The merchant's carriages groaned like dying beasts as they crawled through pine forests. Three wagons—one bearing the living, two hauling the dead and their salvaged luxuries—chained together with ropes that smelled of salt and old blood. Regulus eyed the nearest corpse slumped against a crate of Far Eastern porcelain, its shattered patterns mirroring the knife wounds on the merchant's throat.
'Kingdom of Andromeda.' The merchant's trembling directions played in his mind. An island nation caught between two powers: the war-torn Far East with its priceless silks and scarred landscapes, Altena's crystalline spires where the Athena Familia dissected magic like corpse-flies on meat, and whatever lurked beyond them. A perfect crossroads for graves-in-the-making.
Nyx lounged atop a bolt of violet silk, kicking a dead man's boot with her bare foot. "Tell me again why we're babysitting a coward and his corpse collection?"
The merchant flinched. "Silver Hollow Depot is just ahead! The Andromedan Guards patrol there—"
"And yet," Nyx plucked a jade hairpin from a dead woman's braid, "your friends died before reaching safety." She held it up to the fading light. "Altenan craftsmanship. Stolen, I assume? Their mages do love engraving tracking spells in pretty things."
A rope snapped. The rear wagon lurched, spilling a corpse into the ferns. Its pockets had been turned inside out hours ago.
Regulus kept his grip on the reins. The merchant's map had shown two paths beyond the depot—west to a port dealing with Altena's magic-related equipment and items, or east towards a heavily guarded fortress, facing Far East's Crimson Coast, where warlords burned ports faster than ships could dock. Both routes promised new paths to take.
Nyx sighed as shadows pooled around her ankles, the setting sun finally granting her power. "Remind me to sack the next merchant who promises luxury goods but delivers corpses."
Somewhere in the trees, an owl cried. It sounded almost like laughter.
The merchant's carriage jolted over another rut in the forest path, making the salvaged silks shift like restless ghosts. Regulus steadied himself against the sideboard, watching shadows lengthen across the road.
"Actually," he asked abruptly, "have you heard of Princess Asfi Al Andromeda?"
The merchant blinked sweat from his eyes. "Uh? There's no royalty in the kingdom's history by that name, young man."
Nyx's laughter curled through the carriage like smoke. "Oh-ho! My little king develops fantasies for royalty now?" She twirled a lock of hair around one finger. "Should I start calling you 'your majesty'?"
Regulus ignored her, pressing further. "She is also known as the legendary item maker? The one who—"
"Legendary?" The merchant barked a nervous laugh. "Only high leveled blessed make legendary items, sir. And they don't share their secrets." He mopped his brow with a silk scrap. "Unless... you mean old Hephina the Mad? She tinkers with magic tools up in Altena, but—"
Nyx's shadow flicked the merchant's ear. "Enough about tinkerers." Her violet eyes gleamed as she studied Regulus. "First harems, now princesses... What other scandalous dreams does my Familia captain harbor?"
The carriage hit a stone, sending a cascade of jade beads across the floorboards. They rolled into the growing shadows like insects fleeing light.
Regulus clenched his jaw. The discrepancies were piling up—missing figures, altered roles—but Nyx's mocking deflection told him everything. She knows he is genuinely confused but makes fun of him anyway.
And judging by how the shadows now clung too playfully to Nyx's wrists, she wasn't planning to stop.
The jade beads continued their slow migration into the shadows as Regulus' mind raced. Fragments of half-remembered lore surfaced—flickering images of a white-haired boy, a labyrinth city, a sword princess with golden eyes. But the pieces refused to align.
'If Asfi doesn't exist... if Perseus is not known...' His fingers tapped against his dagger. 'Then what else changed?'
Nyx stretched like a satisfied cat, her shadows now braiding themselves through her hair. "You're thinking so loudly I can hear your brain sizzling, little moth."
Regulus ignored her, turning back to the merchant. "Who are the strongest Familias in Orario?"
The man nearly dropped his reins. "O-Orario? The geographically incorrect center of the world? The Labyrinth City?" He shuddered. "Why would—"
Nyx's shadow clamped over his mouth. "Answer the question."
"T-the Zeus Familia!" he squeaked. "And Hera Familia. Then... Hephaestus' smiths,? I don't trade there! Their dungeon attracts too many—"
Nyx's eyes sharpened. "What was that?"
The carriage lurched again as they rounded a bend. Silver Hollow Depot came into view—a walled compound where Andromedan guards in scaled armor inspected incoming carts. Beyond its gates, the road forked: west toward Altena's floating docks stacked with magical cargo, east to the militarized ports facing the Far East's warzone.
The merchant brightened. "See? Safe as a—"
An arrow sprouted from his shoulder.
"DOWN!" Regulus yanked him beneath the seat as a volley of projectiles shredded the canopy. Masked figures moved through the trees—not Far Eastern assassins this time, but warriors in gray cloaks bearing a sigil of crossed quills.
Nyx sighed as shadows erupted from the depot's walls to intercept the arrows. "Honestly. Does no one let deliveries arrive intact anymore?"
Regulus peered at their attackers' symbol. "Who are they?"
The merchant whimpered. "T-the Athena Familia's research division. They've been hunting Far Eastern goods and people since—"
"Later." Regulus shoved a knife into his hand. "Defend yourself."
