The Adventurer's Guild at 4 AM hits different. It's a toxic mix of stale beer, cold iron, and that specific brand of "I survived yesterday" exhaustion.
When Arthur pushed through the doors, he didn't head for the quest board. His eyes automatically scanned the room, mapping out the traffic flow and marking the exits. Tactical autopilot.
Then he saw a familiar face.
A guy was slumped at a window table, nursing a pint with the kind of lazy confidence that suggested "not being dead" was an achievement worth celebrating. Arthur didn't rush over. He hit the counter first.
Yesterday's girl wasn't on shift. Instead, he got a dwarf who looked like he'd been carved out of a granite slab and then dragged through a hedge. His arms were unnaturally thick, crisscrossed with old scars. He was currently digging his nails into one of them like it was trying to crawl off his skin.
"The Kobold hunt?" Arthur asked.
"Over there," the dwarf grunted, jerking his chin toward the window.
The guy at the table caught Arthur's eye and gave a half-assed wave.
Of course.
"Yo, dog-breath."
The smirk came before the greeting.
"Rowan," Arthur said, sliding into the opposite chair. "Your mouth is still running faster than your brain."
Rowan was a Tier 3 adventurer who looked like he'd just crawled out from under a bed. Messy blonde hair, a face full of freckles that made him look younger than he was, and gear that was always just a little too nice for his rank. He wasn't particularly strong; he was just ridiculously lucky.
"Whoa, easy there. Look at you, all 'civilized werewolf,'" Rowan grinned. "Should I call the city guard? I think there's a law about pets sitting at the grown-up table."
"You want to find out how fast I can end you?" Arthur shot back.
Rowan just laughed harder. He wasn't being a bigot—at least not on purpose. He just talked trash when he was nervous, using jokes to check if everyone was still in one piece.
"But seriously," Rowan leaned in, his eyes scanning Arthur. "You look... different."
He wasn't talking about muscles. That was werewolf 101. He was talking about that ice-cold, hyper-rational expression. Arthur looked like an elite who calculated every breath before he took it.
"Nice gear upgrade," Arthur said, dodging the subject. "Goblin hunting paying off?"
"Don't even start. If I hadn't bolted when I did, my name would be on a memorial plaque right now."
They traded "near-death" stories as the sun started to peak. Arthur noticed the last slot in their party was still empty. The Mage.
He didn't exactly hide his bias against mages. It wasn't hate; it was professional frustration. Magic was the ultimate black box—non-transparent, unquantifiable, and impossible to copy.
He was just about to make a crack about "typical mage punctuality" when a voice dropped behind him like a velvet curtain.
"Oh, it's you guys."
The voice was light, possessive—like she was checking on a pair of toys she'd misplaced.
Arthur turned, and for a second, his brain stalled.
His logic didn't recognize her first. His body did.
His breath hitched. His spine locked. His nose was suddenly flooded with a scent that was both familiar and terrifying—power, control, and that specific "full moon is coming" pheromone spike that made his instincts want to scream.
Pink hair, bright as a neon sign in the morning light. A staff taller than she was. Her mage robes were a masterclass in "bold choices," hugging her curves in all the right places and leaving just enough skin exposed to make his werewolf senses go into overdrive. She wasn't just "well-endowed"—she was a walking sensory distraction.
Seraphina Valenrith.
She stood there, smirking, and took a step closer.
"What's wrong?" she purred. "Forgot how to say hello?"
Arthur's rational brain finally kicked in. Observe. Evaluate. Suppress.
"Good morning, Lady Seraphina," he said, his voice stiff.
She laughed. Not offended, just genuinely amused.
"Honorifics?" She leaned in, close enough for him to smell the mana humming off her skin. "Are you trying to make it obvious how nervous I make you?"
She knew. She definitely knew. The full moon cycle, the werewolf libido, the way his body was currently vibrating with suppressed tension. She was doing this on purpose.
"Relax," she whispered. "I'm just curious to see how long you can hold out."
She gave him a playful pat on the back. It wasn't hard, but it was perfectly timed to wreck his breathing rhythm. Arthur stepped back, swearing internally. Dangerous. Not just because she was a high-tier powerhouse, but because she knew exactly how to play him.
"Seraphina."
A cold, masculine voice cut through the tension.
A guy with green hair walked up, looking Arthur over like he was inspecting a hammer at a hardware store.
"Someone you know?"
"Yeah," she chirped. "A friend."
Friend. Arthur repeated the word in his head, staying silent.
The green-haired guy looked at Arthur again, his lip curling slightly. "Moonborn House?"
The tone was pure elitism. Moonborn were known for being nomadic, warlike, and having a power-to-lust ratio that made humans "uncomfortable."
Arthur didn't blink. "Outcast tribe. Ashfen Pack."
The lie was smooth. He'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
"Whatever," the guy said. "Evander. Rank C."
The condescension stayed. It wasn't personal; it was just how he viewed anything with fur. Seraphina's smile flickered for a millisecond. She stepped half a pace closer to Arthur.
"Evander," she said, her voice light but firm. "He's a teammate."
Not a tool.
Evander shrugged. "Let's move. Kid, get the lead out."
As they started walking, Seraphina brushed past Arthur, her fingers trailing along the back of his ear.
"Don't stay too far away," she whispered with a wink. "I might think you're avoiding me."
His werewolf ears almost popped out right then and there. Control yourself, he hissed internally.
Rowan stood there with his jaw on the floor, then leaned in to whisper, "Bro... did you actually sleep with a mage that hot? And if so, are you insane for ignoring her now?"
"Shut up, Rowan. Just focus on staying alive."
The carriage was waiting at the West Gate. Seraphina sat right next to Arthur—zero personal space. She kept glancing down at him like she was watching a science experiment. Arthur's nose told him her heart rate was steady. She was enjoying this.
Evander started the briefing. Tactics, roles, risks. Arthur listened intently, but half his brain was busy suppressing the "full moon meter" rising in his gut.
"Nervous?" Seraphina asked suddenly.
"Just doing a risk assessment," Arthur replied.
She grinned. "You're fascinating, Arthur. So dangerous, yet so... restrained."
He didn't answer. Answering was the first step toward losing control.
As the carriage rolled into the western plains, Arthur looked out the window, forcing himself to focus on the mission. He needed power. Not to conquer anything, but so he'd never have to feel this—the feeling of being looked down on, of being "managed."
Seraphina was the most dangerous variable in his life right now.
And she was the only one who seemed to realize it.