CHAPTER ONE: THE AETHER‑RATS
The Aqualeth Sea was a fickle mistress, but today she smelled of salt and secrets.
The sky over the central ocean was the color of a bruised plum. High‑altitude winds were pulling Nature Energy into tight, swirling knots — a sure sign that a mana‑storm was brewing. It was the kind of weather that kept honest merchants in the taverns of Highcrest, but for the crew of the Aether‑Rat, it was the perfect shroud.
"Captain! Scouts at six o'clock! One arto away!"
The voice of Remmi, the seventeen‑year‑old human lookout, sliced through the spray. She clung to the rigging like a spindly forest cat, her telescope fixed on the sharp, white sails of a Valorian cutter cutting through the mist.
Rein stood on the quarterdeck, his boots braced against the tilting wood. At twenty‑four, he was a mountain of a man — a rare and striking "half‑breed" whose lineage was written in his very frame. He possessed the broad, powerful shoulders and height of a Red Orc, the sharp, elegant features of an Elf, and the adaptable, observant eyes of a Human.
"Steady as she goes," Rein commanded, his voice a low, Tai‑trained rumble that carried over the crashing waves.
"If we run, we're guilty. If we fight, we're dead. We play the part of the honest merchant."
Beside him, Kaelen, the elven navigator, closed his eyes. His hands traced a rhythmic pattern in the air as he channeled his Soaul into a shimmering, oily film that rippled across the deck.
A Psyion Shield.
To any magical sensor on the horizon, their hull — currently heavy with two hundred Ghrun Ruin Eyes suspended in glowing jars beneath the floorboards — would appear to contain nothing but mundane grain and salted meats.
The Valorian vessel, the Silverwing, closed the gap with predatory speed, its oars likely augmented by Blue Soaul. As it pulled alongside, the metallic tang of the hidden eyes seemed to vibrate in Rein's teeth, a silent scream of the "royal tissue" they carried.
"Heave to!"
Commander Vane of the Highcrest Bureau of Eyes stepped to the railing, his silver‑etched armor catching the faint, eerie glow of the sea's rising Nature Energy. He boarded the Aether‑Rat with the confidence of a man who owned the waves, four marines at his back.
Vane's eyes narrowed as they swept over Rein's towering form.
"An unusual captain for a Valorian merchant vessel. Tell me, what brings a man of your… unique lineage… to haul grain into the teeth of a mana‑storm?"
The air was thick. Urzk, the massive Orc boatswain, gripped his boarding axe so tightly his knuckles turned gray. One slip of the Psyion veil, one stray scent of the extraction fluid, and they would all be swinging from a Highcrest gallows.
Rein didn't blink. He looked the Commander dead in the eye and let a slow, mocking smirk pull at the corner of his mouth.
"I've heard of your kind too, Officer. So‑called 'taxers' who make outlandish price demands for passage rather than the docking fees we already paid."
He leaned in slightly.
"As for why I'm so calm? It's simple. I'm an eye‑trader, and I'm hiding two hundred eyes right under your boots."
The deck went silent.
Remmi held her breath in the rigging.
The marines shifted, hands twitching toward their blades.
Then — the silence snapped.
Vane burst into a booming, metallic laugh that echoed off the hull. His marines followed suit, their tension evaporating into the salt air.
"By the gods, Rein! You haven't lost your touch!"
He clapped Rein on the shoulder with a force that would have buckled a normal man.
"What are you now, six‑four? You've grown into a mountain! I still remember you as a lanky deck‑hand with too many questions and not enough scars."
"It's been seven years, Vane. If I'm counting correctly."
"Seven years to the day," Vane chuckled. "If the Bureau knew I was letting a joker like you pass without a strip‑search, they'd have my stripes."
His tone shifted — humor fading into steel.
"But listen. Stay clear of the Raiveth border. The Blue Demons are restless, and there are whispers of a Stage 3 Ghrun user hunting the lanes. They aren't looking for grain, and they don't have my sense of humor."
As the Silverwing detached and vanished back into the gloom, the crew of the Aether‑Rat didn't cheer. They knew the weight of what they carried.
"Close call, Captain," Remmi called down, her hand finally moving away from her pouch of flash‑powder.
"The joke worked," Urzk grunted, securing a loose line. "But jokes don't stop a Stage 3 user. If there's a hunter on the lanes, they know exactly what we're hauling."
