Away from the cramped stone of the checkpoint chamber and into a room that could not be called cavern or hall, an engine-room boiled down to light and logic. Darkness here was not absence but a pale, humming substrate; the air tasted of ozone and old runes. At the room's heart a rectangular hologram shimmered into being: clean planes of pale glyph-light forming a console that floated above a carved plinth. At its center burned the familiar Strygan insignia—that spiral of runes every Sentry-type dungeon wore like a herald's crest.
This was the Computare's Main Console, the heart and mind of the dungeon.
Around the central projector, a forest of smaller emitters blinked to life. Streams of light stitched themselves into dozens of views: wireframe panoramas from turret-eyes, slow-panning feeds from golem-eye cameras, skeletal overlays of patrol routes and rune-networks. The Computare's mind was cold, precise, built of gears and codices as it watched everything at once.
Then, amid the low hum of mana, came a voice — sharp and distorted, woven through static and ancient fatigue.
"G—Guh…! T-these damned mortals!"
The words crackled, overlapping with the whirring of failing mechanisms. The voice was undeniably feminine, yet laced with artificial distortion, its tone veering wildly between composed intellect and glitch-ridden fury.
"Now I cannot access the Main Outer Chamber! The black-haired subject—the one that manipulates darkness—she has formed an anomalous barrier around the Main Outer Chamber! Every golem that I send to breach said Chamber just sink straight into her shadows! Her cursed domain devours my sentries whole!"
The words doubled up, half translation, half corruption.
"J—just how!?!? What magic even is this!? It is not in my Codex! Not in my lexicon! Not in any subroutine! The Strygan Network never catalogued a spell that consumes light itself!"
The holographic displays jittered, a dozen camera-feeds replaying images in staccato: a woman's silhouette, the inky foldings of a shadow that swallowed stone, the pale eyes of a sentry searching but finding only black. The Computare's speech rushed on, the static sharpening its edge.
"Without vision," it rasped,
"I have no data. No sequence. No predictive pathing. The sentries cannot report. They see only void. I cannot infer in their plan. I cannot model outcomes from nothing alone."
A thin laugh threaded the complaint, grating like a gear slipping.
"I am a machine of sight and measure. Where sight fails, my loops fail. Where data dies, my will thins. This is just too imperfect..."
For a breath the console fell quiet, as if the engine were re-indexing itself. Then another feed drew the Computare's attention as one of its scouts far below, a lone stone soldier padding through a narrow gallery. The view extended outward, and where the sensor expected a regular shaft it instead fell into a corridor whose geometry refused closure.
"Hm,"The Computare murmured, less broken now and colder for the steadiness.
"An Infinite Corridor, I see. Anomalous. Not canonical. The pattern repeats and never repeats—surface motifs, arranged in endless succession. Its architecture mimics the world above: shelves, tables, lanterns… but of course, all of the tomes within are blank it's an imitation after all. Pages devoid of print—useless metadata. The form without the function."
The console drew the feed into a closer study. Rows of books stretched to an impossible vanishing point. Each tome's spine bore faux sigils, each lantern threw light that ate itself bare. The Computare's voice acquired a new edge—territorial, precise.
"So this is most likely an intrusion. Another Dungeon's influence—an infection of archetype. I'm not entirely fond of sharing territories. My Strygan lattice will not house another Master's anomaly."
It pulsed a command through the holo-grid, schematics unfurling: turret arcs, golem patrol permutations earned an update, and calibration procedures to Strygan Sentries that powered up.
"I will excise it,"it concluded, voice leveling into cold policy.
"Send purging units. Burn the mimetic corridor. Let flame and pressure test the anomaly's seams. If it resists, escalate to containment protocols. Mark all observed vectors. Where my sight returns, I will resume governance."
Around the central insignia the light tightened, as if a mechanical jaw had clenched. The Computare's registers hummed with fury and purpose—not human fury, but something like it: offended protocol. The holograms streamed orders outward, the dungeon's many eyes awakening to a single imperative.
Below, in stone and shadow, the dungeon's heart decided to move. The Computare would not share its library. It would burn it out of existence if it had to.
Within the Outer Checkpoint Chamber, silence reigned save for the soft crackle of flame and the occasional drip of water echoing from the ceiling above. The protection barrier, faint gold etched with Harlen's runic geometry—shimmered faintly over the group like a living shell, its protective hum mingling with the deep stillness of the dungeon. Beyond its edge, only darkness waited.
