The fire had long since dwindled to glowing embers, casting soft light across the sleeping camp. Everyone was out cold—snoring, drooling, blanket-thieving types—but one figure hadn’t quite surrendered to sleep.

Out past the edge of the camp, where the moonlight dripped down through the trees like silver wine, Wyll moved.

Not the Blade of Frontlines and Grand Tales. Not the Devil-dancing Warlock. Just… Wyll. Alone with the music in his head and the rhythm in his bones.

He spun gently across the forest floor, boots soft against moss, arms sweeping in deliberate, practiced arcs—like he was dancing with ghosts. It wasn’t flashy, but it was precise. Controlled. Intimate. Like something from a long time ago, before devils and debts and scars he didn’t always show.

That’s when you stepped on a twig.

Snap.

He froze mid-turn, one hand raised, head tilted—not scared, not surprised. Just… caught. His expression softened when he saw it was you.

“…You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said, lowering his arm with a sheepish grin, the moon catching the edge of his smile like it was in on the secret.

You raised an eyebrow. “Practicing for your next heroic ballad?”

He laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something like that. Or maybe I just can’t sleep unless I pretend I’m in a much fancier ballroom with far fewer goblins.”

You stepped forward, arms folded, smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re gonna dance your way into someone’s heart like that.”

“Oh?” Wyll’s eyes glinted. “And here I thought I already had.”

He extended a hand, warm and steady. “Well, since you’re here… shall we?”