Tessia Eralith
The chill of the Beast Glades morning bit through my thin traveling cloak, a stark contrast to the warmth I had burrowed into during the night. Sunlight, pale and watery, filtered through the foliage of the lonely tree under which we rested, dappling the mossy ground where I lay. A shadow fell across my face.
"Tessia, wake up." Grey's voice was low, calm, utterly devoid of the grogginess clinging to me. It cut through the remnants of sleep like a cold blade. "We're supposed to be at the entrance of the dungeon by midday."
I groaned, the sound muffled against the rough fabric of my bedroll. Rubbing the grit from my eyes, I squinted up. Grey stood silhouetted against the burgeoning dawn, the rising sun catching the strands of his pale blonde hair, turning it momentarily into spun silver.
He wasn't looking at me, though. His gaze was fixed on the jagged silhouette of the Grand Mountains behind us, their peaks biting into the brightening sky like broken teeth. He moved with that unnerving silence of his towards the sturdy mountain horse we had been relying on, checking the saddle cinch with economical, practiced motions.
He even knew how to ride horses. Absurd. The thought surfaced, tinged with a familiar mixture of exasperation and reluctant awe. Every mundane skill Grey possessed—combined with his otherworldly feats—felt like another layer peeled back to reveal something inexplicable beneath.
Traveling alone with him—a prospect that, if discovered, would send Mother into hysterics, Father into a cold fury, and Grampa into a lecture that could last days—was proving to be… humbling. Profoundly so.
Back in the palace, I was the prodigy, the Princess whose very existence was a point of pride. Here, amidst the raw, untamed danger of the Beast Glades, shadowing Grey's relentless progress, that identity felt flimsy, almost laughable.
Next to his quiet, terrifying competence, I wasn't the super-talented Princess. I was… Tessia. Just Tessia—with a human disguise of course thanks to Grey's accolade.
Struggling to keep pace, learning to read the subtle warnings in the forest that Grey seemed to absorb through his skin, feeling the vast, indifferent weight of the world pressing in. It was unsettling, stripping away layers of assumed superiority. Yet, paradoxically, it was also strangely freeing.
The pressure of being exceptional eased, replaced by the raw, demanding reality of simply surviving, of learning. And witnessing Grey operate? It was like watching a force of nature channeled into human form—intimidating, yes, but undeniably, breathtakingly impressive.
As a person, Grey remained an enigma wrapped in stoicism. He spoke only when necessary, his words clipped and functional.
His awareness was constant, a palpable tension in his posture, eyes perpetually scanning, assessing, categorizing threats I often only perceived seconds later. It reminded me, inevitably, of Corvis.
That same watchfulness, that same sense of carrying an unseen burden. But that doesn't mean I'm traveling with him because he reminds me of Corvis! The defensive thought sprang up instantly. The similarities were surface-deep, perhaps.
Corvis… my brother felt like he was locked in a silent, desperate battle against shadows only he could see, his movements sometimes sharp with frustration, sometimes weighed down by an invisible gravity.
Grey, however… his every action was a study in chilling precision. A step taken, a branch avoided, a glance cast—all deliberate, calculated, devoid of wasted energy. It was the difference between someone fighting the current and someone who was the current, flowing with ruthless, single-minded purpose towards a fixed point only he could see.
It seemed like Grey was a magic artifact designed to do whatever was his current objective to the best.
That purpose radiated from him like heat from a forge. I had tried, tentatively, to breach the walls. "Grey," I had asked one evening as he meticulously cleaned his blade by the firelight, the flames reflecting coldly in his eyes, "what drives you? What is all this… intensity for?"
He hadn't looked up. The rasp of whetstone on steel was the only sound for a long moment. Then, flatly, devoid of inflection: "I need to get stronger."
The words weren't a mere goal; they were a compulsion, a fundamental law of his existence. And beneath them, simmering like magma beneath cooled rock, I sensed it: rage. A deep, cold, terrifying rage.
Not the hot flash of anger, but something older, more focused, more dangerous. Rage at someone? At something? Master Cynthia, when I had cautiously probed, had offered only vague platitudes and a warning look that discouraged further questions. The mystery of Grey's past was a locked vault, and the key felt forged from that chilling fury.
The scrape of a hoof brought me back to the present.
Grey was already mounted, the horse shifting patiently beneath him. He extended a hand down towards me, his expression unreadable as ever. "Do you want to get on the horse or not?" The question was practical, devoid of impatience, yet it underscored the gap between his readiness and my lingering disorientation.
Heat flushed my cheeks.
"Yes! Sorry, sorry!" I scrambled up, ignoring the stiffness in my limbs, and grasped his hand. His grip was strong, calloused even if he was just ten, hauling me up effortlessly onto the horse behind him. The warmth of the animal and the solid presence of Grey's back were immediate anchors in the cool morning air.
No further words were needed. A subtle shift of his weight, a barely perceptible nudge, and the horse surged forward into a smooth gallop.
