The morning light in the residential district was never particularly bright. It had to fight its way through the soot-stained windows of the tenement and the maze of iron laundry lines outside. But in Aiven's room, the dawn had a different quality—a soft, lavender hue that seemed to radiate from the girl sleeping horizontally in the air beside his bed.
Aiven woke up at his usual hour, his internal clock still tuned to the demands of the logistics office. He lay still for a moment, the clean scent of ozone and lavender filling his lungs. Slowly, he turned his head.
He had never really looked at Virelle before. Not like this. Usually, she was a whirlwind of motion—floating, spinning, pointing fingers, or wearing a smug, defiant smirk. She was a loud presence that demanded every ounce of his attention.
But now, in the stillness of sleep, she looked different. Her face was calm, her features so elegant they felt sculpted from fine marble. Even in rest, she seemed to consciously maintain an ethereal image; her silver-lavender hair drifted around her like a halo in water, and her long, delicate lashes rested against her cheeks without the slightest twitch. Looking at her now, no one would have guessed the sharp, sassy, and occasionally rude nature that emerged the moment she opened her mouth.
He remembered the desperation in that voice—a plea for help that had reached through the void. But Virelle claimed to have no memories before the summoning. If she didn't remember the voice, then who—or what—had been calling his name?
His gaze shifted to the underside of his wrist. He pulled back the sleeve of his undershirt to reveal the intricate, glowing sigil. It pulsed with a slow, rhythmic lavender light, a visual representation of the tether between them. He made a mental note to ensure his adventuring gloves were tightened; as long as he wore them, the mark stayed hidden from prying eyes. It was a small mercy in a world that was becoming increasingly complicated.
How am I even sustaining her? he thought. A high-class mage should have drained an F-rank dry in minutes. He remembered her words: A star in a bottle. The idea that he had a near-infinite well of mana beneath his ordinary surface felt like a lie he was telling himself, yet the girl floating beside him was living proof of it.
As he was lost in thought, tracing the lines of her face with his eyes, Virelle's eyelids suddenly fluttered.
Before Aiven could look away, her vivid violet eyes snapped open.
For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other. The distance between them was barely the length of a hand.
Aiven's heart did a sudden, violent somersault.
Virelle's eyes widened. A sudden, deep flush of red raced across her cheeks, darkening her pale skin in an instant. She jerked back, rotating her body in the air until her back was turned to him. Aiven couldn't help but notice that the tips of her long, pointed elf ears had turned a brilliant, unmistakable shade of crimson.
"G-Good morning, Master," she stammered, her voice lacking its usual melodious confidence.
Aiven scrambled into a sitting position, his own face heating up. "Good morning. I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be a creep. I was just... I was thinking, and I ended up staring at your sleeping face. That sounds weird. I apologize."
Virelle stayed turned away for a few seconds, her silver hair shimmering as she adjusted her floating posture. Finally, she rotated back to face him. The blush hadn't entirely faded, but she had managed to pull her "high-class" mask back into place, resting her chin in her hand as she hovered over the edge of the bed.
"It is quite alright," she said, her voice regaining a hint of that familiar, smug tilt. "I am aware that my beauty is difficult to ignore, even for someone as stubborn as you. I am actually quite delighted to find that my Master, who seemed so oblivious before, is finally beginning to notice the masterpiece he has summoned."
She leaned in slightly, her eyes sparkling with a mix of leftover embarrassment and renewed mischief. "Though, I must say, waking up with your face that close to mine was... unexpected. Even for a being of my caliber, it was a bit of a shock to the system."
Aiven rubbed the back of his neck, looking at his boots. "Right. Well. Lesson learned. I'll stick to looking at the wall tomorrow."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Virelle giggled, her prismatic orb chiming a bright, cheerful note. "You are allowed to look. Just try to keep your jaw from hitting the floorboards next time."
Aiven cleared his throat, trying to pivot the conversation to something more practical. He patted the heavy coin pouch resting on the small bedside crate. "Anyway, now that we have a decent amount of money from the Sector 4 quest, I was thinking... we should buy some better weapons."
His gaze drifted to the corner where his old short sword leaned against the wall. He remembered the weight of it in the Sector 4 caves—how, under Virelle's light, the steel had hummed with an impossible, crystalline sharpness. But he knew that hadn't been the sword's power; it was hers. On its own, the iron was tired, the edge chipped and dull, better suited for a clerk's sentimental wall-hanging than facing the anomalies of a shifting world.
