Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee

Veric is still wiping blood from his face when he steps out of the circle.

Freya gathers the ice scythe without a word. The weapon breaks into white fragments before vanishing into her inventory, leaving a cold trace in the air. She still hasn’t used Permafrost, and even so, she drew blood from Veric through both Undertow and Azure Dividends.

That’s exactly why this club needs to exist.

Pretty wins teach little. Draws and ugly losses teach you where death sits waiting out there.

I look at the remaining names.

Rhayne Vesper.

Mira.

The next fight carries a different weight. Veric is proud enough to survive on stubbornness. Oliver is tough enough to take a beating until the lesson sinks into his bones. But Rhayne is different. Not weaker. Different. She carries too much fear in places a blade can’t reach, and that makes me weigh her risks with too heavy a hand.

I pull another piece of leather from my inventory.

"One percent," I say.

Rhayne doesn’t answer.

That’s the first problem.

She stands beside me, the Battle Ribbon coiled and clipped at her hip, her loose hair falling over her shoulders. Her expression closes little by little, no outburst, no drama. Just a quiet disappointment that lands worse than any complaint could.

"Rhayne?"

She lifts her eyes to me. "You made Veric bet two percent against Freya."

"Veric is Veric."

"And what am I?"

The question comes out low. It doesn’t sound like anger. It sounds like something she’s been holding long enough for it to hurt. Veric stops wiping his face. Oliver looks away, as if pretending discretion were the biggest favor he could offer. Freya watches with a cold interest, as if studying how I handle my own people.

I breathe slowly. "You’re Rhayne."

"That doesn’t answer it."

She’s right. It doesn’t.

She takes a step closer. Her voice stays gentle, but the firmness in it is new. "You need to trust me more, Dryden."

The sentence hangs in the air between us. I could answer with logic. I could talk about combat composition, class, risk, the fact that Mira is more aggressive, more experienced in direct duels, more used to hurting people without hesitating. All of it would be true. All of it would sound like an excuse.

"I do trust you," I say.

Rhayne doesn’t look away. "Then why one percent?"

My hand tightens on the leather. "Because my urge to protect you tends to speak louder than my trust."

Her face changes.

Rhayne isn’t like Leona, who turns every emotion into a stage. The shift comes smaller: her shoulders easing a little, her eyes softening before they firm up again. She understood the sentence. Maybe better than I’d like.

Then she smiles. Small. Soft. Dangerous in the wrong way for my ability to make cold decisions.

"Then protect my growth by giving me more experience."

I close my eyes for a second. "You’re learning bad things from me."

"I’m learning useful things."

Behind her, Mira lets out a short sound through her nose. Almost a laugh. Something close to comic approval.

Mira is taller than Rhayne, her body trained, shoulders firm, hair tied back in a practical way with no patience for ornament. The spear rests on her shoulder, but her inventory carries more than that. I’ve seen the type before. People who switch weapons not to impress, but because they learned that every distance demands a different answer.

She looks at Rhayne, then at me. "She asked for more. It’s clear."

"Are you helping?" I ask.

"No." Mira adjusts the spear on her shoulder. "I just hate people deciding other people’s fights."

Freya looks satisfied with the answer. Maybe Mira was chosen as a follower precisely for that. Not flattery. Obedience with a spine.

I let the air out through my nose. "How about two percent?"

Mira stays quiet. Rhayne crosses her arms.

The pose is so indignant that for an instant I almost see the girl who tripped over her own words when she first joined us. But she isn’t standing there the same way anymore. This Rhayne looks back.

"What are you two thinking, damn it?"

The line escapes before I filter it.

Rhayne starts tying up her hair. Her fingers work fast, pulling the strands back, twisting, knotting them with a dark ribbon she takes from her inventory. The simple motion transforms her presence. Her face comes clearer. Her eyes, more direct. She no longer looks like someone asking permission.

When she finishes, she rests a hand on the Battle Ribbon. "Double or nothing."

The circle goes quiet.

Four percent.

For Veric, two percent was already a serious bet. For Rhayne, four is a declaration. More than that: a demand. Not against Mira. Against me. Against the image I still insist on carrying of her.

For the first time, I feel so much steel in her that something cold climbs my bones. It isn’t fear for her. It’s the fear of realizing I might be late.

I look at Mira. "Do you accept?"

She spins the spear once, the metal passing across her shoulder and dropping into her hand with clean control. "I accept."

"Full name."

"Mira Voss."

I kneel near the fountain and write the names on the leather.

Rhayne Vesper.

Mira Voss.

Below them, I set the value.

Experience wagered: 4%.

The Nomine Gladiatus rune closes around the letters. No spectacle. Just that sense of a living contract, a small law biting into the world and saying this matters now.

"Diver Marks."

Mira marks first. No hesitation. Rhayne steps up after. Before she touches the leather, she looks at me one last time. There’s no plea in it. No doubt. Only a silent question I already answered wrong once.

I nod.

She sets her Diver Mark. The leather burns in a grayish blue.

[Nomine Gladiatus started.]

[Wager: 4% experience.]

The two enter the circle.

Mira takes a simple stance. Spear forward, left foot opening the line, weight ready to advance or retreat. Nothing wasted. Her face is serious, almost rude in its lack of ceremony.

Rhayne stands on the other side.

And I realize I’ve never seen her like this.

One leg crossed in front of the other, her weight distributed with a precision that doesn’t fit improvisation. One hand at her waist. The other holds the Battle Ribbon, the metallic silk falling in a controlled curve until it touches the ground. Her face is serious, focused on Mira, no tremor at her mouth, no flight in her eyes.

She isn’t posing to look brave. This is elegance with intent. My heart skips a beat.

Mira tilts her head. "You pose nicely."

Rhayne doesn’t smile. "Thank you."

Mira lowers the spear, the tip aligned to the center of her body. "Let’s see if you fall nicely too."

I raise my hand.

For an instant, I remember Rhayne crossing the white room in the Gatekeeper’s biome. The leap against the Turtarex’s acid. The Battle Ribbon answering her body as if the weapon had been waiting for that hand since before it existed.

Maybe I mistook her fear outside combat for a lack of readiness. Maybe that’s the most dangerous mistake I could make with her.

"Fight."

Mira expects Rhayne to react. We all do. But it’s Rhayne who moves first.

Her lead foot pivots, her hip turning with it, and the Battle Ribbon lifts off the ground in a long metallic curve, drawing an arc that isn’t attack or defense yet. It’s control of space. The ribbon passes through the air with a clean shine, following the turn of her body like a trail of silver water.

Mira steps back half a pace on instinct.

My heart beats harder once. That movement was too beautiful to be improvised.

Rhayne trained alone. And I never noticed.

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