Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee

The meeting ends without another threat, revelation, or hidden favor.

Rahul takes back the guarantee, Rae pockets what’s left of his smile, and I walk out of that room feeling like I accepted a proposal without accepting anything. The window at the Deep Asylum still has no date. It might not exist at all until Rahul decides I’ve survived long enough to deserve it.

I go back to my room at the Academy and lock the door.

I spend the rest of the day at the desk, papers spread out, the battle regulations open on my HUD, and a run of formations that start organized and end crossed out until they lose all shape.

Rahul is involved.

That changes everything.

Until this morning, I treated the team battle as a chance to measure the squad against competent opponents. Now there’s his money on the table, influence in the back rooms, and surprises still being negotiated. Rahul never bets only on the result. He bets on reaction, weakness, reputation, and the mistakes a person makes after realizing they’re being watched.

Any obvious plan will arrive at the Oathring already dead.

I go over what he’s seen of me. Eventide. Memory of Lightwaves. The way I take damage when position is worth more. The duel against Cassio. The intervention that saved Oliver. There are probably reports on the fights inside the Academy. Someone may have described my fight against Veric move by move.

I cross out the first formation.

The second lasts a little longer.

On the third, I try to build everything around Rhayne, but that puts too much weight on Void Monarch and makes our answer predictable the moment they find the center of the composition.

The fourth depends on Veric holding a wide front while Oliver breaks the enemy’s rhythm. Good on paper. Limited against a team that understands how to cut Undertow off from the rest of the field.

The problem isn’t the people.

It’s what the opponents expect those people to do.

A notification opens in the corner of my vision.

[Automatic payment received.][Share of duct purification services: 8 Plates.]

I stop writing.

Eight Plates.

No message from Leona. No comment, no explanation, no complaint about how much work it took to produce that number. Just the system executing the contract and dumping money into the guild account while I try to work out how not to die the day after tomorrow.

I open the notice, confirm the deposit, and close it.

Her silence deserves attention, but not right now. Leona could be busy, annoyed, or handling some problem that hasn’t reached me yet. The arrangement is still working. That’s what matters for now.

I go back to the papers.

The money removes a few limits. I can buy consumables, pay for recovery, replace equipment, and take on a cost that would have made a strategy impossible before. Even so, it isn’t enough to beat a setup built by Rahul Sharma.

Money buys margin.

Surprise buys time.

I read the regulations again, slower this time. I stop on a clause my eyes have skimmed past more than once. I turn back a page. I compare two definitions. I check the limit on outside interference, then the section on abilities bound to a participant.

I sit there staring at the words.

The idea arrives whole.

I don’t smile. I just pull a clean sheet and start rebuilding the plan from the beginning.

This time, the formation takes up less space.

When I finish, I file every paper into my inventory and clear the lookup history from my HUD. The strategy carries enough risk to kill me before the other team has to lift a finger, but Rahul wants to find out how far I can go.

The day has already gone dark by the time I leave the desk.

I shower, letting the hot water fall over my shoulders until the stiffness from training and meetings starts to let go. The ribs are fine. The shoulder too. My body still carries small warnings from everything I’ve done these past weeks, but none of them deserve immediate concern.

I go back to the room, close the curtains, and lie down.

The silence doesn’t last long before my eyes find the Party HUD out of habit.

Lola ♥Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The ECG holds steady.

I watch the line rise and fall. It’s a small thing, but it’s what I have to remind me that time is passing. Proof she’s still alive somewhere in Thirstfall, doing who knows what.

Maybe sleeping.

Maybe stripping her weapon down.

Maybe pointing Lullaby at someone who hasn’t understood his mistake yet.

A private call opens in front of me.

[VERIC AZUREA — PRIVATE COMM]

I frown. Veric never calls me on a personal channel.

I accept. "Talk."

There’s a small silence on the other end.

"Answer with a little more respect, you prick..." A brief pause follows, as if Veric were shaking off the sudden anger my tone brought up. "Are you busy?"

"I was looking at Lola’s heart."

"Got it."

His voice comes lower than usual. No audience, none of that irritating need to look two steps ahead of everyone.

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened." He breathes deep. "I’m just tired of watching those people lean on you."

"It’s normal. It happens."

"It shouldn’t happen this often."

