"Yes, Riko. I was just recently body-slammed into a sword." Tarrin's voice was flat, his expression teetering somewhere between murderous intent and war crime.
"Thank you for your bravery. That must've been difficult to admit," Riko replied, face painted with mock solemnity, as if honoring a fallen hero.
The smirk he wore only deepened Tarrin's glare.
The group raised their glasses in a toast—to honesty, to humiliation. The clink of glass echoed the laughter around the table.
"Alright, next round goes to Jayden," Riko announced, already grinning like he knew what was coming.
Jayden cleared his throat theatrically, then fired off, "Okay, Riko—what's your biggest fear about going to the Mainland?"
The question hit harder than expected. Riko paused, just for a second—long enough for everyone to notice.
"That's easy. I ain't scared of anything."
"Stake. Stake," Jayden said instantly, cutting him off with zero hesitation.
The rest of the group followed suit, chanting with merciless enthusiasm.
Riko groaned and poured a splash of beer into the communal pot. "Alright, alright," he relented. But Jayden wasn't done.
"No, really. What is it?"
Tarrin leaned in, curious now. Even Celith seemed to glance over.
Riko hesitated, then gave a small, awkward chuckle. "I guess... it's proving to my pops that I am the disappointment he always said I'd be. I told him I'd come back Scarbound. I have to."
The moment sat heavy in the air. And just as quickly as it came, Riko shook it off.
"Damn, didn't mean to get all deep on y'all," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
He turned to Jayden—who looked like he'd just heard the tragic backstory of a childhood villain.
"Wipe that face off, man. You look like you're about to hug me or some shit."
Jayden didn't miss a beat. "You don't have to pretend now. Softie."
That earned a round of laughs.
Lena grinned. "Wow, never thought I'd hear Jayden say something like that."
Tarrin nodded with mock reverence. "He's growing. Look at him—our little boy's growing up."
Next up was Lena, and the grin spreading across her face spelled nothing but trouble. Her gaze drifted to the two people sitting beside her—not Riko and Jayden, but Tarrin and Celith.
"So, Tarrin," she began sweetly, "when are you two going to announce you're dating?"
Silence.
Tarrin blinked, shooting a quick glance at Celith. Her face was unreadable—as always. She either didn't care... or was mentally deciding who to kill first.
Playing it cool, he smirked. "Well, we're just waiting for Grandpa's blessing. Right, dear?" He nudged Celith lightly with his elbow.
She stared at him, deadpan. No reaction. No blink. Just pure, soul-sucking apathy.
'Fair enough,' Tarrin thought. Not like he was expecting a laugh. He chuckled anyway, deflecting smoothly. "I wish. But there's one minor issue—see, I like being alive. So yeah, not happening."
He raised his drink and took a long, dramatic gulp.
The others laughed and followed suit—everyone except Celith. Her untouched glass sat there, and though no one dared say a word, the tension was obvious.
Tarrin leaned back in his chair, drink still in hand. She thinks I'm lying? he mused, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
Then it was Celith's turn. She hesitated, brows slightly furrowed. "I don't play games," she muttered.
"C'mon," Tarrin urged, flashing a grin. "Just this once. It won't kill you."
A beat passed. Then she gave a reluctant nod and turned her gaze toward Lena.
"Lena," Celith said calmly, "are you scared of me?"
The shift was instant. Lena froze, like a deer caught in floodlights. "N-no. Of course not. Why would I be?" Her laugh was nervous, her posture just a little too stiff.
Tarrin bit back a grin. Now this… this is getting interesting. He didn't even let a beat pass.
"Stake."
The word left his lips with smug certainty. The rest of the group jumped in right after, like a pack of wolves scenting blood.
Lena exhaled sharply, defeated. "You just… you look at me like you're picking a method to end me. That's all."
Celith gave a slow nod, unbothered. She had expected as much.
Tarrin's grin only widened. He turned to Riko with mock ceremony. "Riko, Riko. Ever been arrested?"
Riko blinked, then shrugged, a nostalgic smirk curling on his face. "Six times, if I'm counting right. But hey, crime's subjective, yeah?"
No one batted an eye. No "Stake." Not even a skeptical glance.
Tarrin raised his glass, and the group followed suit.
The next hour unraveled in layers—questions flew, truths spilled, and the table turned into a battlefield of laughter, embarrassment, and the occasional existential crisis.
Tarrin picked up more dirt on his new squadmates than he ever could've hoped for. Little secrets. Ugly truths. Golden.
And then came the finale.
