“Of course I picked the Harem-Master subclass. …Yeah. I know how that sounds.”

The next few bursts startle me as they appear in rapid succession.

[Boss Zone: Mausoleum is now Accessible]

[Kitta has reached — Level 20]

[Raka has reached — Level 20]

I gasp at each new flash, like the system is pressing the truth back into me one line at a time.

We did it.

[Perri has reached — Level 19]

The next one lands harder.

Right in my own chest.

[Vincent Locke has reached — Level 21]

[Vincent Locke, congratulations on advancing to Tier 2]

[Please accept your Tier 2 Subclass Evolution!]

All of it should feel exciting as I stare at the flashing [!]

Instead, standing there on hard stone with burning vine and shattered bone all around us, it feels cold. Hollow.

I know the answer for the girls. I would feel it if any of them were gone.

So I ask anyway, the question tearing out of me harder than I mean it to.

“Everyone still alive?”

Raka is down on one knee, shield planted, head bowed. Kit is sprawled out on the cold stone in a tangle of limbs and spectral shimmer gone thin. Perri is crouched in the grass beside Ed’s resting thorns, small and shaking and alive.

Then the bond answers me.

Raka first. Still here.

Kit next, tired enough that the words blur at the edges, but still Kit. Obviously.

Perri last, soft and trembling. I’m here, Master.

And for the first time since the fight ended, I can breathe.

Then I remember Enora cannot hear any of us through the bond, and I move for her at once.

One look is enough.

Mana Burn.

I know it instantly from the pale skin, the shallow breathing, the way her eyes have rolled back beneath half-shut lids. I am running on fumes myself, but I still drag together enough of my own shredded mana to force out one last Cure Light Wounds.

Just enough.

Perri bounds over a second later and drops beside me, eyes wide with worry.

“Is she...?”

“No.” I shake my head, keeping one hand on Enora as the weak gold light settles into her. “Mana burn. She’ll be out for a while.”

Perri lets out a breath.

Relief. Shock. Exhaustion. All of it at once.

“We did it, little rabbit.”

I smile and kiss her on the cheek.

Perri blushes instantly, small and bright even here among the ruin and ash.

“I can stay with her for a bit,” she says.

I look to Raka, Kit, and Ed, then toward the Mausoleum.

The bond carries the shape of my intent before I ever speak it. With varying degrees of pain, irritation, and stubborn tenacity, they push themselves up and start toward me.

It is old, but mostly intact, when we finally turn our attention to the vine-choked mausoleum.

Cracked stone. Half-swallowed steps. Thorn roots curled through the seams like the ruin has been trying to grow teeth.

Kit is at my side in an instant.

Then the mausoleum stops mattering, because her arms are suddenly around me, tight enough to say everything she is not. Her face presses into my chest for one hard, desperate second before Raka gets there too, one arm wrapping around my back, the other still hanging heavy with axe and shield like she has not fully remembered the fight is over.

“That,” Kit mutters into me, voice rougher than usual, “was entirely too close.”

Raka lets out a low breath against my shoulder. “Hated it.”

I laugh once, tired and scraped raw and more relieved than I want to admit. “Little dramatic. She never had a chance.”

Kit leans back just enough to look up at me, ears flicking, eyes narrowed in immediate disbelief.

“That,” she says, “is an incredibly sexy and confident lie.”

Raka snorts, still pressed against me. “Keep telling it. I like your confidence better when we are not actively dying.”

My hand slides up Kit’s back, then settles against Raka’s shoulder, grounding myself in the fact that both of them are here. Warm. Breathing. Real.

“We did it,” I say, softer now.

That lands differently.

Kit’s grip tightens.

Raka bows her head for half a beat, then bumps it once against mine like she does not trust words with something that matters that much.

Yeah.

We did.

After a while, I let myself just stand there with them.

Then I notice Ed moving toward the ruined mausoleum.

The door is already cracked open, like something forced its way out from the inside, even with the vines still wrapped around it as if they are trying to seal it shut again. Carved into the stone above the entrance, half-swallowed by root and age, is a single family name.

Duvain.

I read it under my breath, and the moment I do, the girls loosen their hold on me, curiosity rising through the bond with the same sharp pull I feel in my own chest.

We follow Ed inside.

The air is old and close, thick with dust, root rot, and the stale weight of something that should have stayed buried. Two sarcophagi rest at the heart of the chamber. One has been split open and half-ruined, stone cracked apart and shoved wide by root and vine like the grave itself was forced to bloom. The other is still intact, though worn hard by time.

In the far corner sits a large iron-bound chest.

My HUD pings the moment I see it.

[Loot Chest]

Biggest one I have ever seen.

Raka steps over first and puts a hand to it, testing the weight with a low grunt as whatever is inside shifts heavy and promising under the iron bands.

My attention drifts back to the intact sarcophagus.

There is an inscription there, worn and half-eaten by time, but enough remains to read.

I step closer and say it out loud.

“For my beloved Edwin… always.”

