The days after Delahaye’s outing with Primrose began like many had for her over the years. She woke up half-naked, tangled in the sheets, and thoroughly hungover. For better or for worse, she was alone in said tangled sheets, so there was at least one less thing to regret regarding the previous night. Groggily rolling out of bed, she hit the floor with a thump. The new aches joined with those already there, swirling into an orchestra of discomfort that Delahaye was having none of.

“Magic is real, oy?” She mumbled thickly to no one in particular, rolling onto her back.

“Magic hangover cures…”

She chuckled at the thought, then rolled over, pushing herself to her feet. The more she thought it over, the less humorous it became. Magic was real. That opened doors she had never even fathomed before. If conjuring magical cutlasses and hand cannons from thin air was possible, curing a hangover seemed like child’s play.

“Alright… More explorin’ today, I reckon.”

Delahaye collected her shirt and one of her boots, which she had discarded at some point the night previous. As she was pulling her boot on, the door to her room’s washroom opened. A young woman stepped out, drying her hair with a towel, and offered Delahaye a coquettish smile. Delahaye froze, drawing in a sharp breath between her teeth. Her list of regrets grew quite suddenly.

“Oh. Shit.”

…

The Whispering Wind was a fine establishment by the standards of Nefir’s third Spire. Which was to say it was seedy, but not spectacularly so. Only one in every three rooms had a leaky ceiling, and there was only one bad bar brawl a night, usually.

The third Spire was the smallest of Nefir’s core spires, and the one with the direst reputation. The black sheep of the trio. The central Spire was the home of Nefir’s ruling class, the tallest of the three, and the most refined. The second Spire was the home of artisans, as well as the Temple District and the headquarters of the Adventurer’s Society, as Primrose had explained.

Her tone had become noticeably more distasteful when she had spoken of the third Spire. It was the home of the city’s poorest citizens, as well as the red light district. Whereas the central and second Spires rested at, or above ground-level, the third Spire was partially subterranean. It was the bridge between Nefir’s underbelly and its upstanding neighbours above, and as those with power were wont to do, the citizens of the third Spire were looked down upon as little more than scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells.

Which was to say they were exactly Delahaye’s kind of people.

The main room of The Whispering Wind was mostly empty in the mornings, save for grizzled old regulars who had been dining there for decades. It smelled of stale booze, old vomit and older blood. Wood was rare in Nefirite construction, but the main room of the inn was furnished in what had once been fine dark wood. It’d been worn into mediocrity over the years, but it hadn’t yet become too ugly, at least not enough to warrant a refurbishment.

The woman manning the counter was a gnarled older woman named Jilly. A former Adventurer, so she had told Delahaye. She was dense and stocky, with wiry grey hair and a single icy blue eye. The other was covered by an eyepatch. The sleeves of her tunic were rolled up to reveal heavily tattooed forearms, and the thick leather apron she wore would never be divested of the stains it had earned in its years of service.

“Newcomer,” she greeted gruffly as Delahaye took a seat.

“You got anythin’ to deal with hangovers?”

Delahaye held two fingers to her temple, and Jilly looked her over. She bent down, disappearing behind the counter, before she placed a handful of black beans into a mug and conjured a spout of scalding water with a snap of her fingers. It was the strongest coffee Delahaye had ever smelled, and she hacked out a cough as Jilly slid it over. It felt like an eternity, waiting for it to cool down, and when she finally took a sip, Delahaye bent double, gagging. Her hangover vanished, as did everything else in her skull. It cleared her out like nothing she had ever experienced before.

“Hell! What is up with this?”

She managed to sputter, looking over at Jilly. The old woman was glowering at her, an angry glint in her eye as she leaned over the counter, jabbing a finger into Delahaye’s chest.

“House special. For the scumbag who had the audacity to sleep with my daughter.”

Delahaye blinked, then looked over to the staircase. The woman from her room was standing at the landing, that coquettish smile turning suddenly, cruelly gleeful . She looked back to Jilly. Then back to the other woman, who swayed down the stairs and into the main room with a sultriness to her movements that bordered on mockery. Delahaye swallowed, her list of regrets blossoming into a booklet.

“Oh. Shit.”

