The sun in Creston was different. It didn’t have the languid warmth of the southern lands, but a sharp, practical edge, like a newly minted silver coin. It slipped through the window of “The Bronze Gryphon” inn, tracing a rectangle of light on the wooden floor.

Paul groaned, a guttural sound that was half complaint, half satisfaction. He rolled over in bed, fumbling for the warmth of Hilda’s body. His fingers found only cold sheets.

He opened one eye.

Hilda was already on her feet by the window, dressed in her dark linen pants and a clean cotton blouse. The morning light tangled in her red hair, making it look like a cascade of liquid fire. Her back was straight, the posture of a sentinel watching enemy territory, though the only thing on the other side of the glass was a quiet alley.

“It’s too early to be so alert,” Paul muttered, his voice hoarse with sleep. “Monsters and trouble have the decency to sleep in till mid-morning. It’s an unwritten rule of the guild.”

Hilda didn’t turn. Her voice, however, reached him, clear and with a hint of amusement.

“In the capital, by this time I would have finished my etiquette lesson, my dynastic history class, and I’d be halfway through my embroidery practice. This, for me, is a vacation.”

Paul propped himself up on his elbows. The sheet slid down to his waist.

“Embroidery sounds more terrifying than any dragon I’ve ever met. Did they teach you to use the thread as a weapon? A silk garrote to strangle boring suitors?”

She finally turned. A genuine smile, the kind she didn’t show in taverns or in the heat of battle, curved her lips. It was a smile only he ever saw.

“If I had known how, Philip Boreas Greyrat would be adorning a tapestry right now. Tragically. Such a shame.”

He laughed, a relaxed sound that filled the room.

“I like the way you think. You’re ruthless. Now get over here. The bed is too big and cold without you. And we need to discuss today’s battle plan.”

Hilda arched an eyebrow.

“Battle plan? I thought the plan was ‘find the book collector and try not to die.’ It doesn’t seem to require much strategy.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, my dear battle mage,” he said, patting the mattress beside him. “Every interaction in a city like this is a negotiation. Or a fight. Sometimes both. We need a strategy.”

She gave in. She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, maintaining a playful distance. The mattress sank under her weight.

“Alright, you strategic genius. Enlighten me. What’s your brilliant plan?”

“Step one: breakfast. A hearty breakfast. With real sausages, not that dried meat that tastes like boot leather. Step two: we find this Lorne fellow’s address. Theron said he’d send a messenger, but I don’t trust the speed of scholars. They probably write the note with a phoenix feather and consecrated squid ink.”

Hilda nodded, following his logic.

“Step three,” Paul continued, his tone turning more serious. “You talk, I shut up.”

She looked at him, surprised.

“You… quiet? Is that physically possible? I thought your mouth operated on a mechanism independent from the rest of your body.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” he retorted, though a smile tugged at his lips. “I’m serious, Hilda. This man, Lorne, is a collector. A scholar. You don’t impress him with a sword or tavern tales. You impress him with knowledge. With respect for what he loves. Theron said you were an adventurer with a knowledge of science. That’s your weapon in this battle. You’re the one who reads books. You’re the one who understands rocks and poisons. In that conversation, I’m just a barbarian with a bad haircut. So you take the lead. I’ll be your silent guard. Unless he tries to swindle you. Then I’ll stop being silent.”

The sincerity of his proposal moved her. He wasn’t jealous of her intellect; he saw it as a tool, a weapon as valuable as his own sword. He was ceding control to her in a field where he wasn’t the expert. It was the greatest show of respect he could give her.

“Alright, Paul,” she said, her voice softer. “I’ll do the talking. But you’ll be there. Just in case the barbarian needs to say something.”

“The barbarian always has something to say,” he admitted with a roguish grin. “Now, about step four. It’s the most important one.”

“And what’s that?”

“After we get the book, we celebrate. We find the best food this city has to offer, the best wine our money can buy, and then we come back here and I show you my gratitude for your brilliant diplomacy in a very, very not-silent way.”

A wave of heat rose up Hilda’s neck, tinting her cheeks an adorable shade of pink. She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss, a brush of lips that tasted like a promise.

“You’re a scoundrel, Paul Greyrat.”