Party 5 had gathered once more to rest and mend.
Their little camp felt almost domestic amidst the ruin—a wedge of warmth carved out of the unknown.
Trevus sat cross-legged upon a slab of old stone, his blue coat folded neatly beside him. His armor, dyed faintly of blue steel was scattered in pieces before him. The captain's eyes, always sharp and deliberate, scanned for dents or fissures along the sabatons and greaves. When his fingers brushed over a chipped edge, he made a small sound of thought and reached for a whetstone, mending it in silence. His twin sabres, their edges faintly frosted by his mana's nature, rested nearby, clean and gleaming in the firelight.
Across the camp, Harlen sat by himself, stripped down to a simple tank top, steam rising from the bucket of water before him. He ran his fingers through his blond hair, still darkened by soot and flame, letting warm droplets fall into the bucket as he worked the grime out. His arming sword leaned beside him. He sighed, combing back his hair and muttering something half-irritated about "flamethrowers not belonging in a damn stone dungeon."
At the makeshift stone table, Camylle leaned over a wide slab of rock covered in parchment. Scribbles of routes, tunnel sketches, and glyph notations filled the page of her handiwork. A half-broken pen twirled between her fingers as she stifled her boredom.
Lotha and Nira sat shoulder to shoulder beside the campfire, the smell of sizzling meat and roasted potatoes wafting through the chamber. Lotha, with her chestplate unfastened and her long hair tied loosely behind her, munched lazily on her skewer while staring into the firelight. Nira, by contrast, seemed half-slouched against the stone pillar, her purple eyes reflecting the flame like black glass. She poked idly at the embers with a skewer stick before offering Lotha the last piece of potato with a faint smirk.
At the chamber's edge, on a stone ledge that overlooked the misty cavern floor, Mina and Ashe sat with their legs dangling freely, the glow of faint blue dripstones above them painting their faces with cool light. They talked softly, voices carried by the echoing quiet.
Mina was the first to giggle. "Heh… chkk! I still can't get over it…"
Ashe blinked, turning to her. "Get over what?" he asked, leaning back on his palms. His violet eyes flicked upward, watching as faintly luminous water droplets fell from above, scattering like sparks in the gloom.
"The way Harlen yelped when he got burnt by that turret~" she teased, her grin widening.
"Don't you dare laugh—you had front row seats to that inferno!"
Ashe instantly covered his mouth, shoulders trembling as his cheeks turned red from holding it in. A snort escaped. "C–curse you, Mina," he hissed, voice cracking between laughter. "S-shut up! You're gonna make Harlen come over here—!"
Mina nearly fell back laughing, clutching her stomach. "Pfft—oh stars, the way his hair curled after the blast—!"
"Hey!" came Harlen's voice from across the camp, half-suspicious, half-tired. "If you two keep talking about me again, I swear I'll throw one of these buckets!"
The two froze, exchanging silent laughter like conspirators. Mina cupped a hand over her mouth while Ashe bit his glove to stop himself from bursting out again.
Camylle, overhearing, couldn't help but grin. "Oh, let it go Harlen, let them laugh. You did look adorable—like a nobleman trying to fight a dragon with a candle."
"Adorable!? Adorable!?" Harlen barked, exasperated. "Camylle! that turret nearly turned me into a roast! You call that adorable!?"
"Mm-hm," Camylle said, barely glancing up from her maps. "A well-done roast."
The laughter spread—Lotha's soft chuckle, Nira's low snicker, Mina's uncontrollable giggle that echoed through the chamber. Even Trevus cracked a smile behind his quiet composure.
For a brief moment, the dungeon didn't feel like a prison of stone and danger. It felt alive—warm, like a family gathered around a hearth.
Then, somewhere far beyond the barrier's edge, a faint metallic clink echoed down a corridor. A hollow step. Then another.
Trevus's eyes snapped up instantly, his hand falling to the hilt of his sabre. The warmth of the fire dimmed in his gaze.
"Quiet, do any of you hear that?" he said softly, a blade of command in his tone. "We're not alone anymore..."
And just like that... the laughter died, and the dungeon breathed again.
Camylle's hands clenched—small bursts of flame flaring between her knuckles, licking at the air as if eager to strike. Her breathing slowed, deliberate, steadying her pulse as she invoked her mana-perception spell once more. The chamber around her dimmed to a deep, oceanic blue—every surface cloaked in the tranquil glow of detection, every source of energy outlined in threads of faint cyan.
