“This—perfect!” Minona’s voice rang through the empty space, her small, glowing form darting up and down the vertical rock like a flickering flame, alive with her magic and the restless boredom that seemed to fuel her. “We’re using this!” she declared, her dazzle gleaming with a strange excitement as she flared her power against the flat stone, her enthusiasm almost absurd in the dead silence of the dungeon.
Days had passed—Robin couldn’t say how many, or if days even held any meaning down here. The darkness around them was a blanket, heavy, swallowing time and thought, thickening his sense of isolation, blurring day into night until both felt like distant memories, until the very idea of sunlight seemed like something he had invented, something that didn’t exist beyond the boundaries of this dungeon. He’d long stopped keeping track, the oppressive gloom weaving through the corridors, once tight with menace, now unraveling into a disconcerting familiarity. The quiet, once a pulse of hidden danger, had flattened, turned to a strange stillness, the air around them clear, clean even—just air, no smell of blood, no rot or decay, no threat in the shadows. Just quiet.
The kind that gnawed at him.
“Get your dagger now, human! We’re in writing class now!” Minona’s sharp voice jolted him from his thoughts, her playful tone cutting through the stillness like a crack in the wall she was so busy creating.
Robin had lost the will to argue, drained of that edge he used to carry, the one that sharpened his mind, the one that had kept him alert through fight after fight, each battle a test, each enemy a measure of his strength. Now, the dungeon felt emptied of those challenges, its once dark and menacing halls growing tame. Hundsteins, Natterwings—gone. Even the wretched Dang-goras hadn't found nourishing on this ground. What was the point of him growing stronger if there was nothing left to conquer? Nothing left to sharpen him but boredom. The air, thick before with danger, now felt thin, meaningless. A place once teeming with life—or death—had turned into a tomb of silence. And Minona? She wanted the assassin to carve stones.
“Whatever, Minona,” Robin muttered, the words spilling out of him more from exhaustion than indifference. “Whatever makes you happy…”
He watched her work, her magic weaving the walls from dirt and dust, her power almost endless, shaping, molding the earth with the ease of someone who had far too much energy and far too little to use it for. Water mixing with earth, clay forming, the spark of fire magic to harden it, wind to clean it, her magic flowing effortlessly. Slowly and gradually, the wall grew before his eyes, and Robin—his dagger ready, though without any real purpose—looked at the flat surface she’d crafted, the smoothness she’d achieved with a kind of careless precision. It was something to do, he supposed. Something to keep his hands busy, to keep the quiet from sinking into his bones any deeper.
But as his dagger touched the stone, carving those first lines into the surface, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the dungeon had given up on them, that in all their relentless battles, all the blood they had spilled, they had drained this place of what made it dangerous, what made it feel alive. It felt hollow now, an echo of what it had been, the air stale with nothingness. He carved, but his thoughts wandered—wondering if the silence, this emptiness, wasn’t some kind of test itself. A test of endurance, not against the monsters that had once filled these halls, but against the slow, creeping weight of time, of boredom, of being forgotten in a place that had once threatened to feast his flesh.
And Minona, her energy boundless, her mischief never quite sated, seemed to thrive in it.
“But… what do we even write, Minona?” Robin asked, the tip of his dagger hovering uncertainly over the stone, his voice dull with the exhaustion of days and battles, his mind numb from the endless quiet and the absurdity of his current task.
“Ah! Great question, human!” Minona flared with pride, her little body alight with mischief, glittering her magic dust in the dim glow of the dungeon. She spun in the air, a tiny, triumphant cyclone of energy. “Now, repeat after me and carve it into the wall!” Her voice rang with an enthusiasm that Robin found both endearing and a little terrifying. “The assassin of the otherworld—”
“Wait, wait, wait—assassin?” Robin cut in, his frown deepening. “What’s with the ‘assassin’ stuff? And ‘of the otherworld’? Because I’m not from this world?” He shifted uncomfortably, the dagger still in hand, but unmoving. “Just ‘Robin’ works fine. I don’t need all that extra nonsense.”
Minona darted around him, her laughter echoing softly off the stone walls. “It’s not nonsense! It’s part of your lore, human! Your legend!” She paused dramatically, floating in front of his face, her eyes bright with excitement. “Just trust me, will you? You follow my lead, and your name will be etched in history for all time. Now repeat: ‘Robin, the assassin of the otherworld, answered the call of fate….’”
