I
While Tal continued her losing battle with the clerk, Nivlac found himself studying her two companions instead — partly out of genuine curiosity, partly because it gave him something productive to do while waiting to see how the standoff resolved.
The broad-shouldered one hadn’t moved from his spot near the wall since Nivlac first noticed him, arms crossed, watching the argument with the settled patience of a man who had clearly learned, through repetition, that inserting himself into Tal’s disputes rarely improved anything.
He had the build of someone who did heavy, repetitive work — not gym-sculpted, but functionally strong, the kind of muscle built from actually swinging something heavy for a living rather than admiring the results in a mirror.
A well-worn greatsword rested against the wall beside him, its grip wrapped in cloth that had obviously been replaced more than once, the mark of someone who maintained his gear out of habit rather than vanity.
II
The archer, by contrast, radiated a much less settled energy.
He kept glancing between Tal and the clerk, then toward the door, then back again, as though calculating exit routes in case the argument escalated into something requiring a hasty retreat.
When he noticed Nivlac watching, he offered a small, awkward half-smile — the universal expression of someone who wanted to apologize for a teammate’s behavior but wasn’t quite bold enough to actually do it.
“She’s not usually this—” the archer started, but glanced at Tal, reconsidered the wisdom of finishing the thought within her hearing range, and let it trail off instead.
“Stubborn?” Nivlac offered quietly.
“I was going to say ‘passionate,'” the archer said, “but stubborn’s probably more accurate.”
III
The broad-shouldered one finally spoke, without shifting his gaze from the ongoing argument.
“She’s not wrong to be careful,” he said, voice low and unhurried.
“Just wrong about how to fix it.”
It was, Nivlac thought, an unusually perceptive thing to say, delivered with the flat, unbothered cadence of someone who didn’t waste words performing insight — he simply had it, stated it once, and moved on.
Nivlac filed that observation away alongside everything else.
If this man was typically this economical with speech, then the fact that he’d spoken at all suggested he found the current situation worth commenting on. Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping(.)com.
“You’ve been together long?” Nivlac asked, addressing the question to both of them.
“Since the second week,” the archer said.
“After our original support washed out.
Didn’t last a single dungeon run.”
IV
“Washed out how?” Nivlac asked, genuinely curious now, professional instinct kicking in the way it always had whenever a client mentioned a previous vendor who’d failed them — there was usually something useful buried in the specifics.
The archer winced slightly.
“Panicked.
Bad.
Froze up mid-fight, didn’t cast anything, we nearly lost someone to a monster that honestly wasn’t even that dangerous if anyone had been paying attention to it properly.” He glanced toward Tal, lowering his voice further.
“She doesn’t talk about what happened after that.
But I don’t think it was just the one incident that soured her on supports.
I think it confirmed something she already believed.”
“That relying on someone else to catch you is a liability,” Nivlac said, more statement than question.
The archer blinked, apparently surprised by how quickly Nivlac had arrived at the same read he’d taken weeks of firsthand observation to reach.
Pretty much exactly that.”
He extended a hand after a beat, as though only just now remembering that introductions were a thing normal people did.
“Name’s Rowan, by the way.
Since we’re apparently analyzing my teammates, might as well know who I’m talking to.”
“Nivlac,” he replied, taking the offered hand.
“That’s an unusual name,” Rowan observed.
“New here?”
“Very,” Nivlac said, deciding this wasn’t the moment to explain the specific origin story behind it.
V
The broad-shouldered one glanced over at Nivlac properly for the first time, something assessing in his expression — not hostile, just quietly recalibrating whatever initial impression he’d formed of the stranger who’d drifted into overhearing range of their team’s business.
“You ask a lot of questions,” he observed.
“Occupational habit,” Nivlac said.
“Old job.
You get good at figuring out the actual problem underneath the one someone’s yelling about.”
That earned him a longer look than before, though the broad-shouldered man said nothing further, simply turning his attention back to Tal, who had, by the sound of it, reached some kind of impasse with the clerk — her posture shifting, marginally, from outright refusal into something closer to grudging, furious calculation.
Whatever came next, Nivlac suspected, was about to open a door he hadn’t fully decided yet whether he wanted to walk through.