At first, she sensed only the residual embers of their own party's mana—the glimmering hues of Trevus's blue aura, the steady gold of Lotha'sgolden ward upon her fingers, the restless crimson around Harlen's sword still humming from its enchantment. But then… something else.
The mana signature coming towards them was faint. So so faint that it could barely be seen—a pinprick of pale cyan, flickering at the edge of her perception, moving. Too small for a golem. Too fluid for a turret.
Her brow furrowed. That can't be…
The amount of mana was almost nonexistent, like a single drop of ink in a vast sea. For a heartbeat she thought her spell had faltered, but no, it was still there—approaching, step by step.
A golem could not move without its heartstone flaring with energy. A sentry's mana core would be bright as fire through her sight.
But this… this presence was nearly void.
Her lips parted slightly. Impossible… a Null?
But what Null could survive this deep into a dungeon? And once more, why would one be walking toward them, unhurried, like a man returning home?
The faint metallic clink echoed again & again until it was much closer now, more deliberate.
From the shadowed corridor above their camp, a silhouette emerged. For a heartbeat, it was only an outline against the gloom. Then the figure stepped forward, into the half-light of the blue lumistones and their campfire.
A tall man.
Long strands of white hair brushed his shoulders, uneven and unkempt but not neglected.
His face was hidden behind an iron mask—ancient, marred with small dents and a faint patina of rust, yet strangely well-kept, as though he had taken the time to polish away the years.
The eyeholes of the mask were pitch black… except for the subtle red gleam within, like embers in a dying forge.
He was draped in a tattered navy coat, its ends scorched and torn, the kind worn by mercenaries from an age long past.
Beneath it, a red-and-black doublet clung tightly around his chest, its stitching showing careful mending. His gloves were fingerless, exposing pale, scarred hands.
And then there was his weapon. A longspear, taller than the man himself, its shaft wrapped halfway in faded crimson leather. The metal of its head was old—rusted, worn—but the edges still caught the light like they longed for battle. He carried it loosely, one hand on the shaft, the butt end dragging faintly along the stone floor, scraping softly as he walked.
The entire camp fell silent.
Even the fire seemed to hesitate, its flames dimming slightly as though uncertain if it should cast light upon him.
Trevus rose swiftly, his expression unreadable but sharp as drawn steel. He shrugged on his blue coat without fastening it, boots scraping as he strode toward his sabres. With a flick of his wrists, he unsheathed both blades, their edges flashing pale frost in the dimness.
Harlen was next, pushing himself off the slab he sat on, the lazy nonchalance gone from his face. He pulled his orange and olive doublet half-on, leaving it open as he gripped his arming sword, its runes still faintly glowing from earlier heat.
Camylle stepped forward beside them, flames dancing at her wrists, her fiery aura bleeding heat into the cold air. Her stance was low, balanced—a predator's coil.
The man did not move. He stood above them, gazing down from the corridor ledge as if surveying a long-forgotten battlefield. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough—low, gravelly, and worn by time.
"Hey…"
That single word carried strangely in the cavern, echoing from wall to wall.
His tone shifted then—less hostile, more… confused, as though he were waking from a long sleep.
"…What year is it?"
The tension broke like glass underfoot.
For a long moment, no one moved. Trevus's brows furrowed as he straightened slightly, his sabres still held at his sides but no longer raised to strike. The firelight caught on his blade, sending pale glimmers across his face.
He blinked, uncertain if he had heard right. "...W-What?"
The masked man tilted his head, a faint rasp of metal as his mask caught the light.
"The year," he said again, more clearly this time. "Tell me… what year is it?"
Camylle's eyes narrowed, her flames dimming just slightly, though she did not drop her guard. Harlen exchanged a glance with Trevus, mouthing silently, 'Who the hell asks that first thing?'
Trevus exhaled slowly, his expression softening from battle readiness to wary curiosity. He sheathed one sabre, then the other, letting them rest at his belt before speaking again.
"…You've been gone a long time, haven't you?"
The man in the iron mask did not answer—at least, not immediately. He tilted his head downward, his red eyes glinting faintly in the shadow of his mask.
Somewhere in the darkness beyond him, the dungeon seemed to stir.
The masked figure leapt down from the upper corridor, his cloak flaring behind him like the wings of some shadowed bird. The air shuddered faintly at the impact as his boots met the stone, yet he landed with a fluid grace that betrayed neither fatigue nor age. Dust rose in a soft ring around him.
