The raucous laughter that had followed Elmsworth’s "Hypothesis of Ruin" eventually began to die down. It didn't vanish all at once; it faded slowly, settling into the comfortable, crackling silence of shared exhaustion.

  Faelar was wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, occasionally chuckling and muttering, “A snack. He destroyed the fabric of reality for a snack.”

  Elmsworth, looking thoroughly vindicated by the warm reception of his academic tragedy, was happily feeding Nugget a soft pretzel.

  I looked across the table at Liam.

  The elf hadn't joined in the roaring laughter. He had smiled—a rare, genuine expression—but it was the smile of someone watching a play from the back of the theater. He was with us, breathing the same air thick with roasting meat and ozone, but he wasn't of us.

  He was swirling the dregs of his Blue Cap cider in his mug, watching the bioluminescent liquid catch the lantern light. His eyes were distant, focused on a point a thousand miles and three years away.

  I clinked my mug against his. The sound rang clear and sharp in the quiet pocket of the tavern.

  “Your turn, Spymaster,” I said softly.

  Liam didn't look up immediately. He watched the blue liquid swirl for another second.

  “You’re the only one left with secrets,” I pressed.

  The table went still. Faelar straightened up, sensing the shift in the air. Willow leaned forward, her expression open. Even Elmsworth stopped documenting Nugget’s caloric intake.

  Liam looked at me. Then he looked at the door. For a second, I thought he was going to deflect.

  “My story isn't funny,” Liam said flatly. “There are no chickens. There are no exploding wizards.”

  “Neither was Faelar’s,” I reminded him. “We aren't here for funny, Liam. We’re here for the truth. You know everything about us. You know my struggles with the manual. You know Faelar’s grief. You know Willow’s guilt. It’s time to balance the ledger.”

  Liam sighed. It was a heavy sound.

  “Balancing ledgers,” he murmured, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “That’s usually where the trouble starts.”

  He signaled Lyra for another round—dark amber this time, no glowing. When it arrived, he took a long sip and set the mug down with a final click.

  “I wasn’t just a scout in the Guard,” he began, looking at the grain of the wood table. “I was part of a specialist unit. We didn't have a flashy name. We were an Erasure Squad.”

  “Erasure?” Willow asked softly.

  “We fixed mistakes,” Liam said. “When a high-profile hero made a mess—burned down the wrong village, insulted the wrong duke, left a trail that led back to the Citadel—we went in. We cleaned it up. We silenced witnesses. We recovered assets. We did the dirty work so the shiny knights could keep their armor polished.”

  Faelar frowned, gripping his mug. “That sounds… dishonorable.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “It was necessary,” Liam countered, though his voice lacked conviction. “Or so we told ourselves. We were good at it. And we were a family. There were five of us. We watched each other’s backs because we knew no one else would.”

  He traced the rim of his glass.

  “Three years ago, we were deployed to the Spires of Aethelgard. The mission briefing came directly from our Sector Commander, Valerius. He told us a rogue cell of cultists had infiltrated a noble house. Our orders were to eliminate the threat. Burn the roots. No loose ends.”

  Liam’s hand tightened on the glass.

  “We went in. Perfect execution. We breached the manor and cornered the targets in the library.”

  He looked up, his silver eyes cold.

  “They weren't cultists. They were accountants. They were the treasurers for Valerius’s own district. They had evidence that he was skimming funds from the war effort to pay off his gambling debts.”

  “He sent you to kill the witnesses,” I realized, a cold knot forming in my stomach.

  “He sent us to clean up his mess,” Liam corrected. “But he knew we were loyal to the Guard, not to him. So he didn't just want the accountants dead. He wanted us dead, too. Loose ends.”

  Liam leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

  “The moment we breached the inner sanctum, the trap sprung. He had rigged the manor with alchemical fire. The whole building went up in a heartbeat. It was an inferno.”

  Willow gasped.

  “I was thrown clear by the blast. But my team… they were deeper inside. I watched the house burn. I watched my brother-in-arms, Carlos—a man I trusted with my life—try to hold a collapsing beam so the others could crawl out. But the fire was too fast.”

  “And outside?” Faelar asked, his voice low.

  “Outside,” Liam said, “Valerius’s personal guard was waiting. They had orders to kill the ‘rogue agents’ who had attacked a noble house. They put arrows into anyone who crawled out of the flames.”

  The silence at the table was absolute.

  “I survived because I ran,” Liam said simply. “I’m a coward. I’m a survivor. I vanished into the smoke. I spent six months hunting Valerius. I found him. I killed him. But it didn't matter. The system just replaced him.”

  He looked at me, his gaze piercing.

  “That’s why I joined this squad, Kaelen. I looked at the roster when the assignment came up. A fresh-faced transfer officer clinging to the manual because he didn't know any better. A traumatized miner. An exiled druid. A crazy wizard.”

  He leaned back, a bitter, crooked smile twisting his lips.

  “I thought, ‘Perfect. This team is a joke. They are useless. A rookie commander and a squad of broken toys. No one will ever care enough about them to betray them.’”

  “Hey!” Faelar protested weakly.

  “I was hiding in mediocrity,” Liam admitted. “I thought if I stayed with the losers, I’d be safe. I thought if I never cared about anyone again, I couldn't be hurt when the order came down to burn us.”

  “We aren't losers,” Faelar said softly. “We’re misfits.”

  “I know that now,” Liam said. “I saw you in the Garden. I saw you on the Ridge. You aren't useless. You’re dangerous. You’re incredibly, violently competent.”

  “And that scares you?” I asked.

  “Terrifies me,” Liam said. “Because dangerous teams get noticed. And teams that get noticed get used.”

  He looked at me. He looked at the spear leaning against the wall.

  “I told you I don't trust authority, Kaelen. Now you know why. Every time I’ve followed an order without question, someone I cared about ended up in a box.”

  I held his gaze.

  “I’m not Valerius,” I said firmly. “I don't balance ledgers with lives. And I don't sell out my own.”

  Liam looked at me. He searched my face for the lie.

  “I know,” Liam said quietly. “You caught me on the ledge. You didn't let go. That… counts.”

  He finished his drink in one swallow and set the mug down.

  “That’s my story. It’s not funny. It’s not magical. It’s just the cost of doing business.”

  He stood up, smoothing his tunic. The vulnerability was being sealed away again, layer by layer.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Fresh air,” Liam said. “It’s getting loud in here. And I have… unfinished business.”

  He glanced toward the door.

  Standing in the shadows of the entrance, half-hidden by a vine, was Elara. She wasn't wearing her armor; she was wearing a simple silk robe, and she was watching him.

  I smiled. “Go. But be careful. She bites.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Liam smirked.

  He slipped away from the table, moving toward the door. Elara turned and vanished into the night. Liam followed.

  I watched them go.

  “Young love,” Faelar sighed. “Disgusting. Pass the pretzels.”

  “It is a complex mating ritual involving power dynamics and shared trauma!” Elmsworth noted.

  “It’s hope,” Willow said softly.

  “It’s a start,” I said.