Morning comes slow—not with birdsong or golden light, but with the low crackle of coals and the faint scent of something cooking.
I wake to warmth. Not just the lingering hum of the Harem-Bed ability, but the fire—low, steady, alive just outside the tent. And Kit isn’t beside me.
I push myself up, rolling my shoulder as the stiffness from yesterday’s fight makes itself known. Better than it has any right to be. Mana feels… stable again. Not full, but close.
I step out of the tent and find her crouched by the fire, tail curled lazily behind her as she turns something over in a small pan.
“Morning,” I say.
Her ears flick before she even looks up. “Took you long enough,” she replies, glancing over her shoulder with a small smile. “I was starting to think I’d have to eat your portion too.”
I snort, dropping down across from her.
She slides the pan off the heat and hands me a portion—simple trail rations warmed just enough to feel like real food. We eat in comfortable silence for a moment.
I look across the road toward the hunting zone. Bushmen Forest feels different in the morning. Still dangerous—but quieter. Like it hasn’t decided yet what it wants to kill.
Kit stretches one leg out as she eats, testing her movement. The faint shimmer of her healed wounds catches the light.
“Still holding?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. Your spell did the trick.” A small pause. “Thanks… for not listening to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She smirks. “Too late.”
We finish eating and sit for a moment, watching the fire settle. That is when I reach into my pouch.
The silver locket is cool against my fingers as I pull it free.
Kit’s eyes catch it immediately. “Oh right,” she says, leaning forward. “The drop.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Let’s see what we actually dragged out of that mess.”
I turn it over in my hand. The runes pulse faintly—steady, controlled. Not wild magic. Something crafted. Something deliberate.
I focus, drawing in a thread of mana as I speak the incantation.
Identify.
The magic unfolds cleanly in my mind—name, function, structure—and I let out a slow breath.
“…Oh, that’s good.”
Kit’s ears perk. “Good how?”
I hold it out. “Armor. Command word is Lorica Noctis.”
That is all she needs.
She slips the locket over her head without hesitation. “Lorica Noctis.”
The response is immediate.
Shadow gathers around her like a breath in winter—thin at first, then thickening, shaping into sleek, midnight-hued leather that wraps tight to her frame. It moves with her, not against her—alive in subtle ripples, like smoke pretending to be solid.
Kit freezes, then slowly flexes her fingers.
“…Okay,” she breathes.
She stands, takes a step—silent—then another, faster. Then she grins.
“Oh, I love this.”
I lean back slightly, watching as she moves.
She drops into a crouch, then rolls, vanishing into the brush like a ghost. The armor swallows sound, swallows light. She reappears behind a tree, then bursts forward—twist, leap, land—daggers flashing into her hands.
When she comes back, it is with a spin and flourish, stopping just in front of me.
“Stealth rating?” she says, a little breathless. “Obscenely high.”
A beat.
“Fashion rating?”
She tilts her head, smirk blooming. “Also obscenely high.”
I laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Then her tone softens slightly. “…Feels like it was made for me.”
There is something real there. Not just excitement—belonging.
I nod. “We earned it.”
Her eyes meet mine, and the bond stirs—warm, pulling.
I let my gaze linger—not on the armor, but on her.
Kit feels it instantly. Her ears twitch, her posture shifting as that slow heat brushes across the bond between us. A smile curls at her lips.
“Careful,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “You’re starting to look at me like I’m the rare drop.”
“Maybe you are.”
She huffs softly, clearly pleased, then straightens—tone shifting back to business.
“That Elder… we got lucky.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Too lucky.”
I stand, stretching slightly. “Regeneration like that means we either control the fight… or we don’t take it.”
Kit nods immediately. “No swarms. Edges only. Stragglers.”
“And if we see another Elder?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “We leave.”
“Good.”
She steps closer, bumping my shoulder lightly. “And… thanks. For keeping us alive.”
“Team effort.”
“Sure,” she says, smirking. “But you’re still the one throwing lightning like a lunatic.”
“Worked.”
She grins. “Yeah. It did.”
We break camp not long after.
The forest greets us with soft birdsong and drifting morning mist, but neither of us takes it lightly. We move with purpose—measured, sharper than before.
