Caelan moved like liquid shadow through the tunnels, heart hammering so hard he could taste copper on his tongue. Every step echoed the wrong way in this new body, too light, too quick, like wearing shoes three sizes too small. But the instincts were there, sharp and hungry. They told him exactly where to place his feet so the stone didn't betray him with a crunch, where to press his back so the dripping water masked his breathing.
He didn't dare stop to think about how wrong this all felt. Thinking led to panic. Panic led to mistakes. Mistakes led to dying again, and this time there might not be a Goddess waiting with a second chance and a sarcastic winged babysitter.
Eros zipped along beside him, doing lazy loop-the-loops in the air, wings leaving faint trails of pinkish-gold glitter that dissolved like dying fireflies.
"You know," the little menace said cheerfully, "most people scream longer when they transmigrate. You're handling this with remarkable restraint. Almost boring."
"Shut. Up," Caelan hissed between clenched teeth.
Eros gasped in mock offense, hand flying to his tiny chest. "Rude! I'm literally your only friend in this entire dimension right now."
"You're not my friend. You're a walking, talking guilt trip with wings."
"Guilt trip? Darling, I'm a love trip. Big difference." Eros flipped upside down and grinned, fangs glinting. "And speaking of love, your target's patrol is two turns behind us. Big guy. Bigger sword. Very grumpy. Very pretty when he's angry."
Caelan ignored the last part. He ignored it very hard.
The tunnel widened abruptly into a natural cathedral of stone. Stalactites hung like the teeth of some sleeping giant. Torches burned in iron brackets, but the real light came from clusters of the same glowing fungi that clung to the walls, pulsing in slow, hypnotic rhythm. Blue. Violet. A deep, bruised plum. It felt alive. It felt like the dungeon itself was breathing.
And then the smell hit him: smoke, sweat, spiced meat roasting over open flames, the sharp tang of oiled leather and steel. Home. Or at least, Caelan's version of it.
The Veil Thieves' lair sprawled before him like a city carved out of the earth's own bones.
Tents of patched black canvas and scavenged silk hung from ropes stretched between stalagmites. Makeshift bridges of rope and plank swayed overhead, connecting higher ledges where shadowy figures moved with purpose. Lanterns swung from chains, casting golden pools across black-market stalls: potions in stoppered glass skulls, daggers with hilts shaped like screaming faces, scrolls that whispered when you touched them.
People everywhere. Humans, Sylvari elves with skin like moonlit bark, stocky Forgekin dwarves whose beards were braided with tiny iron rings, even a few half-bloods whose eyes glowed faintly in the dim. All of them armed. All of them watching.
Caelan forced his shoulders to relax, his walk to become the lazy, confident prowl that Caelan's memories insisted was his trademark. He could feel eyes on him. Measuring. Judging. He gave them the crooked smirk they expected.
A voice called out, bright and mocking. "Well, look who crawled out of the dark with his pockets full of trouble!"
Lira the bard sauntered toward him, hips swinging, lute slung across her back like a weapon. She was all sharp angles and sharper smiles, silver hair braided with raven feathers, eyes the color of storm clouds about to break. She planted herself in front of him, hands on hips.
"Spill it, Shade. Did you get the Heartstone fragment or did you just go sightseeing?"
Caelan patted the pouch at his belt. The small, jagged crystal inside thrummed faintly against his hip, like a second heartbeat. "Got it. Barely."
Lira's grin widened. "Barely is our favorite word." She slung an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward the central fire pit where the smell of roasting meat was strongest. "Come on. Grom's been muttering about your reckless ass all evening. You know how he gets when he's worried."
Grom was waiting by the flames, massive arms folded across a chest like a barrel. The dwarf healer looked carved from granite: gray beard streaked with iron, one eye milky from an old scar, the other burning with the kind of concern that felt like a punch.
"You look like death warmed over," Grom rumbled.
"Flattery will get you nowhere," Caelan shot back, accepting the tankard Grom shoved at him. The ale was dark, bitter, and blessedly cold. He drank deeply, letting it ground him.
Eros perched on the rim of the tankard, invisible to everyone else, dipping a tiny toe in the foam and making a delighted face. "Ooh. This stuff could strip paint. I approve."
Caelan almost choked.
Grom's good eye narrowed. "Something funny?"
"Nothing," Caelan managed. "Just… thirsty."
Lira snorted. "He's lying. Again. Tell me you didn't run into Ironclad patrols."
Caelan hesitated. The memory of that massive sword flashing in torchlight, the way the captain's blue eyes had locked on him like he was the only thing in the world worth seeing, burned behind his eyelids.
"I might have… exchanged pleasantries."
Lira threw her head back and laughed. "Pleasantries. With Thorne Ironfist? You have balls the size of wyrm eggs, Shade."
Grom wasn't laughing. "That man's not the forgiving kind. If he saw your face—"
"He didn't get a good look," Caelan lied smoothly. Too smoothly.
Eros leaned in close, whispering only for him. "Liar, liar, pants on fire. He saw you, alright. Saw you good. And the way his grip tightened on that sword? Mmm. Delicious tension."
Caelan wanted to strangle the little pest.
Instead he took another long swallow of ale and listened as Lira launched into the latest guild gossip. The Ironclad Order was moving on the Heartstone's main vault. The sorcerer Vaelthar was rumored to have woken something in the deep levels. Nightshades. Lots of them. And the slaves in the surface arenas were whispering rebellion again, the kind that ended in blood and broken chains.
Every word felt like a puzzle piece slotting into place. This world was real. Brutal. Beautiful. And terrifyingly alive.
When the fire died to embers and the others drifted away, Caelan slipped off to his own small alcove carved into the cavern wall. A narrow cot. A single glowing fungus for light. A battered chest holding the few things Caelan Shade had ever called his own.
He sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on knees, staring at his hands. Stranger's hands. Calloused. Quick. Dangerous.
Eros appeared in front of him, cross-legged in midair, chin propped on tiny fists.
"So," the spirit said softly, all the teasing gone from his voice. "How are you holding up, really?"
Caelan laughed, a short, broken sound. "I'm wearing someone else's skin. I died three hours ago. And my only companion is a flying sex pest who wants me to seduce a man who wants me dead."
Eros tilted his head. "Fair assessment."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and strange.
Then Eros reached out, impossibly gentle, and brushed one glowing fingertip against Caelan's cheek. Warmth bloomed there, soft and golden.
"You're not alone," he said. "And you're not doing this because you're supposed to. You're doing it because somewhere, deep down, you want to know what it feels like to be loved back. Even if it's terrifying."
Caelan closed his eyes.
The warmth lingered long after Eros vanished.
Outside, the cavern city hummed with night sounds: distant laughter, the scrape of steel being sharpened, the low roar of a wyrmbeast flying past the upper vents.
Somewhere deeper in the dark, Thorne Ironfist would be cleaning his blade, thinking about the thief who slipped through his fingers.
And somewhere inside Caelan Shade's chest, a heart that wasn't his began, very quietly, to beat faster.
Tomorrow, the real hunt would begin.
And love? Love was waiting in the shadows, smiling like it already knew the ending.