“But I’m your scoundrel,” he whispered against her lips. “Now, let’s get those sausages. The legend of ‘The Rose and the Sword’ can’t be forged on an empty stomach.”

Creston smelled of labor.

It was a dense, overwhelming mix of sea salt from the nearby port, the acrid smoke from the forges in the artisan district, and the sweet, pungent smell of exotic spices spilling from the warehouses of the merchant quarter. The air vibrated with the hammering of metal, the shouts of merchants, and the creak of cranes loading and unloading ships at the unseen docks.

“Gods, this place is an anthill,” Hilda said, staying close to Paul as they navigated a crowded street. “And half the ants seem to be armed.”

“It’s a free port,” Paul explained in a low voice, his hand resting casually but possessively on the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd. “It attracts mercenaries, retired pirates, high-ranking adventurers, and anyone with something to sell or something to hide. Keep one hand on your coin purse and the other near your sword.”

They asked a city guard for Lorne’s residence, a jaded man who gave them directions with a vague jerk of his thumb. The address led them away from the chaotic center, toward a quieter, older district where the stone houses were covered in ivy and the streets were narrower, overshadowed by upper floors that almost touched.

Finally, they found the house. It wasn’t ostentatious, but it had a silent dignity. It was a three-story structure of dark granite, with tall, narrow windows protected by wrought-iron bars. The only decoration was a heavy oak door with a bronze knocker in the shape of an ouroboros, the serpent biting its own tail.

Paul stood before the door, studying it.

“Definitely the house of a man who doesn’t like unexpected visitors.”

Hilda took a deep breath to gather her resolve.

“Well, we’re about to be one.”

Paul lifted the bronze knocker and let it fall. The sound, a dull, heavy clang, seemed to be absorbed by the wood and stone, producing no reverberation.

They waited. The silence stretched on.

“Maybe he’s not home,” Hilda ventured.

“Or maybe he likes to make people wait,” Paul replied. “It’s a power play. ‘My time is more valuable than yours.'”

He was about to knock again when they heard the sound of multiple metal bolts sliding, one after another. The door opened a crack, just enough to reveal a bright, piercing blue eye that examined them from the darkness.

“Yes?” the voice was dry, like the turning of old pages.

“We’re looking for Lorne the collector,” Hilda said, her voice clear and firm, with no trace of the intimidation she felt. “Master Theron, the geologist, sent us. My name is Hilda, and this is my partner, Paul. We are the adventuring team ‘The Rose and the Sword.'”

The eye blinked. There was another moment of silence.

“Theron…” the voice mused. “That old coot is still getting into trouble, eh? He said you would be coming. Wait.”

The door closed, and they heard the sound of the bolts again. A moment later, it swung open completely.

The man in the doorway was as austere as his house. Lorne was tall and reed-thin, with sparse white hair combed back from a high forehead. He wore an unadorned, dark gray scholar’s robe, and his hands were long and pale, with pianist’s fingers. His face was a mask of impassive neutrality.

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside.

The inside of the house was even more surprising. There was no furniture in the foyer, no tapestries, no decorations. Only books. Floor-to-ceiling shelves crowded every wall, overflowing with volumes of every size and color. The air smelled of old leather, parchment, and the dust of centuries. It was a library’s silence, thick and reverent.

Lorne led them through hallways that were canyons of books to a study. Unlike the rest of the house, this room had a touch of life. A large, dark wood desk was covered with maps, open scrolls, and strange crystal artifacts. A fire crackled in a stone hearth, and two comfortable-looking leather chairs sat before the desk.

“Sit,” Lorne ordered, seating himself behind the desk. He didn’t offer them a drink or food. He got straight to the point. “Theron says that you,” he said, looking at Hilda, “have a natural talent for geomancy. A bold claim. Theron is an excellent geologist, but a terrible judge of magical talent. He gets excited too easily.”

“Master Theron was very kind,” Hilda replied calmly, sitting up straight in her chair. Paul sat beside her, adopting his promised role as the silent guard, though his eyes were constantly moving, assessing the man, the room, the potential exits.