The blade was a piece of his past—a remnant of the boy who had once bought it with a pocketful of saved coppers and a heart full of unearned confidence. He felt a stubborn ache of attachment to the steel that had survived countless fun adventures with Lyra, but he knew he couldn't take it into the depths again. To rely on its familiar, failing edge wasn't bravery; it was a refusal to meet the horizon he had chosen.
It belonged in the light of memory now, not the dark of a dungeon.
Aiven picked up the sword and placed it carefully in the bottom drawer of his desk. He slid it shut, the rattle of the old wood sounding unusually loud in the morning quiet. Even for a cheap, ordinary drawer, it felt strangely heavy to close.
Virelle tilted her head, watching him as she floated toward the center of the room. "Upgrading weaponry and armor is always a wise investment for someone of your... physical limitations," she mused. "But don't bother looking for anything for me. No weapons in the world can match the efficiency of my spells. I am the weapon, Master."
Aiven didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted back to her, and for a few seconds, he found himself scanning her properly—from the intricate silver embroidery of her lavender bodice to the delicate, translucent fabric of her sleeves.
Virelle's smile faltered slightly as she felt his eyes roaming. A tiny, uncharacteristic fluster touched her expression again, but she quickly hid it behind a sharp, defensive bark. "Master? What is wrong with you today? Did you finally awaken your human instincts and decide to start courting me, or—"
"I noticed you've been wearing the exact same clothes since the moment you were summoned," Aiven interrupted, stopping her mid-sentence. He looked at her with genuine sincerity. "I mean, it's fine, but I thought... since we have some money on hand now, I could buy some new clothes for you. If you liked."
Virelle paused, the sass vanishing from her face. She sensed the honesty in his words—the simple, humble kindness of a man who was worried about her comfort rather than her power. She let out a sudden, melodic laugh of pure glee.
"Oh, Master! I appreciate your sincerity, truly," she said, circling him in the air. "But it is quite fine. I highly doubt there would be any garments befitting my status on this island. This island focuses far too much on labor and logistics to produce anything with actual aesthetic. Besides, I've been cleaning my clothes with a purification spell right after my bath every night."
Aiven blinked, a memory from their first meeting surfacing. "Wait. You told me that you don't do laundry before."
Virelle gave him a look of mock-exasperation. "I did, but I meant I couldn't clean the clothes while they were being worn. But once they are taken off, a simple resonance-frequency pulse can strip away every speck of dust and grime instantly, making them brand new again."
"Right. Of course," Aiven muttered.
He stood up, looking toward the window. Beyond the tenement walls, he knew there were other islands—islands with fashion houses, high-tier magical academies, and grander markets than anything in this district. "Well, once we reach a higher adventurer rank, we can go to other islands. I'll take you to a place with real tailors and buy you whatever clothes you'd like."
Virelle stopped her floating, her violet eyes widening as she hung in the air, level with his face. "Is that a promise, Master? Because I will take that, and there is absolutely no backing off now."
Aiven looked at her, seeing the genuine excitement in her gaze. It was a promise that tied them together for more than just survival. "I promise."
Virelle's smile was radiant, her prismatic orb chiming a jubilant note that echoed through the small apartment. "Good! Then we had better get to work. I expect my new wardrobe to be legendary."
They ate breakfast at a small, tucked-away cafe called "The Quiet Petal," located several streets away from the rowdy morning market. It was a peaceful place with white-washed walls and a few ivy-draped tables. Virelle seemed much more at ease here, away from the jostling crowds.
"Another commendable choice, Master," she said, daintily finishing a plate of sweetened berry crepes. "You have a knack for finding quality among the clutter. I find I quite like the way these budget establishments handle their fruit."
Aiven watched her, amused that a being of her power and elegance found such delight in a cheap breakfast. "I'm glad. We'll need the energy for the next stop."
Their destination was a renowned smithy on the northern edge of the island. Being an island centered on heavy logistics and manual labor, Lowhaven had a reputation for producing some of the most durable, no-nonsense equipment in Aerilis. The weapons here weren't forged for flashy tournaments; they were built by Dwarven smiths from the neighboring mining isles to withstand the harshest environments.
Entering the shop was like stepping into a cathedral of iron. Rows of swords, heavy axes, spears, and thick plated shields lined the walls. Racks of bows and reinforced crossbows sat near the back, while polished maces and massive warhammers hung from heavy chains.
"Look at this one, Master," Virelle noted, hovering toward a gargantuan double-headed greataxe that looked heavy enough to anchor an airship. "It looks remarkably sturdy. One swing and you could probably turn goblins into mashed potatoes."
Aiven looked at the axe, then back at his own modest frame. "Virelle, I don't think I could even lift that off the rack, let alone carry it out the door. My goal is to stay alive, not break my spine."
