Three months can bleach the color out of almost anything. In Orario—the city that never truly sits still—that felt doubly true.
The gods moved on. Without fresh sparks, even the juiciest rumor cooled to ash. Loki Familia kept their heads down, Astraea Familia kept their cadence, and the buzz around both shrank to a shrug. Only Ishtar nursed her curiosity, stretching out the intervals between the tidbits she pried from Raul, savoring each like a miser counts coins.
Inside Loki Familia, the quiet was fertile.
Whenever they weren't on duty and their stats hadn't brushed the cap, members vanished into Tsunayoshi's "training space," grinding their numbers with a discipline that turned lunch into the only time you could reliably find anyone.
"…Well?" someone asked over the clatter of trays. "You hit your cap yet?"
"Not yet," a slim swordsman said, chewing thoughtfully. "Loki-sama updated me this morning—my four stats crossed 700, but growth's slowed. I'm probably at my limit."
"Everything except magic? That's solid." His friend tilted his head. "Mine peaked earlier. Agi and Dex around 750, Str and End lagging near 600."
"Then lean into what you're good at," the slim one said. "Sharper feet, finer hands. Maybe you'll squeeze out a little more."
The other laughed under his breath. "A little, maybe. The space helps, sure—but pushing past yourself isn't something you brute force. Seven-fifty took blood and sleep. We're normal folk. At some point you meet the wall and call it talent."
He didn't sound bitter. Just honest.
"The captain and the elites will keep climbing," he added. "Us? We're miles stronger than we used to be. That's enough for now."
They both nodded to that. Truth sat easier when shared.
"Speaking of—haven't seen Tsunayoshi around lately," the slim one said, scanning the hall.
"Check over there," his friend murmured, chin tipping toward a corner table.
Tiona and Tione, the Amazon sisters, ate in silence. That was new.
"Tiona looks normal to me," the slim one said. "Tione, though…"
Her eyes had that taut, downward pull—a tell for a mood she rarely bothered to hide.
"Loki-sama and Tsunayoshi have their own plan," the friend said. "It's why he's scarce. The captain knows. The sisters know. If you watch them, you can tell whether Tsunayoshi's shown his face today."
A beat. Then: "From Tione's look—no Tsunayoshi."
"Right… wait. Why Tione? Shouldn't the tell be Tiona?"
Everyone knew the Amazons and the boy were close. The slim adventurer had assumed Tiona was the weather vane. Tione, after all, had a very public soft spot for Finn—old news as old as the banners on the wall.
"You've missed the tide," the friend said, amused. "Tiona and the kid are easy together, sure. But lately? Tione's spent time with him too. And he's not exactly weak, is he?"
Understanding crept across the other's face. "So that's how it is."
"More or less. And think about the captain." The friend's eyes drifted toward the head table, where Finn spoke quietly with Riveria and Gareth. "He's got a nation to lift on shoulders the size of a hand. Big ideals. Little time for personal storms. If he loves anything, it'll be the rise of the prum before a person outside it."
Race, duty, gravity. The arithmetic wrote itself.
Across the hall, Tione speared a piece of meat with unnecessary force. Tiona, oblivious on purpose, leaned back and tried to balance a knife on her nose. The blade wobbled, fell; she caught it without looking and grinned at no one in particular.
The doors stirred. Conversations lifted, turned, then settled when it wasn't who some had hoped for. No Tsunayoshi—just Bete, shoulders wet with rain, grumbling about the damp.
"Tomorrow, then," the slim adventurer said, standing to bus his tray.
"Tomorrow," his friend echoed.
In the corner, Tione's gaze flicked to the doorway one last time, then down to her plate. Tiona nudged her with an elbow and made a stupid face until, grudgingly, the older sister's mouth twitched.
At another table, Loki watched it all with lazy, lidded eyes and a fox's patience. Beside her, Astraea sipped tea, the portrait of calm—and not fooled in the least.
"Three months," Loki murmured.
"Enough for roots," Astraea said.
"Enough for storms," Loki countered, smiling. "When they come."
Deep beneath their feet, the Dungeon breathed. In a far, unseen cavern, a pale-blue curtain shivered in a forge that should not exist, where a single golden drop waited in its glass, patient as a heartbeat.
(End of Chapter)
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