“Kindness doesn’t forge mages,” Lorne retorted. “Knowledge, discipline, and innate talent do. You have a basic-level book, correct? The Tome of Earthly Foundations.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A passable text for beginners. Full of useless metaphors and poetic chants. Tell me, Miss Hilda, what did you think of the ‘Earth Bullet’ spell?”

It was a test. A simple question to gauge her understanding.

“Functional, but inefficient,” Hilda answered instantly. “The book suggests compacting damp earth, which results in a low-density projectile with little impact power. I found that visualizing and compacting dry rock or bedrock, though it requires a higher initial mana concentration, creates a projectile with far superior kinetic energy and penetration power.”

Lorne raised a white eyebrow. A tiny gesture that seemed like an earthquake on his impassive face.

“Interesting. You modified the spell based on experimentation. Most beginners just follow the recipe as if it were a cookbook. And ‘Earth Wall,’ what of it?”

“The book describes it as an act of construction,” Hilda said, her confidence growing as she realized she was on home turf. “But that’s slow. I found it more effective as an act of will. Not building a wall, but imposing my will upon the earth to rise. Channeling an emotion, an absolute defensive intent, rather than a mere mental process.”

“Will…” Lorne repeated, and for the first time, a flash of genuine interest glinted in his blue eyes. He leaned back in his chair, pressing the tips of his long fingers together. “Most mages from the academy would tell you that emotion is the enemy of precise magic. That magic is a science, not a passion.”

“Maybe that’s why academy mages aren’t any good on the battlefield,” Paul intervened, his voice breaking the silence.

Lorne turned his head slowly to look at him.

“The barbarian speaks.”

“The barbarian has seen plenty of academy mages die while reciting the perfect formula,” Paul said calmly. “Hilda doesn’t recite. She fights. There’s a difference.”

Lorne studied Paul for a long moment, then looked back at Hilda.

“Your companion is crude, but not stupid,” he pronounced. “He’s right. Combat magic is a different art. You don’t want to be a scholar. You want to be a weapon. Why?”

The question was direct, personal. Hilda didn’t hesitate.

“Because in this world, if you aren’t a weapon, you’re a victim. Or an ornament. I’ve been an ornament. I didn’t like it.”

The silence that followed was long and heavy. Lorne seemed to be weighing her words, her history, her very soul. Finally, he nodded slowly.

“Well said. Very well said.”

He stood and walked to one of the shelves. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books until he stopped at one. He pulled it out with almost reverent care.

It wasn’t a large book. It was a medium-sized volume, bound in dark brown leather, with no title on the spine. The leather was worn with use, and the metal corners protecting it were dented.

“There are many intermediate-level tomes,” Lorne said, returning to the desk and placing the book on the polished wood. “Books that teach you to create miniature earthquakes, to raise stone golems, to shape the earth as if it were clay. They are… predictable.”

“This one,” he continued, placing a hand on the book, “is different. Its author is unknown. It’s known simply as The Stone Tactician’s Manual. It doesn’t teach dozens of spells. It teaches six. But it doesn’t teach you how to cast them. It teaches you to understand them. It teaches the principle of resonance in rock. How to use vibrations to weaken structures. How to feel the faults in the earth and exploit them. It teaches you how to turn a simple ‘Earth Wall’ into a cage of inward-bursting spikes. It teaches you how to turn ‘Soften Earth’ into quicksand. It is not a book of magic. It is a book of geological assassination.”

Hilda stared at the book as if it were the Holy Grail. Her heart was pounding. It was exactly what she needed.

“I want it,” she said, her voice a whisper full of yearning.

“It is not for sale,” Lorne said flatly.

Hilda’s heart sank.

“It is the only known copy. It’s part of my collection.”

“Everything has a price,” Paul said, his voice calm but firm.

Lorne looked at him. “Some things have a value that money cannot match, adventurer.”

“Maybe,” Paul conceded. “But we haven’t offered money. Yet.” He leaned forward. “What is it you want, collector? Men like you always want something. A rare artifact. An ingredient you can’t get. Information. What is it?”

Lorne smiled. It was the first real smile they had seen from him, and it was thin and sharp as a knife.