We left the lonely tree behind, plunging back onto the paths winding through the Beast Glades. The rhythmic drumming of hooves on packed earth filled the silence as we aimed ovest, towards the formidable barrier of the Grand Mountains and our destination: the Red Gorge.
The Red Gorge—a B-Class dungeon—awaited, another trial in this ever-evolving journey that was steadily reshaping my perception of the world, of power, and of the quiet, dangerous enigma beside me. Each step, each challenge, forged something new within me, refining the way I saw not only battle but myself.
I hoped to gather even more stories to share with Corvis for when I returned home. This dungeon was meant to be our final stop before heading back to Xyrus. Three months had passed since our adventures together began, an unspoken rhythm forming between us, each dungeon carving itself into memory.
And despite his composed, reserved nature—his cold exterior that often masked his thoughts—I could tell that Grey was enjoying this. Maybe not in the way others might expect, but in the subtle moments, the flicker of intrigue in his gaze and the small reactions coming from him told me all I needed to know.
"Grey, speaking of... it's been a while since I've seen Sylvie. Is she okay?" I asked.
"She's alright, I always have our mental connection active. She wants to hunt some more before we get back to... Aunt Cynthia." He replied.
"I imagine she's enjoying the freedom," I mused, glancing at Grey. "She never liked staying still for too long."
For a moment, he remained quiet, his expression unreadable. Then—just barely—a flicker of something surfaced. A slight shift in his posture, a subtle curve at the corner of his lips. Not quite a smile, but something close.
———
The afternoon sun beat down on the rocky outcrop, casting sharp shadows as we reined in before the gaping maw of the Red Gorge dungeon entrance.
It looked less like a natural cavern and more like a mine shaft brutally carved into the base of the Grand Mountains—a testament, probably, to adventurers past who had fortified it against the mountain's wrath.
Timber beams, dark with age and sap, braced the opening, holding back tonnes of ancient rock. The sheer, unforgiving face of the mountains loomed above, dwarfing the entrance, a silent reminder of the titanic forces slumbering within the earth.
Below, the air shimmered with heat radiating from the strangely warm stone, carrying the dry, gritty scent of dust and sun-baked rock, mixed with the faint, metallic tang of ore that always seemed to linger near these places.
Near the reinforced opening, a small group waited, their forms distinct against the bleached backdrop. The sight of them—potential comrades, unknowns—sent a familiar cocktail of anticipation and wariness through me.
Grey dismounted first, his movements fluid and silent as a shadow. I followed, landing lightly beside him, the rough stone warm even through my boots. While I stretched, feeling the stiffness of the ride, Grey turned immediately to the horse. He led the sturdy beast to a pine growing from a crack in the nearby rock.
His hands, usually so lethal and precise, moved with unexpected gentleness as he secured the reins. He didn't just tie a knot; he looped it carefully, ensuring enough slack for the horse to graze and move its head comfortably, patting its sweat-darkened neck with a brief, almost tender touch.
The contrast struck me, as it always did. The ruthless efficiency in combat, the chilling focus… yet here he was, ensuring an animal's comfort. It was a quiet testament to the complex core beneath the icy exterior—a fierce, almost painful striving to be good, even in a world that often rewarded the opposite.
My observation was interrupted by a cheerful voice.
"Ho there! You must be the final reinforcements?" I turned to see a man striding towards us. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and possessed a head of medium-length, strikingly bright blonde hair. But it was the cut that was arresting—sharp, angular layers that swept back from his temples and crown, shimmering in the sunlight with an almost iridescent quality that bizarrely reminded me of… overlapping reptile scales. It framed a surprisingly round, open face currently lit by a relaxed, welcoming grin.
"Mitch Goldberg," he announced, his voice warm and resonant. "A-Class conjurer. Pleasure!" He extended his large left hand first to me, then to Grey, who had finished with the horse and moved to stand beside me, his presence instantly shifting the atmosphere from welcoming to guarded.
Goldberg's smile faltered slightly as his gaze lingered on Grey, then flickered back to me, taking in my smaller stature, the youthful lines of my face barely masked by the accolade Grey gave me.
"Aren't you both… a bit on the young side for this sort of delve?" he asked, his tone more curious than accusatory, but the question landed like a pebble in still water. The accolade helped, adding perhaps a year or two, but eleven was still eleven, even disguised as fourteen.
Grey took Goldberg's proffered hand. His grip was firm, businesslike, but his eyes… His eyes locked onto Goldberg's with an intensity that was glacial. No words were needed. It was a look that spoke volumes: a silent, unequivocal warning, a challenge wrapped in frost.
The easy warmth drained from Goldberg's face, replaced by a flicker of surprise and immediate caution. He pulled his hand back, raising both palms in a placating gesture.
"Whoa, easy there! No offense meant, truly. Just… unexpected, is all." He cleared his throat, the earlier confidence tempered. "May I know your names?"