Robin stared at her, bewildered. His dagger wavered. “Answered the call of fate? Really? Who am I? Savior? I just fought a bunch of rabid dogman and an oversized eel and that makes me hero! How is that answering the call of fate?”
Minona twirled in midair, dismissing his complaints with a flick of her tiny spark. “Details, details. It’s all in the framing, human! You think future explorers will be inspired by ‘Robin fought some Hundstein’? No, no, no. They need to know about Robin, the hero, the legend, the conqueror of the dungeon!” She declared grandly, as if the very walls would come alive with the power of her words.
Robin sighed, resigned to the absurdity of it all. The dagger finally touched the stone, scratching out the first exaggerated words. “Fine, whatever,” he muttered. “‘Robin, the assassin of the otherworld…’”
“That’s the spirit!” Minona cheered, circling him like a proud teacher. “See, you’re getting it! And don’t forget the part about destiny and challenging the darkness. It’s crucial for the tone.”
Robin paused, lifting the dagger. “Challenging the darkness? Minona, this place is just a hole in the ground with rocks and monsters. I’m not challenging anything. I’m just trying to survive.”
She scoffed, fluttering close to his ear. “Survival is part of the legend, Robin! Heroes survive. They endure. They conquer. You’re writing history here! Your history!”
“Feels more like I’m writing bullshit,” he muttered under his breath, carving out the next ridiculous line. Each stroke of the dagger on stone carved more absurdity, which burden his hand. The words began to stack up, sentences turning into paragraphs, each one more embellished than the last. He could barely keep up with her exuberance, the endless stream of heroics she insisted on crafting from their simple struggles.
Stolen story; please report.
By the time he reached the end of the wall, Robin’s arm ached, and his head spun with the sheer volume of the nonsense they had just etched into the dungeon. He stepped back, staring at the grand tale he’d carved out under Minona’s relentless direction.
“There! Perfection!” Minona declared, hovering back to admire the wall like an artist unveiling her masterpiece. “We’ve captured the essence of your journey! Future adventurers will know that you, human, conquered this dungeon. The hero who challenged the darkness!”
Robin glanced over at the first line, then back at Minona, his brow furrowed in disbelief. “Challenged the darkness, really? I fought a couple of beasts, and now I’m writing an epic saga for your amusement. It’s ridiculous.”
Minona bobbed, shrugging her imaginary shoulders, her mischievous comments never fading. “Ridiculous? Maybe. But legends are born from exaggeration. Trust me, no one’s going to remember the guy who just ‘fought a bunch of Hundstein.’ But this?” She hovered closer to the flat surface, dazzling in excitement. “This is legend that will last for decades, if not eternity. Your name shall be printed on every storybook, sung by bards all around the taverns, even gossipers couldn't resist spreading it.”
Robin groaned, rubbing his face with his free hand. “Fine, whatever makes you happy and stop bothering me.” He couldn’t help but smile a little, despite himself. It was either carve these ridiculous words or endure one of Minona’s invasive personal questions—and he wasn’t about to explain why he had no first love stories to share.
Minona's light shimmered, dancing with a mischief that seemed to brighten the gloom of the dungeon walls. “Next!” she announced, her voice thick with anticipation. “‘Robin, the daring hero, confronted a beast of the merciless realm of the murk, whose howl echoed through the dungeon’s depths, a sound so terrifying it made even the shadows shiver before it. Its fangs, sharp as enchanted blades, gleamed in the darkness, and it prowled with the stealth of a ghost. But Robin, ever quicker and more cunning than the beast, ensnared it with a crafty trap—a cord of doom spun from shadows—and felled it in a heartbeat, leaving the creature bewildered by its swift defeat.’”
Robin's brow furrowed as the dagger hovered over the stone. He could almost hear the absurdity dripping off the tip of his blade. “She is talking about the strangulation,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Okay, next gibberish, Minona?”
Minona, undeterred, flared brighter, her voice practically twinkling with the kind of enthusiasm that ignored all reason. “Details, human! Not gibberish! The people want details! They don’t care how you did it—they want to feel the legend, the thrill! Now for the part about meeting me, it becomes…”
“Here it comes,” Robin sighed, eyes already glazing over in anticipation of her next elaborate twist.