I wait.

Veric seems to be searching for a way to say what he means without turning it into advice. That isn’t ground he walks well.

"My father spent years surrounded by people telling him what was best for him," he goes on. "Some called it responsibility. Others called it protection. In the end, he could barely make a decision without calculating who’d be offended, or which collar would tighten on his neck."

"I’m not your father."

"I know."

The answer comes fast.

"I don’t want you ending up the same either."

I look at the ceiling. "Everything’s under control."

"My father used to say that too."

There’s no provocation in his voice. Only worry. I let the line pass.

"All right. What do you want to do?"

"I want to lend you something."

"Money?"

"A sword."

I sit up on the bed. "What sword?"

Veric hesitates. "A Rank B."

"That doesn’t answer half the question."

"It’s been in the family vault a long time. Nobody uses it."

"Why?"

"Because it can’t be tamed."

"Swords don’t have personalities."

A sound of laughter comes before the answer. "This one almost does."

Curiosity starts beating exhaustion.

Veric goes on before I can ask. "It has drawbacks. More than one. Strange ability, irregular response, like it has a soul. Some tried to use it and gave up. Others were made to give up."

"You’re really selling it well."

"I’m not selling. I’m lending."

"Why did you think of me?"

The channel goes quiet for a few seconds.

"Because of our fight," he says. "I felt your rhythm up close. You change the weight of a strike mid-execution, shift the intention after your opponent has already answered, and use your whole body to drive the blade. A light sword loses presence in your hand. An ordinary sword can’t keep up with your changes."

"And this one keeps up?"

"Maybe. The size fits. The weight too. The quirks... reminded me of you."

"That doesn’t sound like a compliment."

"Who said it was?"

I rest my head against the wall. "But I have Eventide. I don’t believe that thing would replace her."

"She’s exactly why I’m calling."

Veric’s voice firms up.

"We’ve fought together long enough. I’ve watched your reserve drop at moments your movements didn’t explain. After our duel, it got clearer. Eventide charges too much OXI, and your skills make it worse."

There’s no reason to lie. "You’re right."

"How much?"

"Depends what I’m doing."

"Convenient answer."

"True answer. I can burn twenty-five hundred OXI in a few seconds."

Veric lets out a breath. "You need an option that doesn’t try to empty your tank every time you decide to fight seriously. Something that lets you last."

"I was already thinking about finding another sword. The problem is that if it can’t stand next to Eventide, I’ll walk into that battle holding a stick for knocking fruit out of a tree."

Veric laughs on the other end. A short laugh, but a real one. "You bastard."

"Am I wrong?"

"No. And that sword is worse than you imagine."

"Now I want to see it."

"I can have it brought tomorrow."

"I’ll test it. If it fits, I’ll buy it."

"You don’t even know the price."

"I don’t want a loan. I want a test drive. If I like it, we discuss the number."

Veric goes quiet again. "Fine," he answers. "But don’t try to dominate it by force at the start."

"You just described exactly what I’d do."

"That’s why I’m warning you."

We end the call soon after.

I go back to watching Lola’s ECG. The line stays constant. My body finally starts giving in to sleep, but the image of a sword abandoned in a royal vault keeps circling my head until everything goes dark.

The next morning, I look for Freya.

I find her near one of the Academy’s outer wings, far from the arenas. She’s in her winter uniform, hair pulled into a ponytail, her face more tired than it was last night. The shadows under her eyes are faint. Her posture is rigid.

"We need to train," I say.

"I can’t."

The answer comes without hesitation. She’s plainly avoiding me.

"Why?"

Freya looks away for an instant. "I can’t, Dryden."

She seems bothered by her own words. Her right hand stays closed at her side, and there’s tension in her shoulders that didn’t come from training.

"Dean?"

Freya doesn’t answer. She passes me and keeps going down the corridor.

I don’t try to stop her.

That refusal didn’t come from her. Pressing her here would only turn someone else’s order into one more force pushing at her steps.

I change the plan for the day.

I open the squad channel. "Southwest plaza. Full gear. We’re not using the arena."

I send the location and start walking.

Until now, I’ve trained strikes, roles, individual responses. That isn’t enough anymore.

This morning, I’ll start teaching the squad to move as a single threat. I’m going to show them the things only the trenches teach.

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