The journey out was easier than the trip in, a sense of accomplishment shared between them. Projo carried the dripping sack—heavy, grisly proof of their work. But as they neared the mouth of the cave, salt air bleeding through the stale reek of goblin musk, a flicker of green-brown moved in the shadows.
A survivor.
The goblin burst from a crevice with a shriek, arm already cocked. The spear left its hand in flash, sailing ten meters in an instant.
Falira never had a chance.
The tip punched through her side just above the hip. A sharp gasp was torn from her throat, and her crossbow clattered to the stone. She staggered, clutching the shaft jutting from her back, then dropped to one knee, her face pale as bone.
The goblin let out a triumphant shriek, cut short as Projo closed the distance. In a single swing, Projo sent the creature's head sailing into the shadows.
He spun back to Falira.
She was still on one knee, body trembling, teeth gritted so hard he could almost hear them grinding. She snapped the shaft in two and dragged the jagged head through her own body. Blood welled hot and fast, soaking her tunic.
"Falira!" Projo yelled, rushing toward her.
"Stay back!" she snarled, pressing both hands to the wound. Turquoise light flickered between her fingers, weak and stuttering. "Damn it… the pain—I can't hold it."
The glow guttered out.
The bleeding continued.
Projo took a determined step toward her.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide with more than pain. "No! Do not touch me! The transference—we don't know the variables. Feedback on a trained mage—it could be catastrophic!"
Her eyes were fear and fire.
He ignored it, kneeling before her. "Woah, hey," Projo said softly. "Relax."
His hand didn't reach for the wound. It reached into his pouch.
Falira flinched—then froze as he produced a small, crude vial he'd found on the goblin chief.
Projo pulled the stopper with his teeth and held it up to her lips. The liquid inside shimmered thick and red.
"Drink."
She hesitated, breathing coming shallow and quick. Then she opened her mouth.
She made a face like the taste burned, but the bleeding slowed, then stopped. Her torn flesh cinched tight, knitting into a raw, angry seam. She still gasped when she tried to move, but she wasn't dying anymore.
She looked from the now-empty vial to Projo, and he saw a flicker of vulnerability there that disappeared in an instant. He stood, scooped up her fallen crossbow, and held it out stock-first. She took it with stiff fingers, leaning on it to rise.
Then he recovered the dripping sack and slung it over his shoulder, and the two of them slowly made their way out into the grey light.
----
LOOT ACQUIRED:
+ Proof: Goblin Chief's Head (in sack).
+ Money: 2 Gold, 28 Silver, 51 Copper pieces.
+ Alchemical Ingredients:
- A pouch full of fresh Gloomshroom.
----
The journey back was grueling. Falira limped, leaning heavily on the crossbow, her face full of pain. Projo matched her pace without complaint, the dripping sack heavy on his shoulder.
The sea's roar followed them until the stone steps opened into Shattercoast below. At the fork—docks one way, her tower the other—they stopped.
"Go rest," Projo said quietly.
Falira gave a stiff, pained nod, then turned and began the long climb alone, a wounded silhouette fading into the mist.
Projo watched her go for a moment, then shifted the weight of the sack on his shoulder and headed for Philtered Seawater.
The dull bell clanked as he entered, and the alchemist's stench hit like a wall. Master Vane, hunched over a bubbling retort, rasped, "I told you, come back next—"
"I have it," Projo cut him off.
Vane turned, his magnified eyes blinking at Projo's bloodstains, then at the sack.
Projo dropped it onto the counter, landing with a wet thud. With one tug, the rope came loose and the goblin chief's head rolled free, greasy features twisted in eternal rage.
Vane leaned close, poking a tooth with a stained finger. "Ah. Definitely a chief. Excellent." His gaze sharpened. "And the Gloomshroom?"
Projo placed Falira's oilcloth pouch on the counter and Vane snatched it, fumbling open the ties. The faintly pulsing fungi drew a thin, greedy smile. "Pristine quality."
He scurried to his strongbox, counted fifteen gold, and slid them across the counter without another glance. "Your payment. As agreed." He was already turning back, returning to his work.
Projo swept the coins into his pouch and left the shop without a word, the goblin chief's head lying forgotten in its own filth.
