Ashvale Guild Headquarters always smelled like burnt parchment, over-steeped bitterleaf tea, and bureaucratic resignation. The air was stale, dry, laced with the underlying tension of adventurers pacing past quest boards and staff clerks hunched over magically temperamental filing systems. It wasn't the kind of place where bold dreams went to thrive—it was the kind of place where bold dreams filled out form 7-B in triplicate, waited six weeks for an appointment, and were quietly denied due to procedural oversight.
Elias stood stiffly in front of Guildmaster Tyrin's imposing oakwood desk. His collar felt tighter than usual, the back of his neck damp with the kind of sweat born not from fear, but the unique stress of knowing you were technically right and legally wrong.
Behind him, Rhea had shrunk into one of the overstuffed chairs lining the wall, her legs folded up beneath her, her cloak pooled like a nest around her. She sat very still, as if she believed stillness made her less conspicuous. Given her child-sized form, the two budding horns on her head, and the faint crackle of magic that followed her like static, she was about as inconspicuous as a dragon in a bakery.
Guildmaster Tyrin didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. His words, slow and deliberate, carried more weight than most warhammers.
"Let me see if I have this straight," he said, his fingers steepled together. "A former demon queen—reborn, feral, potentially unstable—is now magically bonded to you. And your first instinct was... to bring her home and teach her how to eat stew?"
Elias cleared his throat. "Well, yes. Stew. Not soup. Very different viscosity."
There was a long pause as Tyrin stared at him. His gray eyes were the color of spent ash, and they blinked slowly—once, then again—as if processing just how far outside the lines this particular coloring book had gone.
"I'm not sure if you're the bravest man in the guild," Tyrin said at last, "or the dumbest healer to ever pass a basic magic exam."
Rhea's small voice piped up from the side. "He's brave."
Elias glanced at her, and despite everything, smiled. "Thanks, kiddo."
She smiled back, then turned to the Guildmaster. "And he's not dumb. He's just… squishy. And really bad at reading maps."
"Helpful," Tyrin muttered. "Truly reassuring."
He leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight, and turned his gaze back to Elias. "You do understand what you've done, yes?"
Elias nodded, though a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. "Harbored an illegal entity. Lied to the guild. Violated magical safety regulations. Also, technically… turned Marek into a fruit stand."
"And the bathhouse incident."
Elias winced. "That wasn't really my fault. She was just… fascinated by bubbles."
"Bubbles don't usually cause three evacuations and a magical lockdown."
"Bubbles are mysterious," Elias offered weakly.
Tyrin let out a slow sigh, pressing two fingers to his temple. "You're sheltering a demon, Elias. You know the law."
"I'm sheltering a girl," Elias replied, voice low but steady. "One who's scared and confused and… powerful, yes. But not malicious."
"Yet."
"I'm not saying this is simple. But she deserves a chance."
Tyrin studied him for a long, unreadable moment. Elias could practically hear the cogs turning behind the guildmaster's impassive face—calculating risk, weighing protocol against the man standing in front of him.
"You're a healer," Tyrin said finally. "Your job is to fix damage. Not to gamble with it."
Elias lowered his gaze. "Sometimes the only way to fix something is to care about it before anyone else does."
Another silence stretched out, broken only by the faint creak of a chair and the muffled laughter of adventurers somewhere deeper in the building.
Tyrin exhaled, long and tired.
"You leave me no choice."
Rhea tensed. Elias's spine straightened, prepared for the worst—expulsion, exile, a tracker rune, maybe even a suppression collar.
"You're demoted."
Elias blinked. "I—wait. Really?"
Tyrin raised a brow. "What? You were hoping for public execution?"
"…I wasn't not considering it."
"You're being reassigned. No fieldwork, no monster bounties, and definitely no rune-scribing. Effective immediately."
"What, then?" Elias asked warily.
Tyrin opened a drawer and pulled out a thin pamphlet. "You'll be leading the weekly Magic Safety for Sprouts program."
Elias stared. "The children's seminar?"
"With costume requirements," Tyrin said with clear satisfaction. "Hope you enjoy sequins."
