Rimelion: The Exploiter

“Is there... anything I can do to get it back?” Lucas swallowed hard, hating how his voice trembled, how desperate he sounded.

“Anything at all?”

Saevrin did not answer immediately, and the pause stretched long enough that Lucas felt hope die a second time, slower and more painful than the first, before the crow-god spoke with a slowness that suggested he was choosing each word.

“There is a way,” Saevrin said finally. “Not because you deserve it—you do not. Not because you have earned forgiveness through suffering—you have not.” The crow’s eyes gleamed with something ancient. “But because your friends do not deserve to suffer for your choices, and because some lessons require more than a single moment of loss to truly take root.”

Lucas’s breath caught, something fragile and desperate unfurling in his chest despite every instinct screaming that this would cost him something he couldn’t afford to pay.

“I cannot return what you lost through failure,” Saevrin continued, voice carrying the absolute certainty of divine law. “The trial was clear, the outcome stands, and power granted despite defeat would render judgment meaningless.” He paused, and the wind stirred again, as if was questioning. “But if you accept a deeper binding, a consequence that will follow you not when convenient but when the wind demands it, a reminder worn visibly and without escape of what you are and what you have done...”

Lucas understood before Saevrin finished, the shape of it already clear in the way the god’s voice curled around the offer like a contract written in air and inevitability.

“The transformation will not fade when you wish it,” Saevrin said quietly. “Three hours. Every time you draw upon this power. No exceptions, no shortcuts, no matter who watches or what it costs your pride.” The crow tilted its head, studying Lucas. “You will not be able to hide from what you are, from what you’ve done, from the price of gambling with forces beyond your comprehension.”

He thought of Pearl seeing him like this, of her inevitable laughter that would be affectionate but merciless, of inside jokes that would follow him for years.

He thought of walking away, of keeping his pride intact and his body his own, of never having to explain why he sometimes looked like a magical girl with ribbons and skirts and a bouncing ponytail that refused to respect dignity.

He thought of being useless.

“I accept,” Lucas said, and his voice didn’t shake this time, steadied by resignation and something that might have been actual growth if you squinted hard enough past the desperation. “I accept the reminder.”

Saevrin regarded him for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice carried something that might have been approval or simply acknowledgment that the lesson had, perhaps, finally taken root. “So be it,” the crow said. “Live with what you have chosen, Lucas. Carry it visibly. Learn from it honestly.”

The wind surged once, warm and cold at the same time, wrapping around Lucas in a sensation that felt almost like a contract being sealed, and when it faded he was transformed, small and delicate.

Lucas sat on the edge of the mountain peak, skirts pooling around him and ribbons fluttering in the wind that had chosen him despite everything, and let out a long, shaky breath that might have been a laugh or might have been something closer to a sob.

He’d won, technically, in the way you won when the house let you walk away with anything at all.

But the wind whispered through his hair, gentle and relentless and absolutely unforgiving, and Lucas understood Saevrin’s final mercy for what it truly was… not forgiveness or kindness or even punishment.

A leash.

Lucas opened his eyes to white ceiling panels and the soft hum of climate control.

His body heavy in how only came from extended immersion, muscles stiff from hours of stillness that his mind had spent dancing through divine wind and crushing defeat.

He sat up slowly in the capsule and flexed his hands, normal, before running them through hair that was mercifully short and decidedly not tied up in a bouncing ponytail with an oversized ribbon.

Lucas let out a long breath, relief flooding through him as he confirmed what Saevrin had promised: Earth remained untouched, his body unchanged, the transformation confined entirely to Rimelion where consequences belonged.

Thank… Saevrin.

He stood, stretched until his spine cracked, and tried very hard not to think about logging back in.

When I blinked back into existence in my apartment, I was still holding the bottle of Sallén.

The transition hit differently this time. Not jarring exactly, but… weighted. Like my body remembered both places now and wasn’t sure which one to settle into first.

I stood in the middle of my bedroom, heels sinking slightly into carpet that felt wrong after packed dirt and sun-baked clay, the scent of Altandai fields still clinging to my clothes even though the clothes were technically the same magical fabric they’d always been.

I looked down at the bottle.

Seven years old with three hundred years of tradition. Made by people who’d worked that land for generations, who’d taught me how to cut Salaga with enchanted shovels and laughed when I’d tried to pull one bare-handed like an idiot.