…

Primrose Primadola’s day-to-day life adhered to a strict schedule. She awoke at dawn every day, and she prayed. Then, she bathed, got dressed, and ate a simple breakfast. She had no taste for finery, the only thing she allowed herself was her cloak, as it had been a gift. The lofty title of heiress-apparent was accompanied by a vast list of responsibilities, and she took to them with the same practised efficiency.

“Keep me apprised of the situation regarding the Monster Surge, if anything changes, send word to Lord Primadola at once.” she said to one of her attendants, dismissing them with a gesture. Despite being only Iron rank, Primrose was the eldest of her siblings, and thus oversaw duties far above her station. She ran a hand over her face, doing her best to avoid the scar as she did. Eyes were always upon it– she preferred that hands, even her own, remain at a distance. A headache was worming its way behind her eyes, and she let out a long breath. Her moment of quiet was broken by the sound of running.

“Lady Primadola! My Lady!”

With a sigh, Primrose opened her eyes, turning to the flustered maidservant as she practically flew into her chambers.

“Yes, Mel?”

“L-Lady Primadola, there is a…a situation at the entrance to the estate that requires your attention…”

Primrose raised her brow.

“We have plenty of guards far more adept than myself for this, Mel. I’m certain my presence is not required.”

The maidservant shook her head rapidly, her hair falling loose from its bun and obscuring her face, flushed red from exertion.

“N-Normally, My Lady, I would agree… But you’ve been requested by name.”

Primrose chewed on the inside of her cheek, taking a moment to deliberate before rising from her seat. She shot the maidservant a pointed look, and she turned her head as Primrose’s arms rose from within her cloak. Even with her head turned as it was, Mel’s periphery still caught a glimpse of Primrose’s arms, normally obscured by her soot-stained gloves. All knew of Primrose’s burned face. The burns that covered her arms were a closely guarded secret.

Primrose adjusted her gloves, ignoring how Mel’s eye flickered to the side to watch. She could forgive curiosity. If she started to gossip, however, then she would act.

“You saw nothing,” she said firmly, and the steel in her voice drained the colour from the maidservant’s face.

“O-Of course, My Lady. Nothing at all!”

…

Primrose strode through the halls of the Primadola Estate at speed, her embroidered cloak snapping behind her as she turned corner after corner. Her home was labyrinthine, and it took considerable effort to not get turned around within the maze of corridors. Such construction was the norm in Nefirite homes. It was a city built from the foundation up to withstand siege. Its walls had never been breached, not once since its founding, but the people of Nefir did not grow complacent. Should a breach occur, homes were designed to confuse and isolate any invader. A Nefirite home without at least a few traps was considered poor construction.

As she walked, a shadow loomed from a side room. She gestured sharply, and the figure fell in beside her. He was a mountain of a man, with rich dark skin and long black hair threaded with gold, styled into dreadlocks that hung to his ankles. They rattled and jangled with the beads and rings threaded into the locks, and Primrose looked up at him.

Samson Delile was the largest human she had ever known. Primrose had never met anyone who stood at eye level with a Leonid, none save for another Leonid, or Samson. He had the countenance of a professional soldier, and the training to match. He wore plate armour that blended steel and stone together, making him appear like a walking mountain. Every footfall shook the floor beneath Primrose’s feet, and she sent up a silent prayer that he did not crack the tile.

The Delile family had served alongside the Primadola family since the founding of Nefir, and where the Primadolas had the ambition to lead, the Deliles were protectors one and all. For countless generations, Delile children had been paired with Primadola heirs, serving as bodyguards, confidants, and every now and then, lovers.

Samson and Primrose’s relationship started and ended at the professional level, however. Though the beginnings of a friendship had begun to form. When she looked up at him, he nodded, though his eyes skittered away from her own. He had, in all the years they had been paired, not once looked her, or anyone else, in the eye.

“Lady Primrose,” he said, his voice a whisper. Samson’s voice was utterly incongruent from the rest of the man. It was small, almost shy. The way he tucked his hands in front of himself and bowed quickly was something a demure maiden would do, not a hulking knight. She quickly returned the nod, the bare minimum of etiquette seen to.

“Someone had shown up at our gate, and asked for me by name. I, for one, would like to see who has the audacity…”

…

Primrose sucked in a breath, pinching the bridge of her nose and squeezing her eyes shut. The headache returned with a vengeance, and its herald stood before her.

