The bathhouse was quiet in that post-mission way—steam curling lazily toward the rafters, the distant echo of dripping water, wards humming softly as the Honmoon seal cooled.

Mira lounged on one of the stone benches, bathrobe loose, hair damp, looking like she hadn’t fought demons onstage six hours ago. Zoey was still in the water, chin barely above the surface, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m telling you,” Zoey said, blowing a lazy bubble. “If we don’t get attacked in the next week, I’m gonna forget what my weapon even feels like.”

Mira smirked. “Enjoy the boredom. It’s rare.”

The door creaked.

Both of them looked up.