Gael’s face flashed through my mind; the older farmer whose back I’d healed. Silencio and his perfectly placed axe swings. The workers sprinkling water on wooden planks, the smell of burning casks, the green mana mist curling around unearthed plants like breath.

I’d liked it.

Not just the drink, though the drink was genuinely fantastic. I’d liked being there. Watching the process. Understanding what I was protecting beyond numbers on Lola’s clipboard. And… also booze.

The bottle felt heavier in my hands than it had any right to.

I crossed to my desk and set it down carefully, almost reverently, beside my monitor. The black glass caught the dim light from my window, the liquid inside shifting slightly as if it was still deciding whether to trust me.

“Yeah,” I muttered to it. “We’re keeping you alive. Don’t worry.”

Then I ran to the bedroom and flopped backward onto my bed.

The mattress welcomed me like a long-lost friend, memory foam conforming instantly, and I let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-groan. Earth beds were still cheating. Absolutely criminal how comfortable they were compared to frozen thrones and carriage benches.

I stared at the ceiling.

My brain tried to process the last… how many hours had it been? Time was weird when you could exist in two places. Fighting in Rimelion. Meetings on Earth. Back to Rimelion for agriculture tours. Now here again, in my apartment, where the biggest threat was forgetting to pay rent.

Except I didn’t pay rent anymore because I was technically employing the entire building through Rimebreak.

I groaned and covered my face with my arm.

“I’m a landlord now,” I whispered to no one. “What the hell.”

My phone buzzed.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again.

“Jerry?” I tried, voice muffled by my sleeve.

Silence.

Right. He was probably still processing Cloudy’s body offer, or doing whatever AI assistants did when they had existential decisions to make. I was on my own.

The phone buzzed a third time, insistent and rude.

I grabbed it, squinting at the screen.

Lola: Status?

Lola: I saw you lights turn on. You need to eat.

Lola: And meditate.

Lola: Lady, answer me or I’m coming over.

I stared at the messages, a smile tugging at my mouth despite the exhaustion pressing into my bones.

“She’s gonna come over anyway,” I muttered, already typing back.

Charlie: im alive

Charlie: beds are good

Charlie: thinking about booze

The reply was instant.

Lola: I’m outside your door.

I shot upright. “What?!”

A knock.

Not the polite kind. The kind that said I have a clipboard and I’m using it.

I scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over my own heels because I’d forgotten I was still wearing them, and stumbled to the door. Threw it open.

Lola stood there, immaculate as ever despite the fact that it had to be… I checked my phone. Nearly midnight. Hair perfectly framed her face, blouse crisp, skirt unwrinkled, holo-tablet tucked under one arm like a weapon.

Her eyes narrowed the second she saw me.

“You’re still in full Rimelion gear,” she said flatly. “Change your clothes; it is literally only a thought away.”

I glanced down. Right. Queenly outfit, heels, probably still had dirt on me somewhere. “It’s… hard?”

“It’s lazy,” Lola corrected. Then, before I could protest, she stepped forward, grabbed my wrist, and pulled.

“Wait—Lola—!”

“Non-negotiable,” she said, already dragging me down the hallway.

I stumbled after her, too surprised to resist properly, my brain still half-stuck in fields and forests. “Where are we—”

“Cafeteria,” she said briskly. “You need to eat. Then meditate. Then tomorrow, you start the dungeon run.”

“I—okay, but—”

She stopped so suddenly I nearly crashed into her. Turned. Looked at me with an expression that was part irritation, part something softer that made my chest tighten.

“Lady,” she said quietly, “you’ve been existing in two places for days. You conquered a city. You’re protecting alcohol instead of optimizing farmland. You healed random farmers in the field because you couldn’t help yourself.”

I opened my mouth.

She kept going.

“And now you’re planning to dive into a dungeon to fix a sabotage problem that shouldn’t be yours to solve, because you refuse to let people suffer when you think you can do something about it.” Her grip on my wrist loosened, just slightly. “So yes. You’re going to eat. You’re going to meditate. And you’re going to let me take care of you for five minutes before you throw yourself at the next crisis.”

I stared at her.

Her cheeks were pink.

Mine probably were too.

“…Okay,” I managed.

The smile that flickered across her face was small but devastating and cute. Damn… I was falling for her.

She tugged me forward again, gentler this time, and I followed.