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“What? You said to ask for the Primadola Estate!” Delahaye said, leaning casually on the gate.

“The Estate, Delahaye. Not me personally. There is protocol, and– for the love of the gods! You’re bleeding all over my damn gate!”

Primrose stepped forward, and Delahaye laughed, baring her strange teeth in a bloody grin. The Outworlder had been standing in the shade, and it had obscured her injuries. Her left arm hung limply at her side, broken in several places. Her face, torso, and other arm were covered in a myriad of cuts, ranging from small nicks to savage gashes. The worst of the injuries, however, was the dagger buried up to the hilt in Delahaye’s side.

“What the fuck?!”

Primrose’s shrill exclamation turned heads across the gathered crowd. The heiress-apparent stormed forwards, gripping the dagger and pulling it out, tossing it to the ground. Delahaye let out a yelp, clutching the suddenly gushing wound. Primrose batted her hand away, pressing her hand to the wound. The white leather of her gloves, the areas not stained black by soot, quickly became pink, then red, as Delahaye’s blood continued to gush forth.

“As all things end, they fuel the cycle! Rise, ash! Rise, be reborn! Rise, and restore that which is sundered!”

Primrose chanted, her voice rising to a shout. The air stilled as the gathered crowd went silent. There was a momentary pause before the air erupted. Heat, and light, first burning from within Primrose before rolling down her arm. Fire burst from the palm held to Delahaye’s wound, creeping over her. The pirate was transfixed, eyes wide and jaw slack, terror screaming from her aura. Primrose paid it no mind. The heat prickled the back of her neck, and sweat beaded the brow of every person nearby. It was sweltering, and oppressive.

Delahaye snapped her jaw shut, curling her hands into fists as the flames consumed her. It burned, the heat was unrelenting. But she did not burn. She felt the uncanny, uncomfortable sensation of her wounds closing rapidly, the blood that clung to her skin and adhered to her clothes crumbling into dust. The flames disappeared as quickly as they had erupted, and Delahaye stumbled back, patting herself down. Her breaths came quick and shallow as she stared up at Primrose.

“You–... I was–... You lit me on fire!”

“To heal you,” Primrose added evenly.

“Did you do that the first time?!”

When all she received in reply was an unkind, tight-lipped smile, Delahaye picked herself up, dusting herself off with a growled curse, shaking ash and soot out of the folds of her shirt. She took off her boots, upending them and repeating the process.

“And just what did you do to end up like that, Delahaye?”

She paused, slipping her boot back on and crossing her arms. Primrose stared her down, and the two stood at a stalemate for a few moments, until Delahaye broke the healer’s gaze with a scoff.

“I may have, allegedly, slept with the daughter of a seedy innkeeper. Who then jumped me. For sleeping with her daughter. Allegedly.”

The look Primrose gave her was so potent, so thickly laced with disbelief, that somewhere, within the Deep Astral, a new god of Incredulity was born. Delahaye stood with her hands on her hips, doing a rather poor job of attempting to appear innocent.

“In my defence–”

“Shut up. Shut. Shut. Up. Just… stop talking.”

Primrose paced back and forth, muttering to herself. The crowd began to disperse, sent off by immolating glares from Primrose, and more gentle urgings from the hulking man who had accompanied her. Given how he carried himself, and his proximity to Primrose, Delahaye surmised that he was some sort of household guard.

“And just what, exactly, happened to this innkeeper?”

“Well,” Delahaye began, “She stabbed me. And then kept conjuring daggers. So I retreated from the inn, and ran down the street.”

“Anything else?” Primrose pressed.

“Well… I may have shot her. A few times…”

She winced at the scathing expression from Primrose, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Oy, oy, oy! She lived! Probably! I came out way worse than she did!”

Primrose began to pace once more. Her mutterings, half-heard by both Delahaye and her hulking bodyguard, contained a litany of assumptions about Delahaye’s parentage, a smattering of threats of varied and painful deaths, and no small amount of anger directed towards the denizens of the the third Spire as a whole.

“You are an idiot. A few days on your own, and you, a stranger to this city, are already causing trouble! You were, quite publicly, seen walking with me! Do you even know what manner of blowback–”

Delahaye crossed her arms once more, and Primrose stopped, glaring at her. This time, Delahaye did not relent, and they returned to a locked-in state.

