A short feminine figure with a head full of white shuffles through the hallways with her hands behind her head, whistling.
Her eyes wander through the various doors as if in search of something.
"Where could they be?" she asks no one in particular.
"Sigh... it surely took some time to get rid of that brute..." she thumps her foot on the ground in annoyance.
Moving through the last corner, she accidentally bumps into a figure.
She is pushed three steps back while the other figure remains stationary.
"Watch where you are going—oh." She stops mid-complaint after noticing who it was.
Her eyes lock on red irises hidden behind two glasses.
"Yooow little K, what's the hurry? You almost flattened me..." she says, her eyes taking on that annoying teasing edge.
Two words cut her off.
"Move aside."
Kaelin shoves her off her path and keeps walking.
"Hey, how dare you ignore me..." she humphs, but—
"I have no time for your shenanigans. I'm busy." She retorts, her figure fading from reality.
Sera stares at the spot where Kaelin was and shrugs before continuing her leisure walk.
"Well, there's always a next time..."
She pauses, looking back and scratching her chin.
"Hmmmh... so serious... something must have happened."
She brushes it aside and continues walking.
Kaelin's body phases into a poorly lit room with shelves stacked with different materials ranging from domestic ones to the most lethal.
Her figure shifts lightly, eyes locked on a man slumped on the reception table.
"Tsk... lazy bones..." she murmurs before beginning to navigate between the shelves.
She goes through shelf after shelf, her head occupied by Eylin's bizarre demands.
"Who uses daggers these days..." she murmurs, annoyed.
Her thoughts drift to his figure twisting and turning in awkward positions.
"Those moves are lethal, yes, but against trained mages... he won't last a second..." she scoffs, coming to a stop in front of a shelf aligned with different kinds of weapons.
Blades of different shapes and sizes.
Spears.
Throwing knives.
"Tsk... that kid isn't asking for blades but extensions."
Her gaze narrows as she notices a shelf long forgotten, with different types of short-bladed weapons adorning it.
"There you are."
She says, eyes locking on two strange daggers.
One looks less like a crafted weapon and more like something carved out of night itself.
Its blade is long, narrow, and unnaturally dark—an ebon sheen swallowing the light around it instead of reflecting it.
The edge tapers to a vicious point, clearly designed not for slashing but for a single decisive thrust.
The guard spreads outward in jagged, claw-like curves, forged in dark metal that twists like skeletal wings protecting the grip.
At the center of the crossguard sits a blood-red gemstone, polished smooth but pulsing faintly beneath the light as if something alive stirs inside it.
The handle is wrapped in dark metal etched with subtle runic lines that spiral toward the pommel.
And the pommel.
A small sculpted skull.
Its hollow eyes hold crimson stones that gleam faintly in the dark, giving the unsettling impression that the dagger is watching whoever dares to hold it.
The entire weapon carries an oppressive presence, not heavy in mass but in atmosphere—as if the blade has witnessed far too many deaths and remembers every one.
In stark contrast, the second dagger is a masterpiece of refined craftsmanship.
The blade is shorter and broader, shaped in the classic triangular profile of a pugio—perfect for both thrusting and controlled close combat. Its steel surface shines with polished silver brilliance, etched with delicate patterns that run along the center ridge.
The guard is symmetrical and elegant, crafted from polished gold with intricate filigree designs that wrap around the base of the blade like ceremonial armor.
The grip is made from smooth ivory-colored material, fitted with thin gold rings that divide the handle into balanced segments, giving the weapon both beauty and perfect ergonomics.
The pommel widens slightly into a rounded golden cap engraved with ancient ornamental markings.
Unlike the sinister aura of the ebon dagger, this blade radiates precision and discipline. It feels balanced, deliberate—almost scholarly.
Every inch of it speaks of careful design, controlled lethality, and the quiet authority of a weapon crafted by masters.
She grabs both daggers, feeling their weight.
"Hmmmh... one light..." she says, lifting the black dagger. "The other heavy..." lifting the white dagger.
Appeased by her deductions, she moves toward the reception desk, both daggers in hand.
BANG...
"Wake up, old fool..." she says after placing both daggers on the table.
The old man's eyelids stay shut, refusing to open.
So in response, Kaelin fades out without paying a dime.
Feeling the absence, he opens one eye and snorts quietly.
Kaelin appears at her final destination, picking up a box of bones from hunted Ashbourne monsters.
The void trembles as her figure fades out of sight.
She reappears inside Eylin's room.
Her gaze involuntarily moves to the boy seated on the floor.
Rough sketch papers scatter across the ground.
His inherent murmuring fills the entire room.
The space around him seems strange...
She picks up a blank piece of paper and throws it toward him.
The paper halts mid-air upon breaching his personal space.
That wakes him from his trance-like state.
His eyes shift before the body catches up, landing directly on her.
"Oh... hey... got a little bored so I decided to practice and apply something from the book that witch gifted me..." he says, rising from the ground.
His eyes roam over her figure in appreciation before settling on the daggers.
He moves toward them, but the laws of space seem to be acting against him.
His body appears to be glitching in and out, but he seems unaware.
Gotta report this... she notes mentally, her eyes moving toward the finished products on the five parchment papers lying on the table.
"Ooh, those better show than explain..." he says, assessing the black dagger.
"Interesting..."
The blade feels lighter than expected.
But the balance...
Strange.
The weight sits deeper in the handle.
Like the weapon wants to be driven forward.
Not swung.
His lips curl.
"Fang..." he names it while swinging it around.
His other hand wraps around the other dagger.
He lifts it, letting it settle in his palm.
It feels heavier than Fang.
He rotates it once, twice, his stance shifting slightly.
He turns toward Kaelin.
"How about you name this one..." he says with a smile.
"W-what..." Kaelin stammers, caught off guard.
Eylin's eyes flicker in acknowledgement as if he has just learned her weakness.
Kaelin's state doesn't last long as she regains composure and turns to the dagger.
"Venom... because of its weight it is suited for short strikes."
He weighs her words, then shrugs it off.
"Venom it is then..."
His attention shifts to the box of bones.
Eylin kneels beside it slowly, the daggers still resting in his hands.
The moment he opens the lid—
A dry, faint rattle escapes from inside.
Ashbourne bones.
Charred grey.
Thin veins of dull crimson still run through some of them like fossilized blood.
Kaelin watches silently as his eyes sharpen.
He reaches in and lifts one carefully.
The bone is light.
Too light.
He taps it gently against the table.
Tick.
Tick.
"Hmm."
His gaze drifts toward the scattered parchments again.
Strange diagrams cover them.
Circles.
Broken glyph patterns.
Incomplete.
Angles that almost hurt to look at if stared at too long.
Kaelin leans slightly closer.
"You weren't just bored," she says flatly.
Eylin grins.
"Never."
He sets the bone down and places Fang beside it.
The black dagger seems to drink in the dim light of the room.
Then he places Venom on the opposite side.
Balanced.
Like two anchors.
His fingers begin moving quickly across the parchments.
"This bone is from an Ashbourne stalker," he murmurs.
Kaelin folds her arms.
"And?"
"And Ashbourne bones remember magic."
"So..." she asks, clearly puzzled.
Eylin scratches the spot between his eyes, sighing loudly.
"Sigh... Kaelin... how do spells work?"