“‘As Robin ventured on his noble quest to purge the realm of evil,’” Minona began with a flourish, “‘he encountered a radiant companion—the enchanting princess of Devia, Minona. Her wisdom, a beacon brighter than the sun, dispelled the shadows that dared to cross their path to confuse the hero and make him doubt his justified journey. With a mastery of magic that could only be described as unparalleled, she became the perfect ally for our hero, Robin, her brilliance and power making her an indispensable partner in their epic journey.’”
Robin stared at the wall, the carved lines suddenly feeling twice as heavy. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Of course!” Minona’s voice burst with glee. “It’s not every day you get to write your own legend with your bare hands. Well, in your case, hands. In mine, superior intellect.”
Robin rubbed his temple, feeling the weight of the dagger now pressing against more than just stone. “Next, please?”
Minona’s laughter filled the air, a sound that somehow didn’t echo, but instead lingered like smoke in the dim light. “It's ‘Robin the hero, alongside his brilliant partner Minona, ventured into a realm ruled by fearsome man-eating vegetation. The path was shrouded in darkness, the terrain jagged and treacherous, yet they fought with unwavering valor. Minona illuminated the way with her radiant magic, transforming the battle into a dazzling display of courage. Robin, wielding his mighty prowess, vanquished the horde, absorbing their essence and strength to assist him on his journey.’”
Robin shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the very simple, very unheroic reality of that moment. “You torched the sleeping plants. That’s all. I don’t think burning Dang-goras alive qualifies as a dazzling display of courage.”
Because it’s also an art, human! You’ve got to sell it! And besides, it makes a magnificent tale, doesn’t it?” Minona hovered beside the wall, admiring their work like a proud mother gazing at her child’s first painting.
“Mouthful, I’d say,” Robin muttered, his hand absently running over the etched lines of exaggerated victories, larger-than-life monsters, and a hero he barely recognized. “But sure, whatever makes you happy.”
Minona ignored him, too caught up in her grand retelling. She hovered near the next blank spot on the wall, already narrating with flair, “‘The vicious plants were merely guardians of the realm’s true ruler—a serpentine creature of immense power, rising from the shadows, intrigued by the valor of the hero. Its mighty presence alone shattered the rock, trembled the ground, challenging the hero to a battle of endurance. In the fierce struggle that ensued, Minona set the serpent ablaze with her fiery magic, and Robin delivered the heavenly judgment, ending the serpent's life and its tyranny.’”
Robin couldn’t help but snorted, a short, dry sound that escaped him almost involuntarily. “We burned it alive and I stabbed it like a monkey trying to dig termites out of a tree with a stick.”
Minona gasped, feigning shock. “Stop it, you’re underselling yourself again! It’s an epic, not a comedy! And besides, this is all practice for your writing—take some pride in it!”
Robin sighed, shaking his head but unable to fully suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. He’d long since given up arguing with her when she got like this, so brimming with life and excitement that it was easier to carve her fantasies into the walls and let her bask in the glow of her own creative fervor.
Still, as he etched out the next ridiculous line about the flying serpent and a heroic, triumphant battle, he wondered—not for the first time—if Minona was older than the world itself, older than the dungeon and the stones beneath his feet. How long had she wandered these halls, spinning stories and lighting the way for some other poor fool who’d stumbled into her world? It was something he never dared to ask her directly. Some rules, after all, were universal, and one of them was this: never ask a woman her age.
Robin leaned back, the dagger finally resting at his side, his fingers raw from a day spent carving Minona’s grandiose tales into the dungeon’s slab of a wall created by her boredom. His body, though slowly healing, ached in that deep, lingering way that no amount of rest could immediately relieve. He exhaled, the sound heavy with both the satisfaction of the work done and the weariness of a body stretched to its limits. His eyes, bloodshot from the endless focus on fine details, traced over the wall now covered in etched words, in sagas both real and imagined.
“At least,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he were talking more to the walls themselves than to Minona, “it’ll be funny if someone stumbles upon this one day and gets the wild idea about us.” His gaze traveled along the jagged lines, the exaggerated stories of his battles, the impossible grandeur of the feats Minona had concocted for him. What had once been a blank, cold surface now brimmed with life, with stories—their stories—captured in stone.
“Definietly, human…” Minona replied, calm replaced her playful words, “Definitely!”