The sun was warm, the breeze was cool, and for once in his ridiculous, punch-filled, occasionally-on-fire life, Gale felt genuinely relaxed.
He lay sprawled out in the middle of a grassy plain just outside town, his head comfortably resting on Claribel's lap.
She sat against the sturdy trunk of a tree, knees slightly bent, and was peeling fruit with the precision of someone who had clearly done this a thousand times before. The rhythmic shk-shk of the blade against the skin of the fruit mingled with the rustle of the wind through the grass.
Gale let out a content sigh. "Y'know, I don't say this often… mostly because I'm usually being chased, stabbed, or falling off something high… but this? This is nice."
Claribel smiled softly and popped a juicy slice of fruit into his mouth before answering. "You mean lying around doing nothing while I do all the work?"
"I call it emotional support reclining," Gale mumbled around a mouthful of fruit. "Very advanced technique. You wouldn't understand."
She snorted, offering another slice. "Oh, clearly. I'm the amateur here."
"Exactly. But don't feel bad. Not everyone can master the art of tactical napping in scenic locations."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. The sun filtered through the leaves above them, casting dappled shadows across the grass. Claribel hummed a quiet tune as she worked, and Gale found himself watching her more than the clouds drifting overhead.
The way her hair shifted in the breeze, the gentle focus in her expression as she peeled another fruit—he couldn't help but smile.
He wasn't exactly sure what this was between them. Friendship with benefits? Something serious? A shared tolerance of his nonsense?
Whatever it was, he liked it.
Eventually, the sun began to dip lower on the horizon, painting the sky in soft orange and gold. Gale reluctantly stretched, careful not to knock over the fruit bowl she'd placed beside her.
"Sun's going down," he said. "The town's smith should be done fixing my sword by now. I should probably go grab it before he closes up shop and starts yelling about 'damn kids who think weapons grow on trees.'"
Claribel chuckled. "He does seem to hate you on principle."
"I think he just hates joy."
She stood up, brushing grass from her skirt. "Well, I've got some chores to finish before it gets dark."
"I'll walk you back," Gale offered, hopping to his feet with a grin. "Might even protect you from wild roaming mobs of flying fish. You never know."
Claribel shook her head with a small smile. "That's sweet, but unnecessary. You should hurry before the smith decides to 'accidentally' melt your sword out of spite."
"…Honestly, I wouldn't put it past him."
They parted with a small wave, Claribel heading toward the village path and Gale turning toward town, hands behind his head as he strolled through the grass.
Still, something tugged at the edge of his thoughts.
"Huh… where's Larson?"
The guy had practically made it a part-time job to try and ambush him in public. At first, it was annoying. Then it got… well, still annoying, but also a little entertaining.
Gale had kind of started looking forward to it—Larson's increasingly convoluted schemes were like watching a bad magician try to pull a tiger out of a paper bag. Plus, Gale got to show off in front of Claribel, which was obviously very important.
But Larson hadn't shown his face in a while. No pratfalls out of barrels. No banana peel traps. Not even a "Gotcha!" followed by wildly inaccurate swinging.
It was... suspicious.
And suspicious usually meant bad.
Gale's smile faded slightly as he walked on.
"Better keep an eye out," he muttered. "The idiot might actually be planning something smart for once. And that'd be terrifying."
...
The streets of town were lively in that lazy, late-afternoon kind of way—shopkeepers sweeping their porches, kids chasing each other through alleys, and the smell of grilled fish wafting from a nearby stall that nearly derailed Gale's mission on the spot.
But he kept walking, a little extra swagger in his step and his freshly repaired sword gleaming at his side like it had just come back from a spa day.
The old smith had done a fine job—no nicks, no chips, not even a hint of the weird burn mark Gale still swore came from a very localized lightning storm.
As he walked, Gale couldn't help but think about the man behind the forge. A crusty old sourpuss who probably scowled in his sleep and grunted more than he spoke.
