Time passed in Varinthus differently from the way it passed in the rest of the world.
It did not rush. It did not drag. It settled. No, they settled.
Days melded seamlessly into each other with a sort of quiet inevitability, numbered not by calendars but by the rotations of patrols, the mended walls, and the familiarity of faces that no longer required introductions. Outside, beyond the gates of the dungeon, only a handful of days were passing. Inside, a year flowered.
Lucifer first sensed it.
He woke up before the ringing of the city bells. He knew where he could walk alone at dawn and where the taverns were open late past midnight. He came to understand how strong Varinthus's air pressure was before a storm, how high the mana towers hummed during recalibration, how differently an alarm for an ordinary patrol sounded from an alarming patrol call.
They were no longer visitors. Yet,
They were Grey Wolves.
---
There was a constant flow of missions coming
Corrupted beasts emerged out of the edges, twisted creatures with a shattered mana core and eyes frozen over with Abyss power. Lucifer led assault forces past the outer cliffs, returning with blood-soaked cloaks and confirmed killings. He never stretched himself, never displayed unwarranted viciousness, but his battle companions quickly grasped the justification behind his S+ danger level.
He was exacting.
The academy mages strengthened walls and adjusted the nodes of the magical barriers. The tribals mapped the forest with the efficiency of understated industry. Gareth honed the heavy infantry to a rugged extreme. He had no sermons or divine orations, simply iron and obedience and fatigue.
Between missions, they worked.
They worked brick by brick to repair old walls. They escorted many caravans through perilous mountain passes. They taught trainees who still thought that courage sounded louder than fear.
"Varinthus" absorbed
And they, in turn, learned its pulse.
There was Bram , the blacksmith, his family having tended the same forge for three generations. His nagging wife drove him to distraction; his hammer struck true every time. Lucifer brought him peculiar metal sourced from twisted beasts, which he crafted into armor that rang sweetly under a fist.
There was Elryn, who was apprenticed to heal, whose hands trembled in caring for her first mortal wounf. But not for the second. She asked questions of Lucifer he never responded to straight out, yet she knew all the same.
Three young mercenaries always followed Lucifer as mere shadows. They even had arguments regarding who could imitate his posture best and who could survive the longest time during drill practice. Lucifer did nothing but criticize them. They preferred that.
And then there was the child.
Half-beast, with small nobs of a horn and ears that were furred and twitched with excitement. She decided, without asking, that Caelyra belonged to her.
She tug at Caelyra's silver locks endlessly, her eyes wide with wonder and no fear at all. Caelyra never shooed her away. She braided her hair in breaks, listened to tales that had no end, and carried her on her shoulder at festivals.
Lucifer observed all of this quietly
In some nights, Lucifer and Caelyra trained on top of watchtowers.
The moon was low, a thin disk of white, lighting up stone with silver rays. They moved silently. Her arrows flying with curved trajectories across space, blades replying with calculating exactness. There was no rivalry as only comprehension.
They shared tea in a quiet tavern beneath the eastern wall after long missions. There were no guards. No followers. Only the steam rising between them and the soft humming of Varinthus's breath all around them.
One time, Caelyra fixed Lucifer's armor by herself
"You're careless," she said, repairing the torn seams with deft fingers.
"I won," he said.
"That's not the same thing,"
"Not at all," he said
On another occasion, a mana golem had broken containment while on patrol. Its core had destabilized, fluctuating wildly. Lucifer positioned himself in front of Caelyra. The blast blasted Lucifer back into the ground, shattering stone.
When the dust settled, he stood up again.
The hold on the bow wavered in Caelyra's hands for only an instant.
Following that, they spoke less and less.
They didn't need to.
"It all started in the western forest."
It is not an invasion. It is not an attack.
Cracks
Thin, black lines spreading beneath the soil, like veins beneath diseased flesh. Trees around them became brittle. Mana had a sticky, wrong quality to it that defied traditional corruption.
No alarms sounded.
There were no scouting reports of any problems
Only Lucifer stopped during a patrol, his hand gripping just a little tighter.
Caelyra felt it too. She gazed out at the eastern horizon, her breaths evened out
"This place is corrupting," she said softly.
Lucifer nodded.
The city laughed that night. Lanterns swayed. Music floated through stony corridors.
Varinthus was alive.
And yet, beneath all of this, something was waiting. It was patient, inevitable, and hungry. The year progressed. However, its ending had already begun.