"Grey." The single syllable was clipped, final, dropping into the tense air like a stone. "A-Rank." He paused, then added, his tone flat and leaving no room for argument, "She is Aria. B-Class." He didn't even glance my way.
"Grey," I retorted sharply, stepping forward slightly, my voice deliberately clear, "I can speak for myself, you know?" My glare was wasted on his profile; he remained rigidly facing Goldberg, utterly ignoring my protest, his expression impassive.
Goldberg, however, seemed to latch onto the name. His eyes widened slightly, the earlier wariness morphing into dawning recognition mixed with a spark of intrigue. "Grey?" he repeated, a slow, thoughtful smile spreading across his round face. "The Grey? Well, slap me sideways and call me surprised. Didn't recognize you without the… well, the reputation preceding you." He chuckled, a slightly nervous sound now.
"Right then! Welcome aboard, both of you. Aria." He nodded respectfully to me, acknowledging my presence directly this time. "Follow me, let's get you introduced to the rest of the crew before we head into the belly of the beast."
The oppressive heat radiating from the Grand Mountain's stone face seemed to intensify as we approached the waiting trio near the reinforced mine entrance. Goldberg's jovial introduction faded slightly as my focus sharpened on the other adventurers who would share the dangers of the Red Gorge.
Markus Redson stood like a bastion carved from the mountain itself. His B-Rank augmenter status was announced less by his badge and more by the sheer, intimidating aura of controlled power. Enclosed head-to-toe in scarred steel plate armor, polished to a dull sheen that swallowed the harsh sunlight, he seemed less a man and more a mobile fortress.
Only his face was exposed—a landscape of hard planes and weathered skin, framed by a shock of unruly, fiery orange hair and a meticulously groomed goatee that mirrored the flames he commanded.
His eyes, a startlingly clear blue beneath thick brows, scanned the entrance with a stillness that felt volcanic. They held no malice, only a profound, weary alertness—the gaze of someone who had walked through fire and bloodshed so often it had become his natural habitat.
The massive two-handed sword strapped to his back wasn't just a weapon; it was an extension of that weary intensity, its leather-bound hilt darkened and smoothed.
Beside his solidity, Evelyn Rocafort moved with the fluid grace of a mountain stream. A B-Rank conjurer, her affinity for water mana wasn't just elemental; it seemed woven into her person.
Her long, ink-black hair was pulled back in a severe, practical ponytail that cascaded down to the small of her back, swaying with each subtle shift of her weight. She wore no armor, only lightweight, dark grey trousers and a fitted tunic that allowed for unrestricted movement. It spoke volumes about her role and confidence: she wasn't meant to be a shield wall, but a swift, deadly current from the rear.
Her sharp, intelligent eyes, the color of deep lake water, assessed the group and the entrance with calm efficiency. The air around her felt subtly cooler, a whisper of her power against the mountain's heat.
Then there was Percival Kapani, who made my own disguised youth feel less conspicuous. Goldberg placed a large, almost paternal hand on the young man's shoulder.
"And this quiet force is Percy," he announced, his voice softening noticeably. "B-Rank augmenter, earth affinity... and a gravity deviant." The last part was delivered with deliberate weight, ensuring it landed.
Percy was barely eighteen, his frame still hinting at the lankiness of adolescence not yet filled out. A practical, short brown bob cut framed a face dusted with faint freckles across his nose and cheeks, giving him an earnest, almost boyish openness. He wore sturdy leather armor reinforced with thin plates, practical but lacking the seasoned wear of Markus's gear. His earth affinity felt grounding, solid, yet unassuming.
Yet, paradoxically, Percy himself seemed to shrink under the collective attention Goldberg's introduction garnered. His eyes, a warm hazel, darted nervously, rarely meeting anyone's gaze directly. He offered a shy, fleeting smile and a mumbled "Hello," before looking down at his boots, radiating an endearing awkwardness that felt utterly at odds with the immense, potentially crushing power he held within.
Goldberg clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the tense air. "Alright, happy squad! Pleasantries officially concluded!" His infectious grin swept over us, landing briefly on my concealed face.
I couldn't help a small, involuntary snicker escape—the sheer absurdity of this mismatched band, thrown together for a delve into a B-Rank dungeon, momentarily outweighed the nerves. His genuine excitement was a spark in the gathering gloom. "Time stops for no adventurer, and neither does the Red Gorge! Let's delve!"
His words were the trigger. Markus adjusted the massive sword on his back with a metallic scrape, his expression settling into grim readiness. Evelyn's fingers flexed slightly, a subtle gathering of atmospheric mana. Percy took a deep, steadying breath, squaring his narrow shoulders.
Grey, beside me, was already a statue of focused intensity, his gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the timber beams. Goldberg led the way, his scaled hair catching the last rays of sun before the mountain swallowed it.
With a final shared glance—excitement warring with trepidation in my own chest—I followed them. We crossed the threshold, leaving the harsh mountain light behind and plunging into the cool, damp, mineral-scented darkness of the Red Gorge.