“I didn’t know it was her daughter. Honest. Didn’t even remember the night before. And it was that innkeeper who attacked me, Primrose. I defended myself, and then ran here. Because you’re the only damned person I know. I got lucky. You’ve got my thanks for that, genuinely.”

Primrose backed off, snarling, her anger vented. It was like the flames she conjured; hot, intense, but fleeting.

“That is Lady Primrose to you,” she corrected after a moment, and though Delahaye rolled her eyes heavily, she nodded her assent. The trio, all that remained of the crowd that had gathered around the wounded Delahaye, lapsed into an uneasy silence. They jostled in place, looking between the others. Finally, Delahaye meekly scratched the back of her neck.

“But really, in my def–”

“Shut up!”

…

Delahaye meandered behind Primrose like a solitary duckling, looking around the vast interior of the Primadola Estate with undisguised wonderment. There were elements she recognized, reminiscent of architecture from her own world. The shape of the windows, the pattern of the trim, the stitching of the drapery. But as much as some of it was familiar, the vast majority was utterly alien. The Estate was hewn into the rock of the central spire, and more than once they had to stop at a checkpoint, waiting for traps to be disabled.

“You booby trapped your own house?”

Primrose gestured around, to the Estate as a whole and then the city of Nefir far below.

“Nefir is a city built from the ground-up to withstand a siege. Her walls have never been breached, but we are ever prepared.”

Delahaye nodded, continuing to look around. The closer she looked, the more intricate she realised the construction was. She was no architect, but certain details stood out to her. Perhaps it was the intuition of a scoundrel like her, but purpose-built faults became apparent. Collapsable pillars, walls with thinner mortar than the brick around them, the vague outline of trapdoors.

“I don’t want to meet whatever this city was built to withstand,” she said after a moment.

“No. You don’t,” came a new voice. Quiet, small. She looked around for what she presumed to be a servant of some kind, given the inflection. All she found was Primrose’s hulking guard, who averted his eyes from Delahaye’s own.

“This is Samson Delile,” Primrose introduced, “My personal bodyguard.”

Delahaye stuck out a hand, and Samson took it, shaking with a gentleness that belied his massive size. It was clear how much effort he put into being gentle, like someone carefully scooping up a delicate baby bird. The smile he managed was adorably quaint, an unpracticed and anxious expression that looked like it almost hurt.

“So… Why exactly did you bring me in here?”

Delahaye asked as they came to a stop. The room they entered was, for the most part, unfurnished. A large, plain altar with a bronze embossing of a hand with a weeping eye in its palm sat at one wall, whilst a sizable collection of overflowing bookshelves took up another third of the room. A small, unadorned bed lay near the doors to the balcony, which were obscured by heavy white curtains.

“Because I have questions.”

Another unfamiliar voice cut through the air. Smooth and buttery, with an undercurrent of menace that churned Delahaye’s belly and set her teeth on edge. She felt like a lone rat, staring up at the leering face of a hungry cat. Nothing in Delahaye’s entire life had made her feel so small, so vulnerable.

When she blinked, a man stood in the centre of the room where he certainly had not been before. He bore a striking resemblance to Primrose, or more likely, she to him. His fair skin was heavily freckled, his wavy brown hair held up in a bun. He was absurdly handsome, like a statue given life. It was an uncanny beauty, far too perfect. He looked no older than thirty, yet his eyes were far older.

His clothing was somewhere between the finery of a noble and the ensemble of a soldier. His arms were folded behind his back, his posture ramrod straight. He held himself like an admiral, yet he exuded the domineering self-assurance of a lord. Delahaye shifted in place, making her attempt at a brave face. The longer he looked at her, the more exposed Delahaye felt, until she was shaking in her boots and sweat dripped down her face.

Suddenly, that feeling retracted, the feeling like a blade being removed from her throat, and the strange man smiled like a snake freshly satiated on a plump mouse.

“For a Normal, you stand up to aura suppression quite well.”

“I’ll pretend to understand what you mean. You said you got questions. Ask ‘em.”

He raised his brow, and Delahaye caught a glimpse of Primrose’s stricken expression out of the corner of her eye. When that feeling of exposure crashed down on her once again, Delahaye buckled, flinching back as if struck. Still she held the man’s gaze, and he nodded. The vulnerability faded into the background once more, ever-present, but diminished. It was enough for Delahaye to stand up straight once more.

