassed to celebrate something so basic. I'd let it pass though—he was quite nice to look at.

  "And where are they?" I asked.

  "They're both securing our lodging for the night," the Epistar said, extending her hand. "I'm Dr. Sorina Petrova, xenobiologist and field medic for this expedition. You must be our security agent."

  I took her hand, surprised by the firmness of her grip. "Tian Wuying."

  "Yugenese," she observed with a small smile. "Your reputation precedes you. The guild spoke highly of your record."

  "Did they also mention that Dr. Sharpov threatened to have the receptionist fired?" I asked dryly.

  Sorina sighed. "Yes. I apologize for Ruslan's... temperament. He's brilliant, but he lacks certain social graces."

  "Certain?" I raised an eyebrow.

  She laughed—a warm, genuine sound. "Most. He lacks most social graces."

  Ruslan, oblivious to our conversation, was now arguing with one of the workers about the proper way to secure a crate.

  "So," Sorina said, lowering her voice, "you're serious about the carts?"

  "Completely. We'll be moving through high-density zones. The ambient Arc alone will disorient anyone below the yellow stage, and the creatures..." I shook my head. "You've read the reports, I assume?"

  "I have." Her expression grew somber. "Trolls have apparently been especially bad this year. Not to mention the Titans..." Her voice trailed off as her eyes unfocused.

  "Then we're in agreement." My soft words helped her refocus her gaze. She looked up almost startled before settling into an apologetic smile.

  She studied me for a moment, then nodded. "I'll support you. Ruslan respects data and reason. If we present a united front, he'll have no choice but to listen."

  "And if he doesn't?"

  Sorina's smile turned wry. "Then I'll remind him just how quickly core death can happen in a high-density region. That usually works."

  It took another two hours, but we finally reached a compromise.

  The two extra researchers Ruslan had wanted to bring—with orange cores—were sent back to the city with Mercer. Ruslan was furious, but Sorina made the final case.

  "Ruslan," she'd said, her voice calm but firm, "I've spent the last decade studying the creatures of the Wildlands. I've seen what a Bondrill can do to an unprepared human. I've treated hunters who barely survived Night Stalkers. If you bring Orange stage researchers into that environment, I will be treating corpses. Is that what you want?"

  Ruslan had gone quiet.

  "Well, it is a part of your job description," he muttered. "But very well. I no more want to see Fahd turned to particles than anyone else."

  The carts were reduced to a single wagon, pulled by two sturdy pack animals that Sorina assured me could handle the terrain. Most of the supplies were redistributed into packs that each team member would carry. Ruslan complained endlessly, but he eventually complied. He sent the rest of his team back to Dijik acquaintances at the continental academy, and Milos suggested we all go out for drinks before setting out on the expedition.

  **The Tavern**

  The tavern Milos chose sat nestled between two larger buildings in the merchant quarter, its entrance marked by a weathered wooden sign painted with Graced symbols—three interlocking circles in purple, blue, and green. The evening air carried the scent of cardamom and roasted meat from the street vendors packing up for the night, mingling with the faint sweetness of hookah smoke drifting from the tavern's open windows.

  Inside, the space opened into something that felt more like a sanctuary than a drinking establishment. Intricate tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes of Ashiram bestowing grace upon the faithful. Prayer beads dangled from hooks near every pillar, their polished stones catching the warm glow of oil lamps suspended from the ceiling by brass chains. The light cast dancing shadows across the room, gilding everything in amber and gold.

  The tables were low platforms raised just above the polished wooden floor, surrounded by thick cushions in jewel tones—deep emeralds, rich sapphires, and burnt oranges. Each table setting included small brass cups and a ceramic pitcher, the traditional serving style for the local date wine. A handful of patrons occupied the other tables, their conversations hushed and reverent, as if the sacred decorations demanded a certain decorum.

  We settled around one of the larger platforms near the back, the cushions surprisingly comfortable as I arranged myself cross-legged. It felt strange at first—back home we sat upright at tables—but there was something intimate about this arrangement, everyone at the same level, close enough to speak without raising voices.

  "Don't tell me you two are trying to convert us..." Ruslan complained, his voice carrying farther than it should. Several heads turned from nearby tables, expressions ranging from curious to disapproving.

  "Oh no, please do not misunderstand." Milos stood quickly, his considerable frame blocking their view of Ruslan like a wall of muscle and good intentions. "It is the tradition of our people to come and offer a prayer of protection before we enter into the Wildlands."

  Sorina let out a sharp laugh, covering her face with her hijab to hide her amusement. The fabric shimmered in the lamplight as her shoulders shook.

  "The tradition includes drinking yourself half to death so that your prayer will ascend higher and reach our God," she managed between barely suppressed giggles.

  Milos's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Tonight we must drink so that we can receive the blessings of our Grace!"

  The team broke into laughter. Even I felt the corner of my lip tug into something resembling a smirk.

  "Was that a smile I just saw?"

  The voice caught me off guard. I turned to find the graduate student—Zamir—settling onto the cushion beside me, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of desert sage on his clothes. His expression held more curiosity than mockery, though there was definitely some teasing there too.

  "Who are you again?" I asked, the question deliberately obtuse since I'd made a point of remembering his name the moment I'd learned it.

  "Ah, I wouldn't want to burden you with my name. It's so beneath a beauty like you to remember it." He shifted slightly, adjusting his position on the cushion with an ease that suggested he'd grown up eating at tables like these.

