“I just want to say that I really enjoy spending time with you,” Sara said. “I love it, actually. I wanted to ask if I could travel with you”—

  (Kalas’s eyes widened in surprise)

  —“but…”

  “You’re going on a trip,” he completed, deflating.

  Sara shook her head. “No… That’s not the problem. The problem’s that I still have three years left on my government contract. I can’t leave unless it’s for business.”

  “What do you mean by ‘contract’?” he asked. “Is it something you can buy your way out of?”

  “Unfortunately not. The contract’s for time, not money. Keeping me in Amia is the point.”

  He cocked his head. “What?”

  She chuckled dimly, remembering he wasn’t from… civilization. So she took a deep breath and spoke. “You can change citizenship when you become a silver rank. To prevent other countries from poaching, nations offer spells, training, and equipment in exchange for work contracts. It keeps them in the country. I have one of those. It's not long, but it is unbreakable. Well…” Her voice faltered.

  Kalas perked up. “Well… what?”

  She bit her lip. “Technically you can break it by becoming a Requia. But that's a pipe dream.”

  “How so? I fought Balphoa, and you’re way stronger than he is.”

  “Yeah, I am. But Bal’s not a combat mage. He specializes in transfiguration, which is a super rare class, so it's easy to get in. If he took the combat test, he'd probably be dead right now.”

  Kalas's face hardened. She nodded.

  “I’m not joking. You're faced against the world's strongest, and it's no holds barred. People blast through a hundred meters’ worth of trees with a single attack—freeze lakes with spells that miss. It's a test for people like you.” She bit her lip. “I have a long way to go.”

  Kalas fell silent, staring into the flames, as if they would give him a vision about what to say or do. He then motioned his fingers, lifting a pebble with telekinesis before throwing it aimlessly. He didn’t look sad or crushed—more contemplative than anything.

  He finally looked over with gentle, innocent eyes and said, “What if I became a Requia?”

  Sara turned to him sharply. “Are you taking the exam?”

  He glanced toward the tent. “No, I’m not. I’m just curious. If I were to become a Requia, could I release you from your contracts?”

  Sara stared at him, desperate to know what that glance meant. She wanted to know, but:

  (Rassan.)

  It still bugged her so she tried to tease it out:

  “Kalas. I know you’re strong, but you can’t just become a Requia. Only ten combat Requia are added each year, and each country only gets to send one candidate—”

  (me.)

  Sara paused before she completed her statement, realization dawning on her. She already held Amia’s spot—so it wasn’t even worth discussing. Kalas wasn’t a candidate—talking about it just… sucked. But he wouldn’t let it go.

  “Okay… just humor me,” Kalas said. “If I were, through ultra magical ridiculous unbelievable means, to become a Requia… could I break your contracts? Stuff like this just drives me crazy if I don’t know.”

  Sara thought about it and then shook her head solemnly. “No. Requia privileges only go to the Requia, their family, and…” Her face paled.

  “And what?” Kalas pressed.

  (Don’t ask.)

  His eyes were asking. No, they were demanding. His whole body had leaned in—awaiting her words.

  She swallowed. “Their spouses.”

  “Oh…” Kalas muttered. He looked into her eyes and, with an almost aggravating amount of innocent sincerity, he said: “Can we just say we’re married?”

  (No, we can’t just say we’re married!)

  “No…” Sara said slowly. “Marriage isn’t a word—it’s a legal status. It’s connected to laws, finances—taxes.”

  (Splitting shit in half when you get divorced.)

  “Oh… so it’s… a contract?” he asked. “Like does it require that you have a child, is it binding for life, or is it just…”

  (He’s serious…)

  (He’s actually serious…)

  Sara’s chest thumped with anxiety. He was talking about marrying her—actually marrying her. She understood full well that Kalas wasn’t asking to marry her marry her, but it was still marriage!

  “Uh… no,” she said. “You’re not required to… do anything.”

  (You’re just expected to.)

  (No, mom. I haven’t squeezed one out yet.)

  (Yes, I’ll come home and settle down.)

  Kalas stared at her blankly. “Well, if that’s all”—

  (No!)

  —“then would you… sign the paperwork?”

  Sara chuckled darkly.

  (Second day, third meeting.)

  (And you’re talking about marriage.)