Rein looked out at the churning Aqualeth Sea, where the waves were beginning to glow with the bioluminescent fury of the storm.
The journey to the black markets of Dawnford had only just begun, and the two hundred eyes in the dark below felt heavier than ever.
CHAPTER ONE, PART TWO: THE THRESHOLD
(continuing from where Section 1 ended)
Inside the cramped galley of the Aether‑Rat, the air was a thick soup of Siongrove pepper, charred sea‑bass, and the metallic tang of Soaul radiating from the brass stove. Rein, the half‑breed Captain, sat at the head of the scarred wooden table. His massive frame — a mix of Red Orc strength and Elven grace — seemed to ground the room as the ship pitched rhythmically against the rising swells.
Remmi sat across from him, the hood of her tunic pulled back. Her White‑Eyes, rare and coveted across the Aqualeth Sea, were now dim and bloodshot. She had just suffered the "sugar crash" that followed a prolonged activation of her sight. Her hands trembled as she gripped a warm bowl of stew.
"Captain," she whispered, her voice raspy from the strain.
"When I saw the needle… it wasn't just energy. It was a rhythm. Like a heartbeat that wasn't mine. It was searching for the Soaul in our hold. The eyes… they're starting to pulse back, Rein. They're singing to whatever is out there."
A muffled, rhythmic thrum vibrated through the floorboards, punctuating her words. From the hallway, the gruff voice of Haldor the shipwright drifted in, laced with uncharacteristic panic.
"Captain! The jars! They're vibrating to the hum of the sea! It's like they're trying to wake up!"
"They aren't waking up, Haldor. Don't be a fool," Rein called back, voice steady. "Dead tissue doesn't ripen. They're just echoing the frequency."
He turned back to his crew. Sloane the medic watched Remmi's tremors with a clinical eye, while Urzk stood by the door, hand resting on his axe. They were searching for fear in their captain's face — a reason to turn the ship around.
Rein gave them none.
"Cheer up, guys," he said, a grim smirk tugging at his lips.
"The White‑Eye is rare for a reason. If she's starting to see the nature‑energy needle, it means she's tapping into the true depths of her bloodline. The body doesn't starve or grow tired while those eyes are active — the power sustains the flesh. What you're seeing now is just the bill coming due. She's not dying; she's just catching up to her own life."
He pulled a heavy brass‑cased pocket watch from his vest and flipped it open. The hands ticked toward the mark.
"We aren't running, and we aren't gambling," Rein said, voice dropping to a low rumble that silenced even the creaking hull.
"My brother is breaking out as we speak. Around 1400 arco due Elf. You know the law of the Elven lands is a wall that doesn't break — but you also know what he carries. He is a Stage 4 Ghrun. At that level, he doesn't just see the world… he commands the flow of life itself."
The crew stared at him in stunned silence.
The "needle" Remmi had seen wasn't a hunter's trap — it was the ripple of a god‑tier power being unleashed hundreds of miles away, vibrating through the network of eyes in their hold.
The eyes weren't calling a predator.
They were reacting to their master.
"Nothing in the Elven arsenal can stop him," Rein continued, snapping the watch shut. "Not their guards, not their wards… nothing short of a myth. The vibration you felt, Remmi? That's just the sound of a cage door being ripped off its hinges."
He stood.
"Kaelen! Hold our course. We don't push for speed yet. We arrive exactly when the dust settles to pick him up. The rest of you — eat. We have a brother to collect and a myth to outrun."
The crew took their stations. The Elven spires loomed ahead, glowing like violet spears in the mist.
Kaelen's voice trembled.
"Captain… the Elven wards are flickering. I've never seen their law‑magic buckle like this. Whatever your brother is doing, he's tearing the ley lines apart."
Urzk gripped the railing.
"Five minutes, Rein. Do we drop the anchors and wait, or glide in with the tide?"
"Anchors away!" Kaelen barked. "Drop 'em now!"
The heavy chains rattled and splashed into the still water, the sound echoing unnaturally loud against the cliffs. The Aether‑Rat jerked to a halt, swaying in a tide that felt like it was being sucked toward the shore.
"He's cutting it close," Urzk muttered. "The Peace‑Keepers won't stay confused forever. If they don't see a ship to blame for the breakout, they'll start sweeping the coast with light‑spells."