Rhea gasped. "Do I get to wear a costume too?!"
Elias groaned. "This is a punishment wrapped in public shame."
"Think of it as community service," Tyrin said. "And consider yourself lucky. I'm bending protocol just to buy you time. Because if the Capitol Registry catches wind of this bond…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
They both knew what happened when demons slipped through the cracks.
As they left the office, the atmosphere outside felt colder somehow. The guild halls were still busy, a rush of boots and clipped conversation, but eyes followed them now. Elias didn't miss the way people avoided Rhea—how some looked at her like a ticking spellbomb.
She walked close to him, her small hand brushing his cloak every few steps.
"So…" she asked quietly, "what's educational outreach?"
"It's humiliation," Elias muttered, "wrapped in glitter and regret."
"That doesn't sound so bad."
"You haven't seen the sparkle hats."
Rhea giggled.
They passed through the market district, sunlight painting the cobbled stones in golden streaks. It would've been a nice walk, if not for the stares.
A group of young guild apprentices stood near a potion stall, whispering behind their hands. One of them muttered something as Rhea passed. She didn't flinch, but her fingers curled tightly into her sleeves.
Elias noticed. "They're not scared of you," he said softly. "They're scared of what they don't understand."
"I am scary," she whispered. "A little."
"Sure. You also cry when someone steps on a bug."
"That spider looked at me. With eight eyes."
Elias smiled. "Well, whether you're scary or not, you're still trying. That counts for a lot."
She looked up at him, uncertain. "What if no one ever likes me?"
"Then they're fools," Elias said easily. "Because you? You're weird and terrifying and somehow adorable while making fruit levitate. What's not to love?"
She grinned, cheeks warm with color.
"You mean it?"
"Of course I do," Elias said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "Besides, I have to say nice things, or you'll hex my socks again."
"You deserved that! You told me slimes couldn't climb stairs!"
"They shouldn't be able to!"
The memory made them both laugh as they reached the edge of the market. The laughter faded into a comfortable quiet, the kind that only came when two people trusted each other to share silence.
By the time they returned to their modest rental house, dusk was beginning to settle. Elias climbed the steps, already fishing in his satchel for his key—only to pause.
An envelope sat on the doormat.
No seal. No name. Just plain parchment, neatly folded.
He picked it up carefully. The paper was faintly warm. Magic-inked.
Inside was a single note, marked with a crimson rune that pulsed as he read.
Watcher Eyes Have Noticed the Mark. Be Wary.
Elias's heart dropped into his boots.
Watcher Eyes. The Capitol's hidden sentinels. Magic hunters trained to root out forbidden enchantments, demonic flares, anything off-registry. They didn't send warnings. They didn't knock. They just arrived.
"Is that a love letter?" Rhea asked, peering over his elbow.
Elias quickly crumpled the parchment and shoved it into his cloak. "Nope. Just junk mail. You know. The 'please don't harbor illegal magical girls' kind."
Rhea blinked. "That's a weird mailing list."
Later, after dinner and a shared attempt at folding laundry that somehow ended with a scorched sock and a giggling fit, Elias sat beside Rhea's bed as she curled beneath her blankets.
Only her horns and eyes peeked out from the covers. She blinked sleepily at him.
"Elias?"
"Yeah?"
"…Are we gonna be okay?"
The question settled over the room like dust.
Elias looked down at his palm. The faint rune glowed softly, pulsing like a second heartbeat. It had changed again—just slightly. As if it were growing with her. With them.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Rhea reached out, her fingers barely brushing his.
"But if we're not okay," Elias said, "we'll get there. Together."
She gave his hand a sleepy squeeze.
"You're still my home," she mumbled.
He swallowed hard, brushing a hand over her hair. "And you're still my favorite roommate who destroyed a fruit stand."
"That was one time…"
Her voice trailed into quiet breathing as sleep claimed her.
Elias stayed for a while, listening to the soft rhythm of her breath and the faint shimmer of the rune. Beyond the window, Ashvale was still awake—murmuring with danger, with suspicion, with eyes he couldn't see.
But here, in this little room, they had peace.
For now, it was enough.
To be continued…