As the first gray-cloaked mage charged, one thought burned brighter than the rest:
'Orario exists. The dungeon exists. I was just wrong about the timeline!'
-----
The sun hung low over Silver Hollow Depot, painting the wooden palisades in hues of amber and rust. The skirmish had ended as abruptly as it began—Altena's gray-cloaked researchers retreated after realizing the merchant and his cargo wasn't worth the bloodshed. Now, the Andromedan guards at the gates eyed the group with weary suspicion, their scaled armor glinting dully in the fading light.
The merchant—still clutching his wounded shoulder—fumbled with a leather pouch at his belt. "P-please, I'm a registered trader under the Andromedan Merchant Guild! Look, my seal—" He shoved a copper insignia toward the nearest guard, the embossed crest of a ship and anchor barely visible beneath layers of grime.
The guard turned it over in his gauntleted hands, then grunted. "Andromedan, huh?" His gaze flicked to the broken crates of Far Eastern porcelain spilling from the wagons. "Funny. Your cargo says otherwise."
Nyx leaned against a wagon wheel, idly spinning a bloodstained arrow between her fingers. "Oh? Is there a law against Andromedans peddling foreign wares?" Her smile was all teeth. "Or is this one of those flexible trade restrictions?"
Regulus watched the exchange in silence. Ten days had passed since he first woke in this world—ten days of skirmishes, narrow escapes, and Nyx's relentless teasing. The merchant's story didn't add up. Andromeda was supposedly neutral, yet here he was, smuggling goods from an internal warzone.
The guard tossed the insignia back with a scoff. "Save your excuses for the depot master. Move along."
As the wagons creaked forward through the gates, Regulus fell into step beside Nyx. "Far Eastern goods in an Andromedan's hands," he murmured. "That mean anything to you?"
Nyx flicked the arrow into the dirt. "Means someone's lying. Or everyone is." She glanced at the merchant, now sweating under the depot's scrutiny. "Either way, none of our concern once we get my perfect sleeping set up."
Beyond the walls, the depot sprawled like a wounded beast—crowded with traders, adventurers, and the lingering scent of salt and meat. The sun dipped lower, stretching their shadows long across the dust. Somewhere, a bell tolled the hour.
The merchant's secrets could wait. Night was coming. And an inn was a must.
The merchant's gratitude lasted exactly as long as it took to unload the silk.
With a hasty bow and a nervous glance at Nyx's shadow-drenched smile, he vanished into the depot's throng of traders, leaving them with ten bolts of violet silk—far less than promised.
Regulus stared at the fabric. "This is half what we agreed on."
Nyx plucked at the threads, her smirk sharpening. "And it's the cheap stuff. See how the dye bleeds? Third-rate alchemical treatment." She sighed, tossing it over her shoulder. "Well? Go be useful and sell it."
The trading post smelled of sweat and mildew, its counters scarred by generations of haggling. Regulus laid out the silk before a hunched broker with ink-stained fingers.
"Thirty thousand valis," the man said without looking up.
Regulus blinked. "This is worth at least sixty."
The broker's smile revealed three missing teeth. "Not with Altenan patrols seizing Far Eastern cargo. Too risky." He pushed forward a coin pouch. "Take it or leave it."
A muscle twitched in Regulus' jaw. He'd bargained with gods and monsters—but this? This was daylight robbery.
He took the pouch.
Nyx counted the coins twice before her shadows began to writhe.
"Three days," she said, voice dripping venom. "Three days of rent for babysitting that whimpering sack of meat, is this really all you got to show for it?" The valis clinked as she clenched her fist. "I've seen bandits with better negotiation skills."
Regulus exhaled through his nose. "We need shelter. Not a lecture."
The inn they found was little more than a rotting loft above a spice merchant's stall, its single cot smelling of mold and old sweat. Nyx kicked open the shutters, letting the sunset paint the room in bloody light.
"Next time," she said, flopping onto the threadbare blanket, "I handle the deals." Her shadow stretched across the floorboards, swallowing the last of the coins.
Regulus leaned against the windowsill, watching the depot's lanterns flicker to life. He barely had time to register the distant scream before Nyx's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife.
"Strip."
He turned from the window to find her sitting upright on the cot, shadows pooling around her like liquid night. Her violet eyes gleamed in the dying light—sharp, impatient.
Regulus raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
Nyx flicked a coin at his chest. It bounced off and clattered to the floor. "You heard me. Clothes off. Now." She tilted her head, a wicked grin spreading across her lips. "Unless you'd rather I help?"
The shadows at her feet twitched eagerly.
Regulus crossed his arms. "If this is another one of your—"
"Status update, idiot." Nyx rolled her eyes. "Or did you forget why we nearly died hauling that merchant's corpse-wagon?" She gestured impatiently. "Unless you'd prefer to walk around with last week's stats like some amateur?"
A beat passed. Somewhere outside, another shout echoed through the depot, followed by drunken laughter.
With a slow exhale, Regulus reached for the clasp of his cloak. "You could have led with that."
Nyx's grin widened as the fabric slid from his shoulders. "Where's the fun in that?"
The last rays of sunlight bled through the window, painting the room in fleeting gold as shadows stretched long across the floor.
Tomorrow could wait. Tonight, they had work to do.