Kit slips ahead in short bursts, never leaving my line of sight. The new armor makes her almost impossible to track when she doesn’t want to be seen.
I keep the shield ready, spear balanced, senses tuned.
No bravado. No mistakes. Just the two of us moving deeper into Bushmen territory—this time on our terms.
Just before she slips into the underbrush again, Kit reaches out and touches my arm.
A quiet pause.
“Let’s come back in one piece,” she says.
I meet her eyes. “Both of us.”
She nods once—then vanishes into the green.
And the hunt begins again.
We adjust—pull back from deeper nests, stop chasing risk. Hit-and-run. Small groups. Clean fights. Efficient… on paper.
Kit moves like she’d been born to this forest, slipping between roots and brush like moonlight with teeth—vanishing, reappearing, daggers already in motion before the Bushmen even know she is there.
And me? I hold the line—shield up, spear forward, thunder when it matters. Callouts clean. Timing tight.
We move like we’ve been doing this for years.
The bond helps—no, more than helps. I can feel her intent before she acts. The shift of her weight. The moment she commits. When she needs space.
And she feels the same—when I brace, when I push.
It is smooth.
Too smooth.
Because the fights aren’t ending. They are dragging.
After another skirmish—three Bushmen, nothing special—we stand there longer than we should. Too many exchanges. Too many resets. Too much time.
Kit jogs back, pulling a thorn from her arm with a wince. “That took longer than it should have.”
I don’t answer. I already know.
She crouches beside me, scanning the brush. “We’re not hitting hard enough.”
“We are,” I say. “Just not often enough to end it.”
She glances at me. “We’re playing not to lose.”
A beat.
“And that’s not the same as winning.”
I exhale slowly. She isn’t wrong.
Kit leans in, voice lower. “Let me push deeper on the flank. Don’t hold back your spells—make them bite. I can take a few more hits if it means we end the fight faster.”
Then the smirk returns. “I’m not made of glass. Just… fur and bad decisions.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
Because I can feel it through the bond—the rising edge in her. Confidence. Momentum. A hunger to press.
I nod. “Alright. We try it your way.”
But even as I say it, I know.
That isn’t the real problem.
Still… we do it.
For the rest of the day, we push harder. Kit commits deeper—striking faster, staying in danger just a heartbeat longer. I follow through. Less shielding. More killing.
It works. Fights end faster. Bushmen drop harder. The tempo shifts.
But something still feels off.
Because now we aren’t just fighting the enemy—we are fighting the margin.
The next skirmish proves it. Kit vanishes with Echo Step, reappearing behind them before they can react, blades carving clean as she stays in the fight instead of slipping out. She trusts me to hold the line.
So I do. No more stalling. Spells to end it. Arc-Lightning cracks through one mid-lunge, dropping it before it can even turn.
Faster. Cleaner. Deadlier.
By the third fight, we are both breathing harder. Bleeding more. Running hotter.
Kit wipes her blade, a sharp grin on her lips. “Oh yeah. That’s better.”
I watch the last body settle into the roots. Better? Yeah. Safer? Not even close.
I can feel it—that same pressure as before. The same edge. The line between winning…and barely surviving.
This isn’t a damage problem. It is efficiency. Attrition. We are ending fights faster, but burning ourselves out doing it.
When we stop along a narrow ridge, Kit leans against a tree, catching her breath. “Better, right? Sharper. Faster.” Then she looks at me. “…but you’re still seeing it.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She exhales, quieter now. “We’re strong. But not strong enough.”
And we both know—if we run into another Elder, or a big enough mob, this won’t hold.
I reach into my pouch, feeling the weight of the silver goblet we picked up the day before. “Then we don’t push it.”
Kit’s ears flick. “We’re calling it?”
“Yeah.” I meet her eyes.
“Look, we’ve picked up a lot of loot this past month, and that goblet alone is worth a decent haul. I have a plan, but it’s going to require a serious talk.”
Kit’s ears flick, catching the shift in my tone. She studies me for a heartbeat longer than usual—long enough to confirm this isn’t one of my half-jokes or casual pivots.