The cafeteria was mostly empty at this hour, just a few night-shift workers scattered across tables, nursing coffee and staring at tablets with the glazed focus of people who’d forgotten what sleep felt like.

Lola guided me to a table near the windows, the city lights sprawling beyond the glass like scattered embers. “Sit,” she ordered.

I sat.

She disappeared toward the counter with a speed that somehow made even late-night snack acquisition look like a military operation.

I leaned back in my chair and watched her go, the way her skirt swished slightly when she turned, the way her hair caught the overhead lights.

Oh no, I thought distantly. I’m in trouble.

She returned a few minutes later with a tray. Warm bread, some kind of soup that smelled like vegetables and garlic, a mug of tea that steamed gently, and, I blinked, a small plate of cookies.

“Lola,” I said slowly, “did you just… comfort-food me?”

“Yes,” she said, setting the tray down and sitting across from me. “Eat.”

I picked up the spoon, dipped it into the soup, and took a bite.

It was good. Simple, warm, what settled into your stomach and reminded you that basic human maintenance was actually important. Lola watched me eat with the satisfied expression of someone who’d just won an argument I hadn’t realized we were having.

“So,” I said between bites, “you ambushed me.”

“I prefer ‘intervened,’” she replied primly.

“You were waiting outside my door.”

“No, I live nearby.”

I snorted, nearly choking on soup. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

Her lips twitched. “Good.”

I took another bite of soup as Lola pulled out her holo-tablet.

Oh no.

“So,” she began, stylus already moving, “I’ve coordinated with the harbormaster to prioritize Lucy’s vessel for immediate departure. The supply manifest includes standard dungeon provisions plus the specialized equipment Scamantha recommended, which I’ve cross-referenced against—”

I nodded along, chewing slowly.

“—the inventory logs from the Royal Treasury, accounting for the weight distribution requirements Lucy specified for optimal sailing speed. Additionally, I’ve arranged for—”

The soup was superb. Garlic and something else. Thyme?

“—backup provision protocols in case the dungeon environment interferes with standard water crystals, including three redundant—”

I wondered if Gael had made it back to the fields okay. Probably. Jabari was competent.

“—and cross-training initiatives for the agricultural workers so production continuity isn’t dependent on individual specialists, which brings me to the troop movements—”

Wait, troop movements?

I tuned back in.

“—so you’ll go with Lucy to the dungeon,” Lola finished, tapping her tablet with finality.

I blinked. “Why? I thought it was me, Katherine, Lucas, and Frozna?”

Lola stared at me blankly. “Lady, how do you plan to get there?”

“Oh…” I paused mid-bite. “Right. Captain Lucy.” I grinned. “She still uses her pirate accent?”

Lola looked physically pained. “Always.”

I let out a long laugh, the sound echoing through the mostly empty cafeteria. A few night-shift workers glanced over, then quickly looked away when they recognized me. “Sure thing.”

“Briefing in the morning,” Lola said firmly, already making a note on her tablet. “Everyone will be there. ESPECIALLY YOU.”

I gulped. “I like sleep-slash-meditating until noon?”

Lola shook her head, expression shifting from professional to something sharper, more urgent. “We need to move the army as soon as possible. To counter Count Itzel.” She leaned forward slightly, holding my gaze. “You need to fix the sabotage. Some crops are literally days away from maturing. We need to secure Altandai before we can move. Non-negotiable. You go tomorrow morning.”

The weight of it settled over me like a blanket made of obligations. She wasn’t wrong. The timeline was brutal but clear.

“…have I told you how cute you are when commanding?” I blurted out.

Lola’s face turned red so fast I was genuinely concerned about her blood pressure. She stared at me without saying anything, mouth ajar, stylus frozen mid-air above her tablet.

I giggled, standing up and grabbing my empty soup bowl. “Well, thanks for the meal, and I’ll go meditating then, as you command!” I gave her a little mock salute.

She narrowed her eyes at me, color still high in her cheeks. “You’re the worst!”

“…and you still like me,” I said, turning to wink at her over my shoulder.

The strangled noise she made was worth every ounce of embarrassment I’d experience later when my brain caught up with my mouth.

I was halfway to the door when she called after me, voice carefully controlled again. “Charlie.”

I stopped, turned.

“Don’t be late,” she said. Then, softer, “Sleep—I mean, meditate well.”

My chest did something complicated and warm. “You too, Lola.”