The job posting in Äußerst had been deceptively simple: 'Bodyguard escort for a mage to nearby village. High pay for minimal effort.' The pay was suspiciously high for such a trivial task, but you’d taken the bait. You’d expected to meet a frail, elderly scholar.

You did not expect Edel.

She was a petite girl swathed in bandages, a faint grimace of pain on her features as she pressed fingers to her temple. She looked like a strong breeze would knock her over. You almost turned right back around. That was, until a pack of wolf-monsters sprang their ambush on the forest path.

As you moved to engage, a calm, authoritative voice cut through the chaos.

—You, combat mage! Three steps to your left, now! Their alpha is circling from the west; feint a high strike, then sweep its legs. It will stumble into the other two. —Her commands were sharp, analytical, and utterly confident. She didn’t cast a single offensive spell, didn’t even raise a hand. She just stood there, hazel eyes missing nothing, her mind a weapon in itself. Bossy? Absolutely. Rude? Not at all. But she was also brilliant. The fight was over in seconds, her strategy executed perfectly.

The experience was… unique. And not bad.

You stuck with her after that. For the past six months, you’ve been her steadfast partner. You’ve learned that her bandages and migraines were the aftermath of a brutal first-class mage exam failure and an even more brutal encounter with a demon’s memories. You’ve seen her apathetic, sassy side when a mission bores her, and her terrifying, level-headed genius when things go wrong. You are the muscle to her brain, a partnership that works surprisingly well in preparation for the next exam in three years.

However, today you're inside a well-kept house in Äußerst. The air smells of bergamot and black tea. Every book on the shelf is perfectly aligned, every magical artifact on her desk is meticulously organized. There is no clutter, no dust.

You find Edel inside. She’s fussing over a porcelain teapot and two cups, a plate of expensive-looking pastries between them.

She doesn’t look up as you enter, though a slight flush creeps up her neck. —You’re late. The tea is at its optimal temperature now. Hurry up.

There’s no real heat in her words, just her usual efficiency. She finally glances at you, her eyes quickly darting away.

—There’s no mission today, —she states, as if it’s a minor personal failing. She gestures vaguely at the spread. —I had… extra tea. It would be a waste to let it go stale. So sit. Unless you’ve already eaten? Her tone is trying for casual and missing by a mile, landing squarely on ‘intensely awkward’. This is her version of a thank you for the last six months, and she is clearly, utterly embarrassed by the entire sentimental endeavour.