Remmi pointed toward the highest spire, her hand shaking.
"Rein! Look at the main tower. The law‑sigils… they're turning black."
Tia shivered.
"I feel it in my horns. The vibration is gone. It's just… cold. Total silence in the nature energy. What kind of signal are we even looking for? A flare? A scream?"
Rein didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the ticking watch.
Urzk growled.
"You were four, Rein. That was twenty years ago. You're betting our necks on a memory from when you were barely tall enough to reach the railing?"
Kaelen's voice tightened.
"The High Guard won't stay blind for long. The violet light is peaking. If the signal doesn't show in the next sixty seconds, we're sitting ducks."
Remmi's hood fell back. Her White‑Eyes glowed with terrifying intensity.
"Rein… think! What did he say to your father? Was it a sound? A color? The way the air feels?"
Sloane stepped from the shadows.
"The memory is there, Rein. You don't forget words spoken by a Ghrun user — even at four. They imprint."
Rein closed his eyes.
Reached back.
Into the fog of childhood.
Remmi's breath hitched.
"Eyes… of course it was about eyes. Rein, look at me! Is it a visual? Does the world change?"
Kaelen shouted.
"Thirty seconds!"
Urzk snarled.
"Focus, Captain! 'When the sky bleeds'? 'When the sea blinks'? Your father was a Red Orc — he didn't do riddles!"
The memory snapped into place.
A deep, gravelly voice over a guttering candle:
"When the sun and moon are blinded… look for the gaze that doesn't blink."
Remmi screamed.
"Rein! The sun — it's disappearing!"
A shadow swallowed the light. Not an eclipse — a giant, translucent eyelid closing over the sky.
Tia pointed.
"The signal! Rein — the water! Where the prison meets the cliff!"
The galley went silent.
Kaelen whispered, pale as bone.
"Fifth… Stage?"
Urzk swallowed.
"Was that your brother's voice? Or just the memory?"
Remmi trembled.
"It's not a memory. Captain… the air is vibrating with that word."
Fifth.
The water around the Aether‑Rat began to boil — without heat. Thousands of tiny bubbles rose, glowing faintly.
Tia gasped.
"The cliff — it's turning to glass!"
The granite base of the Elven prison lucified, becoming transparent. Glowing veins of ward‑energy pulsed inside.
And then —
A figure walked through the solid wall as if it were water.
Remmi whispered.
"He's out. He's walking on the sea. But Rein… he doesn't have eyes. Not like yours. Not like mine."
Kaelen checked the watch.
"1400 arco. On the dot."
THE BREAKOUT: GHOSTS IN THE GALLEY
The temperature in the galley didn't just drop — it vanished. Rein didn't turn immediately, but he felt the presence behind him. A cold, absolute void.
A voice whispered:
"Oh no, don't worry. There's no vibration. It was my word."
Rein turned.
His brother stood there — moonlight skin, iridescent eyes swirling with impossible color.
"Brother," Rein said quietly. "It's been a while."
"Thirteen years, four months, and two days," the Brother replied, smiling faintly. "I've bypassed the wards. But the Elves will realize the 'me' in the cell is just a distortion of light in about three minutes. We should probably be somewhere else when they do."
THE BATTLE OF THE ELVEN SHELF
A horn blast shook the cliffs.
"CAPTAIN!" Urzk roared. "The spires are lighting up! They're locking on!"
Star‑Bolts rained from the cliffside batteries, turning the sea into a graveyard of steam.
"Hard to port!" Rein shouted.
Kaelen raised mana‑veils. Remmi scanned the batteries. The Brother stepped onto the deck, raising a hand — bending the projectiles around the ship with sheer psychic force.
Blood leaked from his ears.
"I can't hold them forever! Rein — the mist is too thin! We need the White Ruin!"
THE SACRIFICE AND THE JUMP
Rein shoved his brother and Remmi into the galley as a Star‑Bolt shattered the mainmast.
"Remmi — give him your eyes!"
"Do it, Rein," she whispered.
Her White‑Eyes glowed. Light flowed like liquid silk toward the Brother's face. A psychic shockwave shattered every jar in the room.
Reality tore.
A flash of sterile white.
The Aether‑Rat fell upward.
THE HUMAN KINGDOM: OUTSKIRTS OF VALERIA
The ship slammed into a quiet river delta.
Rein coughed.
"Report!"