“…Alright,” she says simply, sheathing her blade with a soft click. The fact that she doesn’t protest speaks volumes.
We head back toward the basecamp we’ve been using—a clearing just outside the hunting ground on the far side of the road. It isn’t far, and the route is one we’ve swept clean already. Even so, Kit walks close. Not playful. Tight. Controlled. Focused. She can feel through the bond that I am mulling something heavy.
When we reach camp, the sun is low, casting long bronze light through the trees. The flickering shadows make the air feel strange and expectant.
I sit.
She doesn’t—not right away. She takes a moment to check the perimeter, still wound a little tight from the day’s pace. Eventually she returns and sits beside me, cross-legged, her tail twitching once before going still.
“I’m listening,” Kit says. “And I’m guessing this isn’t about buying me new boots.”
Her expression is wry, but her amber eyes are locked on mine.
The bond tightens—not with magic, but anticipation.
She knows something big is coming.
Something that will change everything.
And she is ready to hear it.
“This isn’t working. Not long-term. We’re building bad habits. We need someone who can hold the line.”
I let that sit for a beat before continuing.
“Kit… we’ve been avoiding this talk. Do you remember where I found you?”
I watch the flurry of emotions wash over her as she works it out.
Kit doesn’t respond immediately.
Her amber eyes narrow slightly—not in anger, but in the way a predator watches something unexpected shift in the wind. Her tail flicks once, curling around her thigh as she leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers knit together in thought.
I can feel her working it out. Not just the words. The truth under them.
Where I found her. What I pulled her out of. The way she wasn’t built for the life she is now shouldering. That her instincts are fast, precise, lethal—but not meant to hold the line. That the battles we are winning are costing too much, and it is only a matter of time before we lose a fight not because we lack power, but because we lack structure.
When she speaks, it is quiet, but not hesitant.
“I do remember,” she says. “I remember the cage. I remember the tent, the despair. I remember the horrible sounds… at night.”
A pause.
“And I remember you, a complete idiot, walking in like you had a map written in prophecy and smirking like you knew something the Greasy Slave Trader didn’t.”
A half-smile touches her lips, but doesn’t stay long. Her eyes are serious again.
“We have been sloppy. Not with each other, but… with what we’re trying to be. A team of two isn’t a team forever. Not when we’re pulling this kind of heat.” She exhales through her nose. “You’re not wrong.”
She leans back slightly, expression unreadable now.
“If we do this… we do it right. You said rescue another girl. Not recruit, not hire, not ‘find someone who fits.’ So… you’re thinking of someone like me. Someone bound. Someone with a tie to the harem bond.”
Then, a long pause, and in a softer voice:
“You already have someone in mind, don’t you?”
She watches me now—not suspicious, not hurt—but very curious. And maybe, just beneath that, hopeful.
“Nope, not a clue. Just a role… we need a tank. And yes, I’m talking about rescuing a girl from the Slave Market. We’d have to go back there. Yes, she’d be bonded to… us. Yes, she’d be your harem sister.
“I told you at the start—you’re my First. That doesn’t change.”
Kit’s gaze softens—not with fragility, but with recognition. The bond between us glows with a quiet pulse, deep and steady. She doesn’t smile this time. She just closes her eyes briefly, and when she opens them again, there is a strength behind them, renewed and centered.
“I know,” she says quietly. “And it’s not about being ‘above’ anyone else. It’s that… when I move, I feel your rhythm. When I strike, I know you’ll cover me. And when it all goes quiet, I can still feel you in the bond—steady and warm. That’s what matters.”
She rises to her feet with that dancer-like grace of hers, the midnight armor clinging like living shadow, shimmering faintly with every move.
“We go to the slave market,” she confirms. “We find the right one. Someone strong enough to hold the line. Someone we can shape, and someone who can shape us.”
A pause.
“But no broken birds,” she says. “I’m not dragging someone out of a nightmare they can’t leave behind."
She steps close, pressing her forehead to mine briefly—a silent vow, not just of loyalty, but mutual clarity.
Then she pulls back with a flash of her old smirk.
“Alright… let’s go find someone who can take the hits—so we can kill anything that tries.”