Lyra's house was exactly what you'd expect from a rich, pushy elf.
It was carved right into the trunk of one of the giant silver trees, with glowing moss for lighting and furniture that looked like it grew right out of the wood.
It was elegant.
It was beautiful.
And it felt like a trap.
Lyra practically dragged me through the door, her arm still hooked in mine.
Her touch was light, but it felt as heavy as a ball and chain.
"You'll find this much more comfortable," she cooed, her eyes doing a full scan of my leafy harness.
"We can get you some real clothes."
"And a hot bath."
She was still looking at me like I was a prize she'd just won at the village fair.
My skin was crawling.
This was so much worse than a mob pull.
At least with a mob pull, you knew what they wanted: your head on a spike.
I had no idea what this woman wanted, but I had a pretty good guess, and my new hardware was not ready for that kind of questline.
Yael stomped in behind us, her face a thundercloud.
She looked at the fancy house, then at Lyra clinging to my arm, and then at me.
Her amethyst eyes were practically shooting sparks.
If looks could kill, Lyra would be a lootable corpse right now.
"Your… friend can wait in the main room," Lyra said, waving a dismissive hand towards a seating area.
The words dripped with condescension.
She was treating Yael like an inconvenient piece of luggage.
A very angry, very half-naked piece of luggage.
"She's not my friend," I said, my voice flat.
Lyra's face lit up.
"Oh?"
"She's my sworn protector," I finished, pulling my arm free from her grasp.
The action felt surprisingly good.
I took a step back, putting a little space between us.
I needed room to think.
Lyra's smile faltered for a second, a flicker of annoyance crossing her perfect face.
"Of course," she said, recovering quickly.
"How… quaint."
Yael just crossed her arms over her pathetic leaf-bikini top, the movement causing a jiggle that I could tell was infuriating her.
She was radiating pure, unfiltered rage.
It was kind of comforting, actually.
Felt like home.
Before Lyra could launch another social attack, a commotion started outside.
Shouting.
Not the happy, welcoming kind.
This was different.
It was the sound of a crowd being forced to part.
"What's all this, then?" a new voice cut through the air.
It was deep.
Gruff.
It was a voice that didn't ask for attention; it commanded it.
The crowd of fawning elf girls outside Lyra's door went silent.
Through the doorway, I saw him.
He was an elf, but he was built differently.
Taller, broader in the shoulder.
Where the other elves were all grace and elegance, he was pure, practical muscle.
He wore scuffed leather armor, not flowing robes.
His face was handsome in a rugged, sharp-edged way, with a thin white scar that cut through his left eyebrow.
He wasn't smiling.
His eyes, a cool, calculating grey, swept over the scene.
They passed over the blushing girls, lingered on Lyra with a hint of annoyance, and then landed on me.
And for the first time since we arrived in this stupid village, I felt someone actually look at me.
He wasn't looking at my face.
He wasn't looking at my body.
He was assessing me.
My posture.
My hands.
The way I stood.
It was the look of a raid leader sizing up a new recruit.
And he didn't seem impressed.
My Weaponized Charm attribute hit him and slid off like water off a greased shield.
It had absolutely zero effect.
This guy was immune.
He strode forward, his heavy boots making a solid, confident sound on the wooden walkway.
The crowd melted away from him.
"Lyra," he said, his voice low and tight.
"What are you doing?"
"You know we don't have time for this."
Lyra flushed, a mix of anger and embarrassment.
"I'm extending a welcome to our new guests, Gandalf," she said stiffly.
"Something you seem to have forgotten how to do."
So his name was Gandalf.
Captain of the village guard, according to the outline in my head.
He ignored her completely.
His focus was entirely on me.
"You've caused quite a stir," Gandalf said.
It wasn't a compliment.
"Wasn't my intention," I replied, my new baritone voice sounding steady.
Inside, my brain was running a thousand calculations.
This guy was a threat.
Not a monster, not a boss, but a political rival.
A high-level NPC who could make our lives very, very difficult.
Gandalf took another step closer, invading my personal space.
He was close enough now that I could see the fine details of the worn leather on his armor.
He smelled like pine and steel.
"They seem to think you're a gift from the gods," he said, his voice a low grumble.
He gestured vaguely at the women who were still staring.
"But I see a man with soft hands who's never seen a real battle."
His grey eyes flicked down to my hands, then back to my face.
"This forest isn't a place for pretty faces."
The insult was sharp, precise, and aimed directly at my pride.
My cheeks burned.
Soft hands?
These hands had typed out raid strategies that took down gods.
These hands had clicked a mouse with millisecond precision to land a killing blow.
But he was right.
Physically, this body was a blank slate.
Level two.
"And what do you see when you look at her?" I shot back, nodding towards Yael.
Gandalf's gaze finally shifted to Yael for the first time.
He gave her a quick, professional once-over.
He noted her athletic build, the tension in her stance, the fury in her eyes.
He didn't leer.
He didn't flirt.
He assessed her as a potential combatant.
"I see someone who knows how to stand her ground," he admitted, a flicker of something like respect in his eyes.
"Which is more than I can say for you."
He turned back to me, his expression grim.
"You think this is a game?"
"You think you can just wander in here and collect admirers?"
His voice dropped even lower.
"This village is on high alert."
"The Ogre warbands have been pushing closer every day."
"The front lines are thin."
"Our scouts have been going missing."
The air grew heavy.
The social game was over.
This was reality.
A cold, hard, life-or-death reality.
"We are at war," Gandalf stated, his voice like stone.
"And in war, there are no passengers."
He pointed a thick, calloused finger at my chest.
"I don't care who you are or where you came from."
"Any able-bodied man in this village, especially one drawing this much attention, is needed at the barricades."
It wasn't a request.
It wasn't an offer.
It was a conscription.
"The eastern barricade needs reinforcements."
"Tonight."
He stared me down, his grey eyes challenging me.
"Prove you're more than just a distraction," he snarled.
"Prove you're not as soft as you look."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving a trail of stunned silence in his wake.
The spell was broken.
The party was over.
Lyra looked pale and shaken.
The other elves looked nervous.
I looked over at Yael.
The fury in her eyes was gone, replaced by a grim, focused light.
The light of a tank who just heard the raid leader call for a pull.
We had a quest.
And it sounded like a suicide mission.
Crap.