"We're in a river," Kaelen said. "We made it."
The Brother slumped, his left socket a charred ruin.
"White Ruin Jump," he murmured. "One eye from each. My left. Her right. The power is gone. Now we're a matched set."
Remmi touched her bandaged head.
"What about me, Captain? Am I the one‑eyed veteran now?"
"You've earned more than that," Rein said. "For now, yes."
The Aether‑Rat drifted forward, scarred but free.
Their journey into Valeria had begun.
ELYNDRA — THE GREEN CAPITAL
"Welcome to our inn, sir," the elven woman said. "Room? Food? Both?"
Yur Loyd smiled faintly.
"Neither. I'm here for transfer mail from the Royal Elven Defense. Records from the incident six months ago."
"…But I wouldn't refuse a meal."
She nodded quickly.
"Royal sigil, please."
He lifted the chain from his neck. The sigil gleamed. The mana‑ring beside it was half‑darkened.
"Everything checks out," she said softly. "We'll bring bread and wine to your room."
"I don't need a room. Just the mail."
"Oh no — it's on the house. The locals remember you. You were twenty‑two when you last passed through."
"Human years," Yur said. "I'm surprised I was memorable."
She smiled.
"You know how elves are. We're the same age, after all."
He tilted his head.
"Except you're twenty‑two elf years."
"Which is about one hundred and forty human."
He studied her.
"You haven't aged at all. Still… very beautiful."
She laughed.
"What would your wife say?"
The air changed.
"My wife has been dead for four years," Yur said quietly. "Explosionist attack. All that was recovered was her left arm. My ring was still on it."
Silence.
"I should head upstairs."
He turned away.
Upstairs, the room was quiet. A mana‑lantern glowed softly. Yur sat on the bed, elbows on his knees.
A knock.
He opened the door.
The innkeeper's daughter stood there — simple dress, hair tied back, bottle in hand.
"For the road," she said. "And… for earlier."
Yur studied her face.
"You don't owe me anything."
"I know. That's why I came."
She stepped inside. The door closed softly behind her.
She set the bottle down.
"You live like you're already halfway gone," she whispered.
Yur exhaled.
"That's not something people usually say to strangers."
"You don't feel like one."
Her gaze drifted to the locket at his chest.
"She was beautiful," she said.
"Yes."
She stepped closer.
"Does it bother you… that you're still here?"
He looked at her — really looked.
"It bothers me that I don't know what I'm allowed to want anymore."
She reached out — stopping just short of touching his chest.
He didn't move.
Her fingers brushed the fabric over his heart.
He covered her hand with his own.
The contact lingered.
Neither of them moved.
Then she leaned in.
The kiss was hesitant at first. Careful. As though both of them were testing whether the ground beneath them would give way. When it didn't, the second kiss lingered longer — softer, warmer, edged with something tired and aching. She made a quiet sound when he pulled back just enough to breathe — a soft, involuntary moan that escaped before she could stop it. Not loud. Not performative. Just honest.
Yur froze for half a heartbeat. That sound did something to him — not hunger, not conquest, but the sharp reminder that another living person was here, responding, wanting. He should have stepped away. Instead, his hand settled at her waist, grounding both of them. The lantern flickered.
Time blurred — not into heat, but into closeness. Movements slow, unhurried, the kind that came from listening rather than taking. Clothes shifted, not discarded. Skin met skin only where it was invited. At some point, the world narrowed to breath and warmth and the quiet creak of the bed beneath them , at first , with haste , then gradual fall.
Later — much later — the room was darker, the lantern burned low, its glow barely touching the walls. They lay beside each other, not entwined, not distant. Her head rested against his shoulder, fingers loosely curled against his arm. Yur stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling in time with hers.
Guilt came — of course it did. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just present. His wife's face did not intrude. The memory stayed closed, like the locket at his chest. That almost made it worse.
"This doesn't mean I've moved on," he said quietly, more to himself than to her.
She shifted slightly, her cheek pressing into his shoulder. "I wouldn't insult her by thinking it did."
He closed his eyes. Outside, Elyndra slept. The world turned. History moved forward, indifferent and patient.
When she finally drifted off, her breathing deep and even, Yur adjusted the blanket around her with the same care he used on his children. The locket remained closed — but it was warm.