As I read it, Ed’s vine-clawed hand drifts over the stone, and all at once I start to fit pieces together.

“Ed?”

He looks at me.

“There’s a story here, isn’t there?” I ask. “Can you tell me what it’s about?”

Edwin turns first to his own intact sarcophagus, then to the shattered one between us.

His jaw tightens.

When he speaks, petals fall from his chest and hollow eyes like the word costs him something.

“...love.”

I look back at Ed for a moment and see something strange reflected in him.

“Still?”

Ed holds my gaze, steady and unflinching.

“...always.”

The moment breaks when Raka grunts and swings the Loot Chest up onto her shoulder.

Kit moves in close after that, like she feels the weight of the silence almost as much as I do. Her hand slips around my arm, and when she looks up at me, her voice is soft.

“Let’s go home.”

I nod, smiling at her, then turn that smile back toward Ed.

“All of us.”

The Feisty Dwarf is exactly what it always is when we arrive.

Warm light in the windows. The smell of ale, meat, and old wood. The Innkeeper greets us like we’ve come back from any other hunt, not like we’ve just dragged ourselves out of a nightmare.

I ask for a room for Enora.

She woke only for a few moments on the walk back, long enough to stir and mumble something half-formed before the mana burn pulled her under again. She is going to need time.

I carry her upstairs and lay her gently on the bed.

Perri steps in at once. “I’ll stay with her.”

Raka, Kit, and I linger a moment, all of us looking at Enora with the same quiet worry, but Perri just gives us that soft, steady look of hers and waves us off.

“She’ll be okay,” she says. “Mana burn is serious, but it can be managed if she rests.”

Ever our little heart and healer, she sends us away for well-earned ale, hot meat, and sweet pastries, then calls after us not to forget her share.

“Save me some candied root.”

That gets a smile out of all of us.

“We will,” I promise.

Down in the common room, we find our usual table, though the three of us are still a little stunned by the day’s events.

The half-drunken bard takes one look at us and shifts into something livelier. For once, he plays well.

A moment later, the Busty Barmaid arrives with her own reliable method of improving morale, most of which enters the room half a second before the rest of her. The smile follows right after, along with the promise of hot food and cold ale. She takes our order, then returns quickly enough with drinks in hand.

The tavern is all warmth and light as I sit there with my two girls.

And still, I feel what is missing, even if part of me wants to pretend it’s only in my head.

So when the drinks are set down, I lift mine in a quiet toast.

“To the Haggling Fighter. The Witty Bard. The Burly Warrior. And the Bright-eyed Priest.”

My voice stays low.

“They fought well. And they fought to the end.”

Kit and Raka lift their drinks with me.

Kit’s ears flick once, her smile small and sad around the edges. “The bard had style,” she murmurs. “I’ll give her that.”

Raka snorts softly, then tips her mug toward mine. “They held longer than most would have.”

That feels right.

So we drink to them in the warm light of the Fiery Dwarf, three survivors with sore bodies, heavy hearts, and one hard-won victory still settling into our bones.

Raka is the first one to shake it off.

Not all the way. None of us are there yet. But after a few quiet pulls of ale and the weight of the toast settling where it needs to, a grin finally tugs at one corner of her mouth.

“Enough of that,” she says, voice low but firmer now. “We did win after all.”

She leans down, grips the Loot Chest with both hands, and drags the heavy thing up onto the booth beside her with a thick wooden scrape and a solid thunk that makes all three of us look at it again.

Raka pats the lid once like she is greeting an old friend.

“Well?” she asks, eyes glinting now. “Shall we?”

Kit is already smiling.

“Absolutely.”

I huff a laugh into my drink. “That’s the first bright thing either of you has said in ten minutes.”

Raka snorts. “Then I’ll open the chest and brighten our spirits.”

She lifts the lid slowly, careful to angle it away from the rest of the tavern. The Fiery Dwarf may be warm, but we are not stupid enough to flash treasure at a room full of mercenaries, drunks, and men who mistake greed for courage.

Still, subtleness only goes so far.

The light hits our faces anyway.

Kit goes still.

I feel my own breath catch.

Raka’s grin widens into something almost feral.

The chest is packed full.

Silver.

Gold.

Actual gold.

More gold pieces than I have ever seen in one place, piled together in a gleaming weight that makes my brain stall for half a heartbeat trying to convert it into food, rooms, gear, safety, time. Real time. The kind money buys when you have people depending on you.

Kit lets out a slow whistle. “Well. That’s obscene.”

Raka’s eyes never leave the chest. “I like it.”

“I gathered that.”

She digs in with both hands, coins shifting and clinking heavy under her fingers, and when she lifts the first rare drop free, all three of us go quiet again.

It is not small.

Not subtle either.

The kind of thing that looks expensive before the system ever confirms it, the kind of prize that makes the whole chest suddenly feel less like loot and more like a statement.

Raka sets it across her lap carefully.

Then reaches back in and finds the second.

That one makes her actually bare teeth.

Not angry.

Hungry.