The kind of grandpa kids made up fake dentist appointments to avoid visiting, but who still somehow ended up being weirdly beloved by the whole neighborhood.
Gale was pretty sure if he ever called him "gramps," he'd get a wrench to the kneecap.
Still, the guy was good at his job. And that was more than enough for Gale. He didn't want to make a habit of bonding with old men with mysterious pasts and chronic dramatic backstories. Florencio already filled that quota and the sequel.
No thanks. One emotionally complex mentor figure per island, please, and thank you very much.
He was just a block away from the sala de armas when a familiar voice barked out behind him, "You there! Boy!"
Gale turned to see the old monk—Poqin's master—hobbling toward him with the energy of a man who'd fought wars and was annoyed they ended too soon. The guy looked like someone had shaved a thundercloud and stuffed it into a robe.
"Have you seen Poqin?" the monk asked, sharp-eyed and clearly not in the mood for games. "He snuck out a few days ago and he hasn't returned since..."
Gale raised a brow. "Poqin? Probably passed out in a bar somewhere, drinking himself—"
The monk's glare hit him like a spiritual pressure wave. Gale cleared his throat and backpedaled faster than a crab doing the moonwalk.
"I mean—I haven't seen him," he said with an awkward chuckle. "Sorry. Force of habit."
The monk huffed through his nose like an angry ox. "If you do see him, tell him to get his lazy hide back home. Or I'll break both his legs and make him meditate in a cast."
"...Will do."
The monk grunted and shuffled off, muttering something about "disrespectful disciples" and "alcoholic squirrels." Gale blinked, briefly wondering if that last one was literal.
He resumed his stroll, whistling lightly, but the conversation lingered in the back of his mind. Poqin gone for a few days, huh? Strange. And now that he thought about it, Larson hadn't made an appearance either.
No ambushes. No tripwire traps. No random attempts at hiding inside a sack of potatoes.
Weird.
"...Nah," Gale muttered. "No way."
Larson? Doing something to Poqin? He shook his head. Sure, Gale had never seen Poqin fight, but the guy had monk muscles under that raggedy coat. Larson, on the other hand, had all the tactical brilliance of a wet sandwich. Gale doubted he could take out a scarecrow, let alone a possibly-trained martial artist.
Still… the timing was odd.
He chewed on the thought for a second, then shrugged it off.
It wasn't his business. Poqin was cool, sure, and Gale got along with him well enough, but they weren't that close. Not "drop everything and go on a rescue mission" close. And with his trip to the Salt Lake looming and Florencio's medicine at the center of it all, he had bigger priorities.
Florencio came first.
Always.
Besides, if Poqin really was in trouble, he'd probably smash his way out of it with a sermon and a barstool.
...
The sun hadn't quite risen yet, but Gale was already wide awake, standing in the open courtyard of the sala de armas, double-checking the travel pack Florencio had prepared like it was a ceremonial rite. Which, given Florencio's obsession with form, it might as well have been.
"A journey begins in the heart, but it ends with poor planning if you forget even something as trifling as a toothbrush," Florencio said gravely, arms folded like a disappointed father and a drama teacher.
Gale sighed and crouched beside his pack. "Right, right. Let's see…"
Dried bread and meat? Check. Tasteless, tough, and suspiciously older than some of the jokes Florencio told, but food nonetheless.
Water supply? Enough to make a camel nod in approval. Check.
Rope, flint, lighter? Check. He even threw in a shiny little mirror because someone (Claribel) said it might be useful for signaling. Or admiring himself during downtime.
Extra clothes? Check. Though all of them had suspiciously Florencio-esque flair. One even had ruffles. Ruffles. Gale drew the line at feathered hats, though.
Rapier and cloak for the whole 'espada y capa' deal? Check. He spun the cloak once dramatically just to be petty about it.
Toothbrush? Check. Because priorities.
He stood, swinging the bag over his shoulder and giving Florencio a lopsided grin. "All packed, old man. Unless you want to throw in a handwritten goodbye poem or something."