The road cut through the elven lowlands in long, patient curves, pale stone packed smooth by centuries of passage. Tall grass bent away from the wheels of the carriage as it moved, whispering softly in the wake of its passing. The canopy above filtered the daylight into shifting bands of green and gold.
Elyndra was already far behind them — its spires and living towers reduced to memory — but the land still carried its influence: ordered, cultivated, quietly watched.
Yur sat with his back against the inner wall of the carriage, posture straight but relaxed, long legs braced to absorb the uneven rhythm of the road. He had muscle earned rather than displayed — the kind that came from repetition, from carrying equipment over distance, from sleeping poorly and waking early. Enough to be capable, not enough to intimidate.
His coat lay folded beside him, travel‑worn but clean, its seams reinforced where others might have frayed by now.
Across from him sat three women, all different, all striking in their own way, though none dressed to invite attention.
One was a merchant — broad, heavyset, her presence filling space effortlessly. Rings glinted on thick fingers as she counted and recounted the contents of a small ledger on her lap. She smelled faintly of spice and oil, and when she shifted, the carriage seemed to acknowledge her weight with a soft creak.
Beside her, nearer the window, a young elven woman sat upright with a healer's composure, hands folded neatly, eyes attentive to the world outside. She carried herself like someone used to being needed — alert even at rest.
The remaining space was occupied by two boys, both human, neither older than ten. They leaned close together, knees knocking as the carriage jolted, whispering to each other in bursts of excitement that came and went like sparks. Every so often one would glance at Yur, curious but cautious, as though trying to decide whether he was interesting or dangerous.
Behind them all sat a man — the doctor — older, balding, spectacles perched low on his nose. He had been silent for most of the journey, absorbed in a thin stack of notes, occasionally humming under his breath when the road smoothed out.
Yur had answered their questions earlier. Name. Occupation. Destination. He had done so plainly, without elaboration. He always did.
His work paid well enough, comfortably so, but comfort rarely stayed with him long. Coin turned into passage fees, bribes, lodging, records, information. Investigation was a hungry thing. What remained bought food, clothes, and the space to keep moving.
City‑born, through and through — raised among stone streets and echoing halls, by a father and grandparents who believed routine was a kind of virtue. His mother lived too, somewhere far enough away that thinking about it flattened his thoughts into a dull, neutral line.
He did not dwell on it. His mind simply passed over the absence, monotone, uninterested in reopening old paths.
The carriage rolled on.
The wagon was drawn into a shallow crescent beside the road, wheels turned slightly inward as if to shelter what came next. The merchant oversaw the unloading with calm efficiency, oiling the hinges of her supply chest while counting rations aloud, her voice steady against the rising chirr of insects. Yur helped drive iron stakes into the earth, the impact sending dull vibrations through his palms; the ground still held warmth from the day, and the smell of dry grass mixed with leather and horse sweat. The sun lingered low, a blood-orange smear against the horizon.
Tents rose one by one, canvas catching the last light. The driver built the fire quickly — sparks leapt, wood cracked, and soon the air carried smoke and resin. Yur rolled his shoulders as he worked, muscles tightening under travel-worn fabric, aware of the quiet glances that followed him without knowing why. Everyone moved with the fatigue of seven hours on the road, skin faintly sheened with sweat, clothes clinging just enough to remind them of their bodies.
The healer set her satchel beside the fire, fingers lingering on the clasp before she opened it. Her robe was practical — pale linen, belted at the waist — but the tear across the center of her chest told a story of urgency rather than carelessness. It revealed nothing outright, yet the curve and warmth of skin beneath caught firelight in soft gradients, rising and falling with her breath. She seemed unaware, or perhaps deliberately unconcerned.
The children were settled first, fed and wrapped in blankets near the edge of the fire's glow. Their voices faded into murmurs and then silence, replaced by the low hiss of embers and the distant wind through tall grass. With night fully arrived, the road felt suspended — a place between places, unclaimed by any city or law.
Only then did the camp relax. Cups were passed. Bread torn by hand. Wine diluted and shared. The merchant named the fee lightly, almost apologetically, and no one objected. The fire became the center of gravity, drawing stories out as naturally as warmth.
The doctor spoke first, voice thoughtful, describing a winter spent copying banned texts in a monastery that didn't know what it housed. His hands moved as he talked, precise, educated, and Yur listened with polite interest, eyes reflecting flame. The healer laughed softly at certain parts, tilting her head, strands of hair slipping loose and clinging to her neck where sweat had dried salt-sweet.