----
PROJO'S QUEST LOG: UPDATED
+ [COMPLETED] Eliminate the Goblin Chief from the Lumina Grotto
+ [ONGOING] Understanding the Curse: Work with Falira to uncover the nature of your powers
+ Repay Bram (Owe 24 Gold)
+ Return to Mira
PROJO'S INVENTORY: UPDATED
+ Money: 23 Gold, 34 Silver, 78 Copper
- (Previous: 6G 6S 27C + Loot: 2G 28S 51C + Bounty: 15G)
----
When Projo reached the tower, he knocked on the heavy door, only to be met with silence. He knocked again, harder.
"It's unlocked," Falira's voice called—strained, sharp with pain.
Projo pushed the door open and stepped inside. The tower was dim, the afternoon light struggling to pierce the grimy windows. Falira sat rigid in a high-backed chair, her tunic cut away, sweat shining on her face as she pressed a thick green poultice to the wound. Her movements were slow, jaw locked against the pain.
"What's that?" he asked, walking toward her.
"The potion was crude," she rasped without looking up. "It sealed the wound, but the internal trauma remains. This will reduce inflammation."
Projo gave a slow nod. He set the pouch on the main table and dumped its contents. The fifteen gold coins from Vane spilled out, mixed with the smaller collection of silver and copper they'd taken from the goblin chief's chest.
"We got paid," he said flatly.
He divided the coins silently into two neat piles, then pushed one toward her. "Your half." Eight gold, fourteen silver, twenty-six copper.
"A reasonable return," Falira stared at the coins for a moment. Her hands trembled as she tied the bandage over her poultice. She made no move toward the coins.
Projo watched her, a tense subject hanging in the air between them.
"I'm just going to get this out of the way," he said flatly. "Do you have any interest in attempting to see if my abilities can heal you? It looks very painful."
Her hands froze mid-knot.
When she looked up, her eyes were cold and calculating.
"Absolutely not." Her whisper cut through the silence like a blade. She shifted, wincing. "Do not be a fool. It's not a simple mending cantrip, it's a parasitic transference of vital energy. My channels are frayed, my energy spent. You're talking about connecting a flood to a broken dam."
Her gaze bored into him. "We have no data. No controls. We don't even know if touch would trigger it—or if the… full catalyst is required. Best case? It accelerates recovery. Worst? It rips the wound back open or destabilizes the potion. And that's assuming feedback from a trained mage doesn't simply tear me apart."
She broke eye contact, but her hand pressed to her side, betraying the depth of the pain she had chosen to endure.
His eyes stayed on her a moment longer, then he looked away. "Very well."
He scraped his share of coins into his pouch, heading for the door. He paused, one hand on it, and called back to her, "Hungry?"
The question seemed to blindside her. After blood, death, and debate over catastrophic magic, it was absurdly mundane. Her composure cracked, and she exhaled a shaky breath.
"Yes," she admitted softly. She winced, nodding toward a curtained alcove. "There is dried meat. Bread. I am… not in a position to prepare it. But the body requires fuel for cellular repair."
Even now, the researcher spoke.
Projo rolled his eyes, head dropping backwards. "You're hopeless. 'The body needs fuel for repair,'" he mocked lightly, hands flourishing. "I'm gonna go find something hot that actually tastes good. Be right back."
He stepped out the door before she could respond.
----
PROJO'S INVENTORY: UPDATED
+ Money: 15 Gold, 20 Silver, 52 Copper
- (Previous: 23G 34S 78C - Falira's cut: 8G 14S 26C)
----
As Projo walked through the misty, salt-laced air of Shattercoast, the weight of the past couple days—the killing, the fear, the lies—was a heavy cloak on his shoulders. But at least he had a simple objective this time. Something without a blade.
After navigating the winding boardwalks, he found what he was looking for near the main docks: a bustling cookhouse, its open window belching steam and the smell of roasted meat into the street. A chalkboard hanging from a rusty nail swayed in the wind:
+ POT LUCK STEW - 4C
+ FISH PIE & GRAVY - 1S 5C
+ ROASTED CHICKEN - 4S
His eyes settled on the chicken. He thought of the stale bread and dried meat in the tower. He thought of Falira, pale and bleeding, stubbornly choosing pain over risk. Four silver—more than a common laborer might earn in a day. A luxury the man he'd been last week could have rarely imagined.
He stepped up to the window. "One roasted chicken, wrapped to travel."
The sweaty, stout woman grunted before expertly carving a golden-brown bird from the spit. She wrapped it in a thick layer of butcher's paper, the grease immediately soaking through, and handed it over to him.