Jayden sat hunched over the now-empty pot, gagging as if he'd just swallowed the Void. Tarrin watched him with a half-smile, sipping the last of his drink.
'Bloody disgusting,' he mused. 'With everything we poured in there, I wouldn't be surprised if he woke up with vomit in his boots.'
"I think we should call it a night," he said, stretching. "Any more of this, and I'll start saying something I regret."
He stood, making his way to the bar to settle the bill.
'Being a spy has its perks,' he thought. Then came the flicker—sharp and unwanted—guilt. He crushed it before it could take root. He had reasons. And he would survive.
The others followed him outside, laughing, stumbling a bit, their warmth lingering in the air. This time, the bar manager didn't even bother showing his face.
Tarrin turned, about to say something, when he felt a tug on his sleeve.
Celith.
She didn't speak. Just motioned silently with her hand.
"You guys go ahead," Tarrin told the group. "I'll catch up."
They gave a few knowing glances but said nothing, disappearing into the night.
He barely had time to process before Celith dragged him into a narrow alley beside the bar—quiet, dark, and removed.
Then she pushed him.
Back against the wall, her eyes sharp and unblinking. "Why are you doing this?"
Tarrin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He waited, watching.
And for the first time, something cracked. Not her voice—her mask. There it was: confusion. Distrust. A trace of vulnerability she hadn't meant to show.
Tarrin's chest tightened. Just for a second, his heart squeezed hard enough to hurt.
Tarrin let the silence hang—just for a beat. His eyes flicked over her face, reading the subtle tension in her jaw, the flicker of emotion in her gaze.
Then, slowly, he shifted. His shoulders slumped, just enough to look caught off guard.
A quiet breath slipped from his lips as he raised a hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing through his hair—a calculated nervous tick. Harmless. Human.
"Doing what?" he asked softly, his tone light, laced with confusion—feigned, but layered just enough to blur the line.
His head tilted slightly, eyes meeting hers with a careful, searching look, like he truly didn't understand.
Celith's grip on his sleeve eased, barely. But she didn't let go.
"You're pushing me," she said, voice low but steady. "The drink. The game. Everything. Why?"
Tarrin blinked, as if the realization had just dawned on him. He let out a quiet laugh—wry, self-deprecating. "Oh. That."
His hand dropped to his side, and his smile shifted, becoming boyish, almost embarrassed. "Didn't mean to push. I just figured you could use a break. We all could."
He took a half-step forward, just enough to close the space between them. His voice dipped lower, intimate now—reassuring in a way that felt natural, easy.
A warmth radiated from him, subtle and unspoken. The faint hum of his Aura of Friendliness stirred, wrapping the moment in something softer.
"You've been carrying a lot," he said. "I saw it tonight. The way you held back. I thought maybe… I could help. Just for a bit."
His expression opened up—eyes sincere, tone gentle—but his hand twitched at his side, fingers curling ever so slightly. A small tell, gone in a heartbeat.
Celith's eyes narrowed. She was watching now, hunting for cracks.
"You don't know what I'm carrying," she said. Her voice had dropped too—quieter, but sharper, cutting through the warmth like a blade.
Tarrin nodded, slow and deliberate. "You're right. I don't."
He let that sit between them. Honest. Admitting weakness without losing control.
"But I want to," he added, voice low. "If you'll let me."
He reached out—not grabbing, not assuming. Just lifting his hand until it hovered near her arm. He paused, offering her the choice.
She didn't pull away.
So he let his fingers rest lightly on her sleeve, the touch soft. Grounding. "You're not alone in this, Celith," he murmured. "You don't have to be. We're a team, remember?"
Her eyes flicked down, just for a second. And in that second, he felt it—the shift. A breath of space in her armor.
He leaned in, not too close. His voice fell even further, caught between sincerity and something unspoken—something dangerously close to truth.
"I'm sorry if I overstepped," he said. "I just… I care about you. Probably more than I should."
The words hung in the alley like smoke—weighty, impossible to take back.
Celith didn't speak. Her expression barely moved. But the faint flush rising up her neck betrayed her. Just a flicker. Just enough.
Tarrin felt it then—the twist of guilt, sharp and unexpected. It caught him hard, right in the chest.
He stepped back before it could show on his face, pulling away with a small, bittersweet smile.
"Let's head back," he said lightly, brushing the tension aside like it had never happened. "The others'll start rumors if we're gone any longer."
She didn't answer. But she walked beside him, silent and close, her presence heavier than before.
Tarrin kept his gaze ahead, his posture calm. But his hand—hidden by his side—clenched into a fist, knuckles whitening before he forced them to relax.