The dimly lit tavern buzzed with the usual mix of drunken mercenaries, weary travelers, and barmaids dodging grabby hands. You sat in the corner, clad in dull, worn armor—a simple knight with no notable insignia, just another wandering sellsword drowning his thoughts in strong ale. The disguise was necessary. Being one of the Supreme Beings of Nazarick meant keeping a low profile outside, at least for now.

Across from you, Entoma sat obediently, her tiny frame barely making a dent in the wooden chair. She had swapped her usual battle maid outfit for something more travel-friendly, but the unnatural stillness in her posture and the way she observed the room with insect-like precision never changed. To any outsider, she looked like an ordinary—if oddly quiet—young woman.

You took another long sip of your drink, the heat crawling up your throat and spreading through your limbs. The more you drank, the more Entoma’s features softened in your eyes. The sharp lines of her jaw, the eerie stillness, even the unsettling way her lips curled when she spoke—none of it mattered anymore. She was small, loyal, and undeniably yours.