  Kalas must’ve seen her stewing expression because he threw up his hands in a panic. “Just practical. I get you out of your contract, you…” He paused, then broke off, chuckling self-deprecatingly. “Sorry, this is ridiculous. I’m just so one-track-minded, you know? My master kinda beat it into me. There’s no give up: you just break shit and jump off cliffs and drag your way through hell until you get what you want, but… Oh, God. Just ignore me.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Sara’s raging heart (it was raging now, for some reason) started to cool when she saw his expression.

  (Put that way...)

  (It almost feels admirable.)

  Sara considered it, but then that dull ache of anxiety crept up again, latching to her ribs and rotting them. It was now difficult to breathe. Was Kalas taking the test? Was this a real conversation? And why was it a serious conversation? Why wasn’t she just saying No?

  No, she understood why: she was afraid that he’d take it as a hard rejection—a crushing moment that would make him give up on her. Then, even if she did become a Requia, he’d probably have moved on, fixated on a prettier girl to travel with. It wouldn’t be hard: he had the looks to pull anyone; once he figured that out, wouldn’t he start looking for his ideal lover?

  (Time’s running out.)

  There was that thought again. That pressure. That fear. It made her realize that waiting until they truly “liked” each other wasn’t an option. There was seven more days until they left on their trips, and if she wanted to travel with him she needed to prove herself desirable—in personality, skill, and willingness to sacrifice—to do it. Kalas was more than willing to do that: he would “drag his way through hell” to make it happen. Didn’t she need to do the same?

  Yes—but. There was an insurmountable chasm between uprooting her entire life to follow Kalas, and her marrying him. To him, marriage was just a word, but to her, the concept was more vivid and mythical than murder or disease! She wasn’t comfortable answering questions like: “Why did you meet each other?” or “Are you thinking about children?” She would be mortified to go on group dates. The whole thing would be a huge lie—a damning cage that would lock her inside so many social norms and expectations it felt suffocating.

  Sara had no fucking clue what to do or say. Her lungs curled with smoke, her mind clouded with steam. She turned to him with serious eyes. “Kalas… I…”

  “Go to bed!” Rassan screamed from within the tent, cutting off Sara’s answer. “We’re on a fuckin’ mission. If you get yourself killed ‘cause you’re tired, we’re all dead!”

  “Shut the fuck up, Rassan!” Nia yelled.

  “What? No! You know full well—”

  “Stop!” she yelled. “I’m not kidding. If you say one more word this trip, I’ll break your legs and say you tried to assault me.”

  “Don’t say things like that,” Tab said. “Shit like that’s cruel, even for enemies.”

  “Cruel? I’m just playing by the rules. Remember what he did to Oran?”

  “Oran was a pervert!” Rassan snapped.

  “Oran was on a job with us when he allegedly did it,” she mocked. “We were there—we all testified—but your daddy bought the fucking court.”

  Rassan laughed. “Well, if that's true, don't you think you should SHUT THE FUCK UP?”

  To Sara’s shock, Kalas was the one who acted. He dug his palm into the grass to stand, and Sara panicked, pushing him down with telekinesis. He paused and turned to her, and she shivered at his expression. It wasn’t that it was cold—it was because it was clear. Whatever he planned to do to Rassan, he would’ve done it smoothly and without thought or regret—and she had a feeling it would have been terrible.

  Sara shook her head at him pleadingly, and he calmed, sitting again. He opened his mouth to say something—suggest something—but he decided against it.

  Tab took over within the tent. “You're on your last rope, kid,” he said to Rassan. “Not with us—the Requia. And if you tip that line, you’re gonna regret staying with us.”

  Rassan remained silent, but I could feel his response. It emanated from the tent like volcanic fumes.

  Kalas turned to Sara. “Why? Why does he even stick around?”

  “Because we're the strongest,” Sara said, standing up. “He likes acting like he’s one of us.” She offered her hand. “Let's talk about this after the trip. Kay?”

  Kalas nodded. “Okay.” The firelight danced across their forearms when he accepted her hand, and for a moment, Sara questioned whether those flames would forge a bond, or if they were ominous a premonition of what was to come. Kalas Valayan was a gorgeous man—a kind man—a man that she would trust around pets and children. But that didn’t change the facts. Kalas’s backstory was only as believable as she wanted it to be, and his strength and clear conscience made it difficult to know what he was capable of.