The echo of his descent rippled through the chamber. All eyes turned to him. Party 5's hands tightened around weapons, muscles coiled by instinct. The stranger merely stood there in the center of their firelight, tilting his head as though he had just dropped in from a dream.
He exhaled, a dry, almost amused sound muffled behind the iron mask.
"Gah… don't you people know what a year is?" His voice rasped, somewhere between a chuckle and a cough.
"I'm worried I might've slept too long. Woke up in a library, of all things, before I wandered into whatever corridor this led to..."
No one spoke. The only sound was the low hiss of the campfire, its light trembling across the blue-streaked walls. Even Camylle's flames had quieted into faint cinders at her fists.
It was Mina, sitting nearest to the edge of the barrier—who finally broke the silence.
"Uh… it's 1191. September, 1191 N.A."
The masked man straightened slightly, the crimson gleam in his eyes flickering.
"Well then… thank you, young one. I suppose I slept just right, then."
His tone softened into something almost wistful. "It was 1190 when I shut my eyes."
That earned him several incredulous looks. Harlen lowered his sword but did not sheath it, brow furrowing. "What the hell do you mean you slept a whole year? Who does that—and in a bloody dungeon, no less, huh old man?"
The masked man tilted his head toward him, the faintest glint of humor—or disdain—beneath the iron. "I don't like you."
Harlen blinked. "What—?"
Before the tension could grow, Camylle's laughter burst through the air, sharp and fiery as her magic.
"Ha! We don't like him either~" she said, leaning on Harlen's shoulder with a grin.
"Camylle!" Harlen hissed through his teeth, elbowing her off, but her laughter only doubled.
The stranger's gaze followed their exchange for a moment before turning toward the one who had yet to speak. Trevus stepped forward, stopping just beyond the shimmering line of Harlen's golden barrier. His coat swayed faintly in the rising heat of the fire, twin sabres resting at his sides, his eyes level and calm.
"Who are you," Trevus asked, "and why are you here?"
The masked man's shoulders rose and fell, his reply neither defensive nor proud—just measured, as though he'd been asked this question many times before.
"Hm. The name's Theseus." He inclined his head slightly, as if offering the name like a token of goodwill.
"And I understand your caution, captain. You've reason to be wary. Dungeon counter-raiders are common, scavengers and killers alike—but I am no such thing."
He shifted his spear, the tip scraping faintly against the stone before planting upright beside him. "I'm just a man."
"Then why are you here?" Trevus pressed.
Theseus's head tilted ever so slightly, the iron mask catching the reflection of the campfire. "To rest," he said simply. "That's all. I take my rest where I can. And yes…" a soft chuckle vibrated behind the mask, "I do sleep for a year at a time. It may sound strange to you, but not to me."
He lifted a hand, gloved fingers brushing faint dust from his coat sleeve. "Because I'm… not quite like you people."
The chamber fell silent once more. Even the embers seemed to dim at that last sentence, its weight settling heavily over them all.
Beneath the steel of his mask, the red light of Theseus's eyes pulsed—slow, steady, almost like a heartbeat that refused to die.
Trevus's brow furrowed, the glint of firelight casting half his face in gold, half in shadow. His fingers lingered near the hilt of his sabres—not in threat, but in unease.
"Not quite like us?" he asked, his voice steady, though edged with caution.
"Then what are you?"
The masked man tilted his head in amusement. A soft rasp of metal echoed as his chin brushed against the cold iron of his mask.
"My, how greedy…" he said with a low, humorless chuckle. "But sure. Not many live long enough to ask that—and fewer still understand once they know."
He paused for a breath, the faint hum of the dungeon filling the silence. "I've been around for… a century, at least. Maybe more. Time has a way of blurring when you spend it sleeping through the decades."
The weight of that claim settled heavily upon the chamber.
Even the crackle of the fire seemed to hush in reverence.
Camylle blinked, her mouth half-open as if to retort, but no words came.
Harlen's grip on his sword tightened until the leather creaked
Lotha's expression turned from suspicion to wary awe.
A century.
That meant the man before them had lived since before the rise of the Tropico Guild. Perhaps even during the great War of Houses of Elynthia.
He raised his hand then—gloved, steady—and pointed directly toward someone.
Toward Mina.