  I rolled my eyes, fighting the warmth creeping into my cheeks. "Well, if you are so beneath me, what should I call you?"

  "Hadrasiel has quite a nice ring to it."

  I blinked, the word completely foreign. For someone who prided herself on her Dijiki fluency, the gap in knowledge stung a little. "Hadsiel?"

  "Sorry, it's not a Dijan word." His eyebrows lifted in a way that was both ridiculous and somehow charming. "But it's most similar to 'handsome.'"

  The laugh escaped before I could stop it—a genuine, unguarded sound that made me immediately self-conscious. I covered my mouth, but the damage was done.

  "Please keep it in your pants. I do not need my expedition ruined by some pubescent children." Ruslan's voice cut through the moment as the first round of drinks arrived. A server in traditional dress carefully placed the brass cups and a pitcher of wine on our table, moving with practiced efficiency.

  Zamir chuckled, waving Ruslan off. "Don't be jealous, old man. Maybe one day you'll find a woman to love you."

  To everyone's surprise, Ruslan's face flushed crimson. He grabbed his cup and drank deeply, finishing it in one long pull that left him gasping slightly.

  "I WILL NOT BE OUTDONE!" Milos proclaimed, seizing his own cup and matching Ruslan's performance with theatrical enthusiasm, nearly choking in the process.

  "Ruslan, is there someone you're talking to? You're as red as a morning bloom!" Sorina teased, taking a much more measured sip from her own cup. Her eyes sparkled with mischief over the rim.

  "Nonsense. I have no time for such foolish escapades." Ruslan set down his cup with slightly too much force. "Do not presume such ridiculous ideas about me. It's clear that I am hot-faced simply because of the alcohol doing its job."

  "You were hot in the face long before you started drinking," I offered, happy to redirect attention away from myself and Zamir.

  "You are one to talk, young lady." Ruslan's gaze fixed on me with unsettling precision. "How am I to expect you to keep us safe in the wilderness when you're already flirting with your clients?"

  Heat flooded my face—this time accompanied by a sting of guilt. My hand moved unconsciously to my necklace, thumb rubbing across the jade surface.

  "I will do my job, and I will do it well. So watch yourself."

  Ruslan stared at me, allowing a silence to settle over the table like dust. The ambient noise of the tavern—the low conversations, the clink of cups, the distant call to evening prayer from somewhere outside—seemed to grow louder in the absence of our voices.

  "Ruslan, please..." Sorina's voice was soft, pleading. She placed a gentle hand on his, the gesture deliberate and calming. He glanced at her, and something in his expression shifted. He nodded slightly.

  "Let's get another round, please, for myself and my friends here!" Milos broke the tension with his booming voice and infectious energy, flagging down the server with enthusiasm that couldn't be ignored.

  ---

  The evening blurred into a pleasant haze of conversation and laughter, though I made sure to pace myself. Milos, Ruslan, and surprisingly Sorina all allowed themselves to get properly drunk despite our early departure planned for the morning.

  Ruslan, in his stupor, spoke extensively about himself and his many accomplishments, making sure everyone acknowledged how intellectually inferior they were to him. He waved his hands as he talked, nearly knocking over his cup twice. Sorina, by contrast, became even more generous with her compliments, embodying what a true Epistar should be—gracious and kind even when influenced by wine. Milos remained as jovial and devout as ever, and at one point actually began praying aloud to Ashiram.

  "Great Ashiram, granter of Grace," he intoned, his voice thick with emotion and alcohol, "I ask that you extend your protection to our sister Tian, that she might guard us through the wilderness with your divine blessing..."

  He got so emotional that tears started streaming down his face, and he had to be consoled by Sorina, who was crying a little herself.

  Zamir and I exchanged glances across the table, sharing the quiet amusement of the only sober ones in the group. At some point, without discussing it, we began the task of helping everyone back to their rooms. The tavern keeper, unsurprised by this turn of events, informed us that rooms had already been arranged upstairs.

  "Happens every night before an expedition," she said with a knowing smile, her weathered hands clearing cups from our table. "The Grace-blessed drink, the foreigners try to keep up, and someone always has to play shepherd."

  She wasn't wrong.

  **The Walk Home**

  After ensuring everyone was safely deposited in their rooms—Ruslan mumbling about crystalline lattice structures, Sorina humming a prayer melody, and Milos snoring before his head hit the pillow—Zamir walked me back to my inn.

  The streets of Dahondevi had transformed in the darkness. The merchant stalls were shuttered now, their colorful awnings retracted like sleeping birds. Oil lamps flickered in windows above, casting squares of golden light onto the cobblestones below. The air had cooled significantly, carrying with it the scent of night-blooming jasmine from the gardens that lined the wealthier neighborhoods.

  We walked in silence for the first several minutes, our footsteps echoing slightly in the narrow streets. Occasionally, we'd pass another late-night traveler—a pair of guards on patrol, a merchant heading home from a long day, a cat slinking between shadows. The quarter moon hung low on the horizon, offering just enough light to navigate by.

  "You've been to the Wildlands before?" Zamir asked finally, breaking the quiet. His voice sounded different without the tavern noise around it—steadier, more thoughtful.

  "I have." I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. "And you?"

  He chuckled, a soft sound that seemed almost embarrassed. "No... It's always terrified me, if I'm being honest."

  "It terrified me at first too," I admitted. "But I've learned that it's bett