“She whispers,” Nessa said softly, stirring her coffee cup with a distant air, as if waiting for the drink to speak too. “Sometimes… she whispers dreams. Sometimes, muffled screams. Sometimes she says nothing… but I know she’s there.”

  Layla grimaced, trying to decide if this was poetic daydreaming or a serious warning. Jay, meanwhile, finishing his second egg bread of the morning, raised an eyebrow and commented with all the subtlety of a hammer:

  “You ever think about sleeping with her outside the room?”

  “I have,” Nessa replied, dead serious. “She follows me into dreams too.”

  Silence.

  Real silence. Literal silence.

  The magical bubble Jay had discreetly conjured around the table was perfect: subtle, stable, and utterly effective. Nothing they said escaped the curious ears of the tavern—a pity, considering the conversation was getting rather intriguing.

  “The Griffin’s Beard” was the kind of place where you could find anything—from a fine boar stew to a drunken licanen rolling dice with a shirtless bard. Rustic, noisy, smelling of wood, leather, sweat, and unidentifiable herbal smoke, it was the perfect refuge for adventurers of all stripes and an ideal spot for those who wanted to lose themselves in others’ tales.

  Layla bit into the apple that came with Jay’s plate (without asking), while Nessa sighed deeply and adjusted her new clothes—a light tunic with blue-silver accents, far more modest than the leather top and slit “aerodynamic” pants Layla swore were practical.

  “Thanks for the clothes, Jay,” Nessa said suddenly. “Layla’s… weren’t compatible with my… sacred calling.”

  “Hey!” Layla protested, raising a chicken leg in her defense. “My gear breathes, meow! That’s key in combat!”

  “You’re literally in a bikini and cape. Without cape.”

  Jay just laughed, chewing the last of his bread with relish.

  “You should be grateful you’re still almost dressed after yesterday,” he said, chuckling.

  Layla rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

  Nessa cleared her throat and continued:

  “I was a priestess of Malkut for twenty-three years. Started as a girl. The Order is demanding—hours of prayers, water studies, creation doctrines, fasting, vigils, physical and spiritual trials… and a final test few survive.”

  “Meow, I bet it involved swimming in a pool of swords,” Layla muttered, sarcastic.

  “Not exactly. But there was a lizard the size of a boat.”

  “Fair.”

  Nessa took another sip of coffee and looked at them, hesitating for a moment. The soft morning light filtering through the tavern’s stained glass painted their faces in reddish and golden hues.

  “I turned thirty this month,” she said, almost like a confession. “Despite…”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “…still looking like an apprentice who got lost on the way to the altar?” Layla finished with a wink.

  “Yeah.”

  Jay smiled, but his eyes were sharp. Not on the tavern’s noise—that the bubble muffled well—but on a guard near the mission board. That man—sparse beard, forehead scar, broad shoulders—wasn’t a stranger. Not to Jay.

  He rose casually, tapped the table lightly, and approached, exchanging quick words. The guard recognized him instantly. And with the ease of someone who’d done this before, handed him a folded scroll aside.

  Jay returned whistling and waving like the local mayor. Layla arched an eyebrow.

  “Getting custom missions now, Your Meowjesty?”

  “Old friend,” he said, tossing the scroll onto the table. “Says this one’s perfect for our level: a simple, discreet job, good pay… and best of all, it’s coastal.”

  “Oh, how romantic. We’ll see the sea, meow!” Layla exclaimed, excited.

  “Submerged ruins,” Jay corrected with a sly grin. “Right here in town. Seems some fishermen have been hearing strange sounds from the depths. And some things… surfaced.”

  Nessa froze. She couldn’t say why.

  Maybe the sword had whispered that too.

  …

  The sea roared, its waves crashing on the shore like a lazy lion barely roused from a sunlit nap. It was early morning, and the salty breeze sliced like a blade. The sky, still pale, let gray clouds drift like ancient spirits undecided on where to rain.

  Layla didn’t seem to care. At just over a meter twenty of muscle and scars, she marched ahead in her traditional barbarian armor—a golden-scale bikini held by heart-shaped buckles. The cold seemed to give up bothering her out of fear of a beating. Jay and Nessa, on the other hand, came prepared with fur capes, well-tended leather gloves, and discreet thermal enchantments. Jay even offered one to Layla, but she just grunted—likely a curse.

  They followed a narrow, uneven path leading to Edsória’s old lighthouse—a tower twisted by time and storms, perched like a stone finger pointing at the cloudy sky. The trail wound through low cliffs and salt-hardened grasses. Crows perched on weathered wooden fences, watching the group pass with eyes too shrewd for mere birds. Moss-covered rocks lined the way, the path growing wetter as they neared the slope where the ruins sank into mist.

  Malkut’s temple emerged only as a silhouette carved into the rockface, as if the cliff itself had opened its mouth to swallow long-forgotten faithful. Broken columns, symbols nearly erased by erosion, and a heavy aura of emptiness. Nessa stopped before crossing the threshold.

  “Something’s wrong…” she whispered.

  Jay glanced over his shoulder. The cleric’s eyes were locked on the temple, her breath caught.

  “This place… it’s no longer sacred. Malkut’s Presence… has been gone for ages. But there are echoes.” She clutched her pendant like a last prayer. “And they weep.”

  Layla snorted.

  “If those echoes start biting, let me know, meow! I’ll smack ‘em back.”

  But Jay’s focus had shifted. His eyes scanned the mist beyond the temple, noting subtle light shifts, shadows, wind… and what should’ve been there but wasn’t. A faint movement among the rocks ahead—quick, too careful for an animal. The silence around them, that kind that comes when predators breathe slowly to avoid noise.

  He played it off, adjusting his cape as if shielding from the wind, and said casually:

  “We’re being watched.”

  Nessa swallowed hard, her fingers tracing Malkut’s protection sigil in the air. Layla gripped her axe handle, thrilled.

  “Finally, meow.”

  In the slope’s shadows, someone smiled. A man with gray-blue skin, coal-white eyes, and curved horns adorned with fine chains watched from afar. A trenti, no doubt. And not just any—this was a talent hunter, a specialist in tracking living relics. And the cleric ahead… was exactly that.

  The wind carried the scent of salt and threat.

  The temple awaited.

  …