"To put it simply," he said, "I am like her." His tone, though soft, cut through the still air like a blade.
The reaction was immediate. The gesture froze everyone in place.
Mina, caught entirely off guard, blinked and pointed to herself. "H-huh? Me?"
Theseus nodded once, the red gleam within his mask dimming slightly. "Aye. I'm like her."
The silence that followed was almost tangible. The fire crackled faintly, the barrier hummed, but none spoke.
Harlen was the first to break it. "Like her? She's a—"
"A Null," Trevus finished for him, his voice cutting clean through the confusion. His eyes, calm but keen, turned back to the masked stranger. "Explain yourself. You're saying… you're a Null?"
Theseus shrugged with slow, deliberate motion, the worn fabric of his coat creaking faintly. "To put it simply, yes. A Null. Just a guy without pathways, same as you."
Mina's lips parted slightly, disbelief writ plain across her face. "But… but you said you've lived for over a century—! Nulls can't live past a normal span, we can't even use mana!"
The masked man only chuckled—a dry, rattling sound that echoed like stone scraping against stone. "Heh… and yet, here I am, breathing still. Life's full of contradictions, girl."
Before anyone could reply, he coughed suddenly like an old man—a deep, scraping cough that shook his shoulders. He struck his chest twice with a metallic thunk, straightening up with a faint groan.
"E-excuse me… gods, it's been months since I've spoken this much. You wouldn't happen to have any water, would you? I'm parched."
He glanced at the group, then added almost cheerfully, "Oh! And if it'll ease your nerves…"
Without warning, he turned and drove his spear into the stone floor beside him.
The sound was like a slow thunder—CRRRK!—as the ancient metal sank straight through solid rock, embedding itself nearly two feet deep before stopping. Fractures spiderwebbed outward from the impact.
Camylle flinched back, eyes wide. "That wasn't… normal."
Trevus's gaze lingered on the spear, then rose slowly to meet the masked man's. "Noted," he said quietly. "That alone tells me you're no ordinary Null."
Theseus spread his hands disarmingly. "I said I'd leave my weapon. I meant no harm. Just asking for a drink."
Trevus hesitated, weighing the tone, the posture, the strange calm that surrounded the figure. Then he nodded once. "Fine. Harlen."
Harlen turned toward him sharply. "What? No. Absolutely not. I'm not letting this rusted relic waltz into my barrier, Trev. For all we know, he's most probably baiting—"
"Harlen." Trevus's voice was low but firm—commanding in that quiet way that left no room for argument. "Let him in. We'll talk first. If he meant harm, we'd already be dead."
Camylle folded her arms. "He's right. I can't sense any killing intent on him. Just… weariness."
Harlen sighed, muttering something under his breath about "stupid trusting captains," before lifting a hand. The golden shimmer of the barrier parted like rippling water.
Theseus looked mildly impressed. "Ah. So there was a barrier."
Trevus blinked. "You couldn't see it?"
"Nope," the masked man said simply, stepping forward as if walking through sunlight. "I told you—I'm a Null. I can't see barriers, can't sense it, can't use it. To me, that thing was just empty air."
He crossed the threshold, the runes of Harlen's ward flickering faintly as though evaluating his presence, then settling into calm.
The faintest of smirks touched Harlen's lips as he muttered, "Well, if the ward didn't harm him, guess he's clean."
Theseus chuckled again, his voice echoing oddly from behind the mask. "Clean enough. Though I'd wager your little dome couldn't keep me out if I really wanted in."
That earned a collective pause.
Trevus crossed his arms. "You're bold for a man asking for hospitality."
"Bold, yes. But honest, aren't I?" The masked figure tilted his head, the faint crimson glint of his eyes softening.
He reached up then, fingertips brushing the edge of his iron mask—not removing it, merely adjusting it. "You've got my thanks. It's been a long while since I've spoken to living souls."
Behind the mask, the faint hum of something unnatural echoed—metal and flesh and mana, all woven strangely together in the tone of his voice.
"I promise," he said quietly, "I mean you lot no harm… at least, not yet."
The fire crackled softly as Theseus settled himself upon the stone beside it, every motion deliberate and almost ceremonial. Though his stature was tall and lanky, he moved with the careful precision of an old man nursing a memory of youth — like a soldier who remembered the exact weight of his armor but no longer needed it.
He took a slow drink from the waterskin Trevus had offered, the leather creaking faintly in his gloved grip. After a long swallow, he let out a muted sigh, the sound muffled behind the iron mask.