Florencio snorted, but the crinkle around his eyes softened. "Just don't do anything reckless. The medicine is important… but your life is more important."
Gale's grin faltered for a second, just a second.
Right. The medicine.
The flower that only bloomed once a month in the middle of a monster-infested salt lake. Because of course it did. And now that the bloom had come around again, there wasn't a choice.
A month ago, he might've thought twice. But after a month of training that blurred the line between "personal growth" and "Florencio's personal brand of psychological warfare," Gale felt… ready.
Not excited, but ready.
He nodded slowly. "Don't worry. I'll get it, and I'll be back before you can say 'tragically poetic martyrdom.'"
"...That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
They clasped wrists, shared one last nod, and with that, Gale turned and made his way down the winding path that led out of town.
The breeze was cool, and the morning mist curled around the stones like it knew something ominous was coming.
Right on the edge of town, leaning against a crooked tree like he was posing for a dramatic oil painting, was Poqin.
He looked exactly how Gale remembered—half holy man, half hangover. Robes slightly wrinkled, staff slung over his back like an afterthought.
"Well, well," Poqin said, raising an eyebrow. "Look who's walking off like he's in a sad ballad."
Gale blinked. "Poqin. Didn't you disappear into the fog of mystery and alcohol or something?"
"I came back. Town's not the same without my particular brand of wisdom."
"That's one way to describe it."
Poqin gave him a curious look. "Where you off to? You look like you're geared up for a camping trip through hell."
"Salt Lake," Gale said, adjusting his pack.
Poqin's brows shot up. "The Salt Lake? As in, the one crawling with sea beasts? That Salt Lake?"
"That's the one."
Poqin tilted his head, squinting like he was trying to find the logic in it. "Why?"
Gale paused, eyes scanning the road ahead. "It's… a long story. Just know I have my reasons. And yeah, I know it's dangerous."
Poqin watched Gale for a beat, then pushed off the tree with a theatrical stretch, like he was about to announce something big.
"If you're going to the Salt Lake," he said, "you should take me with you."
Gale blinked. "I'm sorry, what now?"
Poqin shrugged, casual as ever. "I'm bored. And I've been there before. I can lead the way, point out all the bits where the monsters aren't, and maybe even save your life if you get unlucky and forget which end of your sword is the sharp one."
Gale snorted. "That's rich coming from the guy whose greatest martial feat is drinking a whole bottle of plum wine in under ten minutes."
"That was a pilgrimage, thank you."
Gale gave him a sideways look, one brow raised. "You do realize your master's been tearing the town apart looking for you, right? Said he was gonna break your legs when he found you."
Poqin waved a hand dismissively. "Pfft. At this point, he's probably upgraded from legs. I wouldn't be surprised if he went full-on pressure point disabler mode and just paralyzed me for a week as a teaching moment."
"That actually sounds like something he'd do."
"Exactly!" Poqin said brightly. "So I figured, might as well enjoy what little mobility I have left before I go back and face the music."
"You're a menace." Gale shook his head, a slow grin tugging at his lips despite himself. "Suit yourself," he said with a shrug, adjusting the strap of his pack and setting off again.
He didn't get far.
Poqin caught up in two steps and threw an arm around Gale's neck like they were old war buddies, never mind that most of their shared experiences involved barroom gossip and occasionally enabling each other's bad decisions.
"This is gonna be fun," Poqin said, grinning ear to ear.
Gale glanced at him, debating whether to push him off or let him have his moment. He settled for sighing in mild resignation.
"Gods help me," he muttered. "I've just signed up for a monster-infested lake hike with a drunken monk fugitive."
Poqin beamed. "Adventure! Friendship! Moral ambiguity! This is the good life!"
"…I already regret this."
And with that, the two walked off into the morning sun, one step closer to danger, questionable life choices, and possibly an accidental spiritual awakening—though Gale was betting on the life choices.
...
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