Projo dropped four silver coins on the counter and took his leave.
He walked back toward the tower, the warmth of the package a stark contrast to the cold dread that had been his companion all day. The simple act of buying a proper meal felt more normal, more human, than anything he had done since he'd first been touched by Mira.
He reached the tower door and pushed it open without knocking, the rich smell of roasted chicken heralding his return. Falira was still in the chair, exactly as he'd left her, a statue of pained, stubborn silence.
"Let's see if the body can 'facilitate cellular repair' with this," Projo said, dropping the bundle on the table.
She tore into it like a starving wolf. The grease ran down her chin, but she didn't seem to notice or care. Her focus was entirely on the food, on the simple, vital act of refueling.
As she worked on a chicken leg, he saw it—a single tear, cutting through the grime on her cheek. She turned her head away fast, as if to hide it from him, and took another savage bite. For a second, she didn't look like the cold researcher or even a terrified, wounded woman.
She looked like someone who'd just had a really, really bad day.
Projo said nothing. He just focused on his own plate, the rich flavor of the chicken welcome on his tongue. They ate until nothing was left but a pile of bones on greasy paper.
Falira set her last one down, wiped her mouth, and tried to sound like a scholar again. "The influx of high-caloric nutrients should accelerate the potion's efficacy."
Projo let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his tired face. "Can you just... not? For five minutes, can we not be a 'subject' and a 'researcher'? Can we just be two people who are still alive and aren't completely covered in goblin blood anymore?"
Her jaw set tight and her whole body went stiff. "That is an irrational approach to our current arrangement. Emotional sentiment does not alter the fundamental variables of our situation."
Projo looked at the pile of bones, at the heavy coin pouch on the table, then at the faint purple cleaning stains on the floor where Gideon's blood had been.
"Our 'situation'?" he said, a small laugh escaping him. "You're hurt. We're hiding a dark secret together. I'm carrying more coin than I've ever had before in my life. And I might be a demon who cums magic."
Her eyes widened.
"Just enjoy the fucking chicken, Falira," Projo said, grinning faintly. "We can figure out the variables tomorrow."
She said nothing, just stared at him, her expression a confusing mix of anger, fear, and something else he couldn't name. They sat there in the dim, quiet tower, and Projo realized he had no idea what he was supposed to do tomorrow. He was so used to the routine of working alongside Bram that he felt a little out in the dark here.
Projo regarded her carefully as she wrestled with his words, her mouth a thin, hard line. She looked small in the big chair, surrounded by piles of books and arcane clutter. The tower wasn't just a laboratory; it was a fortress of knowledge. It occurred to him then that for all her talk of him being the subject, she was just as isolated in her world of logic as he had been in his world of fear.
"How long have you been stuck in this tower?" he asked softly.
Anger flashed across her face. "Master Eldrin has been gone for nearly a year. I have been maintaining the archives and tending to the cauldron."
Projo's expression softened. The defensive wall she threw up was so immediate, so absolute, it felt less like a fortress and more like a flinch. "Any idea when he's coming back?"
Her whole body went rigid. "His research is of a highly specialized and time-intensive nature." Her voice took on a cold, lecture-like quality. "He is correlating the migratory patterns of deep-sea leviathans with anomalous ley line fluctuations. Such an undertaking has no predictable timetable."
She glared at him dismissively. "It is not a subject that concerns you."
The wall was back. Higher than ever.
"So, no then," Projo said simply. "Do you not… venture out of this tower often?"
He looked around at the books. "I love to read, I'd love to dive into some of these if that's okay, but still…" he looked back at her. "I think I can tell you better than anyone how important human contact is. Even if it's just talking with someone else."
"Human contact is inefficient," she snapped. "A chaotic variable. It introduces sentiment, bias, and distraction from my primary objective. Your decade of self-imposed exile was born of fear and ignorance, Projo. My solitude is a prerequisite for my work."
She laid a hand on a heavy tome in front of her. "This tower contains the accumulated knowledge of centuries. It is more than enough company."
Projo sighed, shoving his chair back. "Keep telling yourself that. I hid for ten years because I was scared. You're doing the same thing—just with prettier words."
He strode to the door, pausing at the threshold. "I'm not saying we have to be friends, I'm not saying we have to be anything defined as close. And I'm not telling you how to conduct your research. But if you're trying to understand magic based on human connection, maybe try having one."
He stormed out before she could answer, seeking somewhere to wash the blood from his clothes.