"Ahh…" His voice was softer now, wearied and human. "Didn't realize how dry a man can get after a year's nap."
He handed the waterskin back, his fingers brushing the captain's as he did so.
"Much obliged," he muttered, and then, with a faint grunt, lowered himself onto the stone slab nearest the fire. His knees bent slowly, the faint whine of metal accompanying the motion, his hands resting idly on his knees as he looked outward of the barrier to see the spear he left behind plunged into the stone.
The party watched in uneasy silence. The flames flickered in the reflection of his mask, bending their shapes across its dull surface.
Theseus turned his head, the faint rasp of metal marking each subtle motion. His gaze swept over them one by one — the serene Lotha polishing her mace beside Nira, who watched him with sharp suspicion; Harlen and Camylle leaning shoulder to shoulder by the table of maps; and finally Mina and Ashe, still by the ledge, their young faces caught in the dim azure light. His gaze lingered on them all for a moment before returning to Trevus.
"This party…" he said at last, voice low and slightly amused. "…is so, so little."
Harlen snorted from across the fire, tossing a pebble into the flame. "I know, right?"
That earned a faint, distorted chuckle from behind the mask — the sound of old iron meeting old laughter.
"What's the usual count these days?" Theseus mused. "Ten? Twelve? A proper raiding company should have at least that. Three or four heavy-hitters… a pair of mages for support, one porter, one rogue, a handler or beast-tamer."
He tapped a finger idly against his knee. "It's tradition. Anything smaller than that is either madness or arrogance, Not to mention less than half of this party are kids."
Trevus's eyes narrowed slightly. "You seem to know a fair bit about guild tactics."
Theseus turned slightly toward him, the red glint of his eyes flickering once. "Because I was one," he said simply. "A spearhead. Once."
A murmur went through the group. Even Nira straightened slightly.
"Anyways," Theseus went on, waving a hand as if brushing away the weight of his own admission. "You lot are apart of the Tropico Guild, right?"
Trevus blinked. "You know us?"
"Hard not to," the man replied, his tone carrying faint humor. "I saw that patch on the boy's arm earlier — mango emblem over a palm tree, set in a pentagon. That's Tropico through and through."
Ashe glanced down at his sleeve, where the small patch was sewn — bright yellow and green against his olive tunic. "Oh. Uh… yeah."
Theseus tilted his head back slightly, as if laughing at some private joke. "Ha… mango and palm. When I first saw that emblem, I thought they were fruit traders. Didn't realize they'd turn into a damn empire."
Even Camylle smiled faintly at that, shaking her head.
Trevus stepped closer, curiosity edging his tone. "You've worked with the Tropico Guild before, then?"
The masked man's posture stiffened just a little, the humor leaving his voice. "Worked with them? Briefly. For a year, maybe less."
Harlen frowned. "What do you mean, briefly?"
Theseus leaned back slightly, his masked face catching the glow of the campfire. "I helped them after the first Guild War," he said, his tone suddenly distant, not boastful, not nostalgic, but like a man remembering something half-buried in ash.
"When they were cornered at the time. It was eight guilds against one, all clawing at Tropico's throat. They were nothing back then... Just a bunch of bright-eyed adventurers with no backing, no arms worth mentioning, and too much hope for their own good."
He paused, his gloved hand reaching absently toward the spear beside him, tracing the rough leather binding along its shaft. "But they had heart. I'll give them that. I lent mine for a time… and when the war was done, I left."
Trevus's brow furrowed. "…The First Guild War was seventy years ago."
Theseus tilted his head slowly. "Was it?"
"That's… impossible," Camylle murmured under her breath.
The man's mask turned slightly toward her, and though they could not see his eyes, every one of them felt the faint, humorless smile behind the steel.
"Impossible," he echoed softly. "Yes. I've been called that before."
He looked toward the flames, watching them flicker and bow.
For a while, no one spoke. The fire's crackle filled the void.
Then Theseus let out a slow sigh and leaned forward slightly, the crimson glow in his mask dimming. "Well, captain," he said at last, voice calm, steady once more. "You needn't fear me. I've no quarrel with your guild… or your mission. I'm just passing through..."
He looked into the fire, as though it held the memory of a battlefield no one else could see. "Passing through," he murmured again. "Like always."
The firelight danced across the camp's faces, each flicker carving long shadows upon the stone walls...