“You’re perceptive, Paul the barbarian. You’re right. There is something I want. A material. It’s called a ‘Heart of the Mountain.’ It’s a geodesic crystal that only forms under extreme pressure and heat, in the heart of active volcanoes or in places of great magical impact. It absorbs ambient mana. It is incredibly rare. And there are rumors that a creature in this region has made its nest with them.”

“What creature?” Hilda asked.

“A Cockatrice. Not one of the greater ones, a lesser variety, but still dangerous. Its lair is in the Tuff Hills, a two-day journey east of Creston. It’s a C+ rank beast. Dangerous, but not impossible for a competent team.”

Lorne leaned back again.

“This is my offer. Bring me one intact Heart of the Mountain. Just one. And this book is yours. Not as a sale, but as an exchange between professionals. Knowledge for a rare specimen. A fair trade, don’t you think?”

Paul and Hilda looked at each other. It was a dangerous quest. A Cockatrice petrified with its gaze. But the prize… the prize was the next step on Hilda’s path to becoming the force she needed to be.

Hilda nodded, her gray eyes shining with a steely determination.

“We accept the deal, Master Lorne.”

At the same time, in a foul-smelling tavern near the Creston docks, Captain Gideon Fleurmont was reading a scroll by the light of an oil lamp. The note was short, written in the rough hand of his most brutal lieutenant, Roric.

Marcus, his second-in-command, stood by the table, nervous.

“News from Roric, Captain?”

Gideon didn’t look up from the scroll. He folded the note slowly, with deadly precision.

“Yes. News.”

He stood up. His frustration from the past few days had evaporated, replaced by a terrifying, cold calm.

“Money talked. As it always does. The tanner in Rikarisu remembered selling them a sleeping bag. One for two people.” He said the last sentence with a venom that chilled the air. “And the guild receptionist in Lutoa, for the right price, remembered the quest they took. Escorts for a geologist named Theron. Destination: Creston.”

Marcus paled.

“Captain… so… they’re here. In this city.”

“Yes,” Gideon said, his voice barely a whisper. He walked to the window and looked out at the bustling streets of Creston. “They’re here. Hiding in plain sight. Thinking they’re safe.”

He turned to Marcus, his eyes gleaming with a frosty, predatory light.

“The hunt is over, Marcus. We’ve found our prey.”

“What are your orders, Captain?”

“Split up our men. Have them watch the quality inns, the supply shops, and above all, the Adventurers’ Guild. I want to know every move they make. We won’t confront them directly. Not yet. First, we will observe them. We’ll learn their routines, their strengths, their weaknesses.”

He paused, and a terrible smile, devoid of any joy, curved his lips.

“He’s turned her into his whore and his apprentice. He’s dragged her through the mud. When we find them, I don’t want a simple capture. I want to dismantle them. I want her to watch as I tear the arrogance from her lover piece by piece before I take her back to her father to face her judgment. The game has changed. We are no longer hunters. We are patience incarnate. And when we strike, it will be final.”

Paul and Hilda left Lorne’s house and stepped back into the sunlight. The bustle of the city enveloped them again, but they felt like they were in a world apart.

“A Cockatrice…” Hilda said, the word a mix of fear and excitement.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Paul replied, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “It’s a C+ rank monster. With your magic and my sword, we’re a B-rank team, at least. It’s a challenge, but it’s not suicide.”

“A Heart of the Mountain for that book…” she whispered, looking toward the unseen hills. “It’s a good deal.”

“It’s the best deal we could have gotten,” he said. “It gives us a target. A mission. A reason to get stronger.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the weight of their new objective settling between them. They were filled with a new determination, a clear purpose driving them forward.

“I’m hungry,” Paul said suddenly, breaking the solemn mood. “All that intellectual tension has worked up my appetite. Let’s find a place that sells meat pies. I’ve heard the ones in Creston are legendary.”

Hilda laughed, the sound clear and free amidst the city’s chaos.

“Always thinking with your stomach.”

“And with you,” he replied, pulling her tight against his side. “Always thinking about you.”

They continued down the main street, a pair of adventurers forging their destiny, full of hope and completely unaware of the net that, with cold and deadly patience, was beginning to close around them. The game had changed for everyone, and the pieces were now on the same board. The calm in Creston was about to be broken.