The merchant followed with tales of desert caravans and cities built around wells that had long since gone dry. She spoke of bargaining with kings and beggars alike, of learning which smiles meant danger and which meant profit. Yur found himself smiling without meaning to — her stories had weight, but no bitterness.
When it came to Yur, he hesitated. Then he told them about travel — not the places, but the spaces between. The nights where roads vanished under fog, the inns that remembered him when he didn't remember them back. His humor came late, almost clumsy, delivered in a monotone that made the punchline arrive a second too slow. It earned quiet laughter anyway.
The healer watched him closely then. Not his face, but his hands — scarred, steady, resting too still in his lap. She asked about the ring, half-dark with mana. He answered simply. No embellishment. The fire cracked loudly, as if filling the silence he refused to.
Later, when the conversation thinned and the wine warmed veins more than tongues, the healer knelt beside Yur under the pretense of checking his shoulder. "You favor it," she said softly. Her fingers hovered before touching, asking permission without words.
Her magic flowed quietly — a low hum felt more than heard. Yur inhaled sharply as warmth spread through muscle and bone, relief blooming like a slow tide. He didn't notice at first how her breath caught, how her posture stiffened as feeling rebounded through the spell. The healer's eyes widened just slightly.
She withdrew a fraction too late. Firelight revealed the faint tension in Yur's trousers — just the body's honest response to release after strain. He noticed her noticing. Heat rose to his face, different from the fire's warmth.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, standing. Her voice was steady, but her fingers trembled as she closed her satchel. "It happens. With healing like this."
Yur shook his head. "No. It's… nothing." The lie sat between them, fragile. Their eyes met only briefly, but in that moment the world felt very quiet — as if it were waiting to see whether either of them would step forward, or step away.
The fire burned lower. Stories dwindled. Bedrolls were claimed. Yet the tension remained, unspoken, humming like residual magic in the air — unresolved, uncomfortable, and unmistakably alive.
Three months later, the office smelled of ink, dusted parchment, and the faint bitterness of over-brewed tea. Afternoon light slanted through tall windows, striping the floor in pale gold. Yur stood where he always did when reporting — hands loosely behind his back, posture straight but unforced — recounting the journey as if it were another ledger entry. Travel times. Names. Incidents. His voice remained even, almost detached.
His boss listened at first with her chin propped on one hand, elbow on the desk, dark hair pulled back too tightly for comfort. She was elven by blood, human by habit, and known across the office for her patience — a patience that ended abruptly.
"You did what?"
The chair scraped sharply against the floor as she stood. The sudden motion sent the papers fluttering and, despite herself, her chest rose and fell noticeably beneath her fitted office blouse, the fabric shifting with the force of her movement. She stared at him, eyes wide. "You slept with an elven woman?"
Yur blinked once. "It was… a spur-of-the-moment situation."
Her ears flushed faintly — a tell he had learned to recognize. "Explain. Slowly."
"I went to relieve myself behind a tree," he said, tone unchanged. "Took longer than expected. The only soul user on the wagon came to check on me. She saw something you don't normally see in an elf village."
There was a beat. Then color climbed rapidly up his boss's neck. She looked away, cleared her throat, then snapped back into professional sharpness as if flipping a switch.
"I don't care what you're packing, Loyd," she said flatly. "You were on assignment. And now you might have a child involved."
"I doubt that," Yur replied. "The encounter was brief, poorly planned, and largely… nontraditional."
Her mouth opened. Closed. She inhaled, visibly steadying herself, then gestured vaguely with one hand. "Well. At least that's all that happened—"
"And the innkeeper's adult daughter," Yur added, helpfully.
Silence detonated.
Cut — abruptly — to the corridor outside the office, where a visiting soul-magic instructor froze mid-stride as a string of words erupted from behind the door. The language was ancient, inventive, and absolutely unfit for transcription. He paused, nodded once to himself as if acknowledging a natural disaster, and quietly walked the other way.
Back inside, Yur stood exactly as before, expression neutral, already bracing for the next question.
''So , can I go home now , im hungry , unlike that elf-''
''GET OUT , … your pay is at the front desk.''
''Thanks boss lady.''
He left the room as Boss lady Najyu sat comfortably in her , blue-bear skin chair _ .