“Your aura, Miss Delahaye, is by far the most defiant aura I have ever seen. I am Gold rank, yet it feels like a slippery fish under my attention. Don’t get me wrong, I hold on just fine. It just isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.”

The meaning of his emphasis on the word gold was lost on her, but it felt like a compliment. A back-handed compliment, sure, but a compliment nonetheless. She nodded, swallowing nervously.

“Now… Those questions. I have but a handful. For one…”

He stepped forward, into her personal space. The stranger was a full foot shorter than Delahaye, yet in that moment she felt like an ant before a giant.

“Where do you come from? You speak like you learned to speak from a skill book. Is it a translation power?”

Delahaye nodded, taking a moment to breathe before answering in full.

“Aye. Translation. I come from… a ways away, and I’ll leave it at that.”

He considered her for a moment before nodding, seemingly accepting of her vague answer. He held up a hand, one finger raised, then he raised a second.

“Second. You know my daughter. How?”

Delahaye stole a glance over at Primrose. She, to Delahaye’s confusion, seemed eerily still. Given the fact he had referred to her as “my daughter,” it wasn’t hard to guess the man to be her father, the duke.

“She healed me. Twice, now. Once when I arrived in the city, and just a bit ago outside your house, ‘ere.”

He stepped back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Delahaye shifted from foot to foot, running her tongue over her teeth. The moment he stepped out of her bubble felt like taking a breath after nearly drowning, and she reigned in the shaking of her limbs. She was far from presentable, but at the very least she no longer cowered in place. At least, that was what she told herself.

“Now, my third and final question… Do you intend to become an Adventurer?”

It was a soft question after the oppressive intensity of the previous two. He leaned back in place, arms crossed, awaiting Delahaye’s answer. She mulled it over for a long while, brow furrowed and lips pursed. Delahaye closed her eyes to think, letting out a sigh as her mind raced. She’d been asking herself the same thing since the day Primrose had given her the essences– at least in the hours where she was sober enough to do so.

“Adventurers protect people, first and foremost,” Primrose had told her. Delahaye had never been a protector. Far from it. Yet she had been granted an opportunity like no other. A new life, a new world. She could do anything she wanted… And some part of her felt like being a hero was right.

“Aye. Aye, I do plan on that,” she said finally. When she opened her eyes, the man was nowhere to be found. She blinked, shaking her head, a distant voice in her ear growing louder and closer.

“Delahaye! Delahaye, can you hear me?”

She blinked again, finding a gloved hand stained with soot waving up in front of her eyes, Primrose hopping up and down in order to reach.

“You’ve been standing there for a few minutes now. What has gotten into you?

Delahaye gave her a quizzical glance.

“You… didn’t see the man in ‘ere? Looked like you?

Primrose frowned, eyes flickering downward. Realisation dawned on her face, but she said nothing. Whatever she had realised, it was something she was keeping to herself. Delahaye was in no mood to press her, either. That man, the duke, had been something else. Something frightening. Something Delahaye sorely wanted to permanently remain in good graces with.

Delahaye wobbled over to a seat, taking a series of deep breaths in order to calm herself down. Slowly, she began to feel like herself again. Like she wasn’t in constant danger of being invisibly eviscerated. Primrose stood close by, her imperious bluster gone, replaced with naked concern. Delahaye held up a hand, dismissing her worries, and she managed a faltering smile.

“Just a panic attack. You did light me on fire. I don’t much like fire, I’ll have you know.”

Primrose laughed, shaking her head, and Samson managed a slightly less anxious smile. Delahaye shifted in her seat, clearing her throat.

“So… What did you bring me here for? Not for questionin’, I hope?”

Primrose shook her head.

“No. I wanted to bring you here to oversee your essence absorption. You have made a decision on the matter, yes? On whether or not to become an Adventurer?”

Delahaye rubbed her chin, then tapped her foot. The chest she had received from one of her racial powers rose from the floor, and she kicked it open lazily, taking out the box Primrose had given her several days prior. She opened it, taking out the two essences she had been gifted; the cube containing a massive body of water, the Water Essence, and the cube containing a strange ship sailing the seas, the Ship Essence.

“Aye… I think I will do just that, Lady Primrose. It’s the Adventurer's life for me.”