The best kind of hungry too, the kind only a fighter gets when a weapon, shield, or piece of gear is so perfectly made for violence that you can feel the future rearranging around it.

Kit notices and leans in at once. “That look means trouble.”

Raka does not blink. “It means I’m in love.”

I laugh despite myself and reach out, letting my HUD catch up to what my eyes are seeing. The familiar pull of Identify hums low through me as I scan both items, system text rising clean and sharp where the tavern lanternlight meets old treasure.

I read.

And the first thrill of victory takes a small, cruel step backward.

Because one of them is perfect.

Perfect for her.

And not yet.

I exhale slowly through my nose.

Raka hears it immediately and looks up, suspicion replacing the grin. “What?”

Kit’s ears flick. “That is not your happy loot face.”

“I have a happy loot face?”

“You absolutely have a happy loot face,” she says. “And that was not it.”

Raka’s eyes narrow. “Vincent.”

I look from the item to her, already regretting this.

“You’re going to love it,” I say.

“That,” Kit says softly, “is never a good start.”

Raka leans forward, elbows on knees, staring at me like she is prepared to fight fate itself if it disappoints her. “Can I use it?”

And I barely have the heart to answer.

I look from the item to Raka, then back to the HUD text hanging sharp and bright in my vision.

Frostreaver War Axe (Tier 2 – Rare)

Raka sees my face change and leans in harder. “What?”

I exhale through my nose.

“Not yet.”

The words land like an insult.

Her ears flatten. “What do you mean, not yet?”

I keep reading, though I already know she is not going to like the answer.

“Soon,” I add, trying to soften it. “Very soon.”

That does not help.

Raka growls low in her throat and slumps back against the booth with the axe still across her lap, staring at it like it has personally betrayed her.

“That,” she says, voice rough with disbelief, “is such a tease.”

Kit snorts into her drink.

I cannot even argue.

Because it is.

The thing is perfect for her. Brutal. Cold. Heavy with promise. The kind of weapon that looks like it was made to split monsters in half under a winter sky.

And she still cannot equip Tier 2 gear.

Not yet. One more level.

Raka huffs and runs one hand over the haft like she is trying to decide whether glaring at it long enough will force the system to reconsider.

“I hate that you’re right.”

“You usually do.”

“I hate that you said ‘soon’ like that too.”

Kit grins. “He does have a very annoying way of sounding reasonable when the universe is insulting us.”

I laugh once and turn my attention to the second item, letting the HUD settle over it in a clean blue shimmer.

Crystal Skull of the Spectral Choir (Arcane Focus, Tier 2 – Rare)

That one quiets me for a different reason.

The skull catches the tavern light strangely, all pale crystal and ghostly depth, like there is music trapped inside it somewhere too deep to hear with mortal ears. Even before the system finishes feeding me the details, I already have a pretty good idea who it was meant for.

Kit sees the look on my face and tilts her head. “That bad?”

“No,” I murmur, still staring at it. “Not bad.”

Raka, still half-offended on behalf of her future axe, glances over. “Then what?”

I look toward the stairs for a second.

Toward the room upstairs.

And the unconscious black mage sleeping off mana burn.

“I think,” I say slowly, “the system knew exactly what it was doing.”

Kit is the one who says it.

“Enora.”

The name lands soft between us, and when I look over, the edge has gone out of her grin. Concern sits there instead, quiet and real.

“Is she going to be okay?” she asks. “After all her friends...”

She does not finish it.

She does not have to.

I look back at her over the rim of my mug. “Well, she hasn’t left the party yet. That has to count for something.”

Kit nods once, ears dipping. “We’ll help her.”

That catches me harder than I expect.

I pull her a little closer against my side and kiss the top of her head. “We’ll certainly try.”

Across from us, Raka is still eyeing Frostreaver with the kind of low-grade resentment usually reserved for enemies and bad weather. She runs a thumb along the haft, then looks up at me with a grunt.

“So, Master,” she says, still a little sour, “didn’t you level and evolve?”

I blink.

Then I laugh once, short and startled. “I did.”

The whole fight, the loot, the dead, Enora upstairs, all of it had shoved the thought clean out of my head.

I look between Kit and Raka, sudden energy cutting through the exhaustion. “I did. Let me have a look.”

I take a long pull of ale and drain the mug dry before setting it down. Then I open my HUD.

The prompt blooms in front of me again, sharp and bright in the tavern light.

[Vincent Locke, congratulations on advancing to Tier 2]

[Please accept your Tier 2 Subclass Evolution!]

For one second, I just stare at it.

Then I reach out and press the prompt.

Accept.

The new window opens.

My eyes go wide.

Confusion first.

Then disbelief.

Kit and Raka both lean in at once, catching the shock of it through the bond before I can even put words to what I am seeing. I can feel them waiting for the shape of it, the meaning of it, the thing that has suddenly knocked all the air out of me.

The words hang there in front of me.

[Vincent Locke Subclass Evolution: Harem Guild Master]

And before I can stop myself, I blurt it out loud.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”