  Kalas snuffed the fire, and the flames in his eyes went with it. His eyes returned to the same blue eyes she was accustomed to—gentle, clear, and still, like a serene pond. That decisiveness—that willingness to act—was it just a trick of the light?

  “Let’s go to bed,” Kalas said, and she nodded. It would be a long night.

  —Kalas—

  The Platinum Star party shared a large tent for combat reasons, so I confirmed that everyone fell asleep before me. Sara was restless for the first hour, but she soon dozed off, leaving me to consider what happened.

  I asked Sara to marry me. That happened.

  I didn’t regret it. To me, marriage was just a set of rules and customs, and to be honest, I didn’t care much for either. But I could tell that Sara did, which made things awkward to the point I wanted to just tell her to drop the subject. That said, that wasn’t what I was really worried about. I ruined my pristine reputation when I made a move on Rassan—that’s what I was worried about. I could see it in Sara’s eyes. She was shocked I acted—and that was the pits. After all—I didn’t regret doing that, either. Rassan had been upgraded from “obnoxious asshole” to "venomous spider”—and you keep your friends away from spiders. That said, I was glad Sara stopped me. If she hadn’t…

  (Never the same.)

  I tried not to think about it as my mind finally drifted off, casting me into a world where Rassan didn’t exist, and Sara’s faith in me was whole.

  I woke to Tab saying, “Can’t you just take us a little way? Not to sound lazy, but I’m deathly afraid of hiking.”

  I chuckled as I stared at the ceiling. Seems I’m the last one up.

  I forced myself up and left the tent, only to grin. “Seems you’ve got the hang of it.”

  Sara had a pan levitating over a sigil fire. She flashed me a cute smile. “Yep~.”

  I smiled gently, only for my chest to tighten when I felt Rassan’s gaze. The morning was way too young for that bullshit so I joined Sara beside the fire, cooking food as the others dismantled the tent. Then, we were off, hiking toward the Hanglands.

  To my surprise, we weren’t entering a forest—it was closer to a marsh. The air was thick and sticky as an egg’s membrane, and the wide canopies of trees were far too thin to shade us from the scorching sun. And when we made it into the marsh proper, the winding roads of dirt we had taken to avoid the water disappeared, leaving only small islands connected by water and floating algae.

  I didn’t mind the backdrop, but the way the group was handling it made my skin crawl. Sara had water halfway up her chest at one point, holding her sword and watch out of the water to keep them dry. Looking at her dirty, slimy skin gave me shivers, so when we approached an island, I said, “Can I… keep us dry?”

  Rona turned to me. “Dry? What do you mean?”

  “Come up here.” I walked onto the island, and Tab laughed on sight. My entire body was still perfectly dry, cloak vibrant, as if I never touched the water.

  “What… in the living fuck…” Nia said, glancing between the others. “Are you seeing this?”

  I smiled sheepishly. “I have an aura barrier. It prevents me from getting wet.”

  (Dirty.)

  “Ah, so that’s why you’re so pretty,” Tab said, laughing.

  “Never mind, then,” I turned to keep walking, but he cried, “Wait, I’m joking!” and I returned to them. “Okay,” I said. “Hold still.”

  Twenty minutes later, Tab was clean and dry as he waded through the water, giving thanks to “the Maiden,” “Angora,” and six more deities of opposing monotheistic religions as we walked through, stopping to add, “I’ll never call you pretty again,” whenever he felt the need to suck up.

  Sara giggled throughout it all, her smile now beaming. Every so often she glanced at me with a strange look of pride, the type of look that said, “I knew I made the right call,” or something of that degree. I’m not sure what it was, but I liked it, glad that my most shameful phobia had been turned into a mark of glory.

  About the third time she glanced over, I said, “Hey—”

  “Hold up,” Tab interrupted, throwing up his hand. He then pointed ahead, drawing our eyes to a traska in the distance.

  Traskas looked like huge white bears, but they had jagged antlers protruding from their skulls. Their fur was white, albeit caked with so much mud and algae that they looked like moss-covered quartz in a flower bed. They were glorious creatures—and from the grim look on everyone’s faces, “terrifying.” Or so I thought.

  “Something’s wrong,” Sara whispered. “They shouldn’t be this far out.”

  “Agreed,” Rona followed. “Something’s definitely wrong.”