He spent the next hour carefully browsing. He bypassed the ornate ceremonial rapiers and the jagged, intimidating serrated blades. Finally, his hand settled on a longsword tucked away in a corner. It was slightly longer than his previous short sword, with a simple crossguard and a hilt wrapped in dark, supple leather. It wasn't spectacular to look at—no glowing runes or gold filigree—but the balance was perfect, and the steel had the dull, reliable sheen of high-quality Dwarven craft.
"This one," Aiven said, feeling the weight. It didn't stand out, which was exactly what he wanted. He paid the smith, strapped the new scabbard to his hip, and they stepped back out into the cool morning air.
Their next stop was the guildhouse.
As soon as they entered, Clara, the sharp-eyed receptionist, caught Aiven's eye and beckoned him over. Her usual mask of boredom was replaced by a look of professional interest.
"Aiven Roan," she said, her voice clear. "A report came in from the Mining Bureau regarding the Sector 4 incident. Your contributions alongside Rysa in eliminating the anomaly were noted as significant. As a result, the Guild has officially processed your promotion. Congratulations. You are now an E-Rank Adventurer."
She slid a new bronze-trimmed badge across the counter with his name etched. "The promotion significantly expands your privileges. If you feel confident, you are now permitted to take on D-Rank quests solo, and you may even join parties for C-Rank subjugations."
Virelle drifted forward, her nose in the air. "Only E-Rank? After Master literally saved their precious mining vein? He should have been promoted to A-Rank immediately, if not higher."
"Sorry, don't take her too seriously," Aiven said quickly, grabbing the badge. "Thank you, Clara. I appreciate it."
"We need to start small, Virelle," Aiven said, his eyes scanning the D-Rank listings with newfound ambition. "E-Rank means we can take D-Rank contracts without needing a babysitter. But I still haven't honed my swordsmanship. My form is basically 'flail and pray.' I'm going to find Rysa this Friday to take her up on that instructor she mentioned."
Virelle's prismatic orb instantly chimed a sharp, dissonant note—the sound of a glass vase breaking. She stopped mid-air, her silver hair swirling around her like a miniature storm.
"I still don't see why you need to meet with that red-haired vixen," Virelle said, her eyes narrowing into violet slits. "A 'recommendation'? Master, she is clearly trying to lure you into a trap involving heavy breathing and sweat. I could teach you myself if you're so desperate to swing a piece of sharpened metal around."
Aiven paused, looking at her with a look of profound skepticism. "You? Virelle, you don't even like the concept of gravity. Do you actually know anything about sword forms? Footwork? Leverage?"
Virelle puffed out her chest, looking entirely confident as she floated an extra six inches higher. "How hard could it possibly be? It's primitive percussion, Master. You just... pick up the heavy stick and swing it until the other thing stops moving. It seems like a very simple exercise for people who lack the intellect for complex incantations."
To illustrate her point, she flicked her wrist. A nearby mop leaning against the wall flew into the air, spinning with terrifying, bone-breaking speed before slamming into the floor with enough force to crack a tile.
"There," she said, looking satisfied. "Swordsmanship."
The echoing crack of the mop handle was followed by a silence so sudden it felt like the air had been vacuumed out of the guild hall. A grizzled veteran at a nearby table froze with a mug halfway to his lips, and even the stray cats seemed to hold their breath.
From behind the counter, the only sound was the slow, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Clara peered over her spectacles, her gaze traveling from the shattered wood to the spider-webbed crack in the floor, and finally to Aiven's pale face.
"That is a reinforced obsidian-granite tile," Clara said, her voice terrifyingly flat. "And that mop was the personal property of the Guild Janitorial Union. I have already adjusted your upcoming payout. Your next commission will be deducted for property damage and unauthorized cleaning equipment destruction."
Aiven felt his soul leave his body for a brief, flickering moment. He hadn't even cashed yet, and he was already being billed for a mop.
He let out a heavy sigh and turned back to the board, his finger searching for the least destructive-sounding task available.
"Here," Aiven said, tapping a weathered parchment. "Kobold-hunting in the eastern thickets. It's a standard D-Rank subjugation. Low danger, predictable movement patterns.
"Kobolds?" Virelle asked, her eyes sparkling with a mix of boredom and anticipation. "Well, I suppose even minor pests need to be taught their place."
Aiven didn't notice the way her prismatic orb pulsed with a sudden, jagged rhythm as they crossed the Guildhouse threshold—a silent, uneasy resonance that suggested this standard hunt might not be as it seemed to be.