Oliver sheathed his sword and stretched his shoulders, watching the knights move. Then he turned toward the second carriage, where Isolde was lounging by the window like she hadn't a care in the world. The faint moonlight reflected off her pale skin, giving her an almost ethereal glow. She looked more like a noblewoman at a summer villa than a mage in the middle of a monster-infested forest.

"You could've at least pretended to help," Oliver said, walking up to her.

Isolde tilted her head, smiling faintly. "If I had intervened, how would you have tested your new body?"

"Maybe so," he muttered, crossing his arms. "But you could've helped the knights. A few almost died."

"They handled it," she replied calmly. "Barely, but still. It's good for them — keeps their pride intact. Besides," she added with a smirk, "If they had watched their mouth before spouting nonsense then I might have considered helping."

He sighed. "Sometimes, you really like watching people suffer, don't you?"

She chuckled softly, her eyes half-lidded. "Only when it's educational."

Oliver shook his head, biting back a smile despite himself. He turned away before she could see it.

Across the clearing, Ronald was barking orders again. "You three, secure the perimeter. Set up torches every twenty meters. You two, help me unload the supplies."

Even with their wounds, the knights moved with discipline. Their armor clanked softly as they worked, the rhythmic sounds of hammering stakes and rustling canvas filling the quiet night. Within minutes, a small camp began to take shape — two large tents for the knights, a smaller one for Ariana, and the carriage of the "lady" parked neatly at the center.

Oliver joined in, helping lift a stack of wooden poles from one of the wagons. His muscles didn't ache. In fact, he felt unnervingly energetic, like he could go another round with the spider without breaking a sweat. The Rune of Vigor truly was doing its work.

"You don't need to," one of the knights said awkwardly as Oliver helped hammer a post into the ground. His tone wasn't exactly friendly — more uneasy, almost guilty.

"I know," Oliver said, giving a small smile. "But sitting around while injured guys do all the work feels wrong."

The knight hesitated, then nodded once in quiet agreement. "...Appreciated."

As the camp took shape, Oliver's gaze drifted to the first carriage again — the one Ronald had addressed as "Your Highness." He could faintly see the silhouette of the smaller hooded figure inside through the half-drawn curtains.

So it's true, he thought, eyes narrowing slightly. She's royalty.

He remembered Ronald's earlier slip during the attack — Protect her Highness's carriage. The pieces fit too perfectly now. The secrecy, the armed escort, the insane mission reward, even the high-ranked classification — everything pointed to someone important enough to demand the Guild's absolute discretion.

Royalty in disguise... traveling with this much protection through a monster zone. Why?

Oliver's mind turned, curiosity sparking behind his calm expression. He didn't voice it, though. Questions like that could wait until tomorrow.

Ariana eventually stumbled over to the fire, collapsing onto a log beside him. "If we run into another monster tonight," she mumbled, "I'm pretending to be dead."

"Don't worry," Oliver said, tossing another branch into the flames. "If something does come, you won't even have to lift a finger. I'll handle it."

Isolde, now sitting near the fire too, gave him a sidelong glance. "Confident, aren't you?"

He grinned. "Just realistic."

From a short distance away, Ronald stood watching — silent, eyes calculating. His expression was hard to read, but it wasn't distrust this time. More… acknowledgment.

Finally, he gave a curt nod to himself and turned toward his men. "Two-hour shifts. Stay sharp."

The night deepened. Crickets sang, the wind rustled the treetops, and the campfire crackled in the stillness.

For now, the forest was quiet — but the sense of unease lingered like a shadow under the moonlight.

~~~~

The night had settled over the camp, the forest blanketed in a thick, humid stillness. Only the crackle of the campfire and the occasional hoot of an owl broke the silence.

The knights, after tending to the wounded and setting up a defensive perimeter, had finally relaxed. A few sat near the fire, their armor unstrapped and their cloaks draped over their shoulders. The smell of roasting meat drifted through the air — a welcome reprieve from the stench of spider blood that still lingered faintly in the distance.

A small pot hung over the flames, bubbling with stew. One knight stirred it lazily while another sliced what looked like dried jerky into it. Someone cracked a joke, and a few others laughed quietly. The tension from earlier had eased, replaced by the weary companionship that comes after surviving a hard fight.

Ariana had long since fallen asleep, curled up near the fire, her staff resting beside her. Isolde sat cross-legged a little farther away, her eyes half-closed as she stared into the flames. She looked calm — too calm — the kind of calm that only came from someone utterly confident in their power.

Oliver, on the other hand, was wide awake.

He'd volunteered for first watch. Not because he didn't trust the knights, but because his body simply wouldn't let him rest. He felt… alive. Every sense sharp, every breath deep and clear. The Rune of Vigor pulsed faintly beneath his skin, a subtle hum of energy coursing through his veins.

He leaned against a tree near the edge of the camp, arms crossed, eyes scanning the dark forest.

That was when he noticed it — the small, lavish tent standing slightly apart from the rest. Silk fabric, reinforced with ornate stitching that shimmered faintly in the firelight. The stakes were gold-tipped. Even the insignia embroidered on the flap — a blooming silver lily — looked too fine for the wilderness.

So that's her tent, Oliver thought. Extravagant as hell for a forest full of monsters.

He was about to turn his attention back to the treeline when the tent flap moved.

A slender hand brushed it aside, followed by the figure of the hooded girl — Elara. Her movements were slow, deliberate, almost dainty, as if she wasn't used to walking on uneven ground. She carried herself like someone born to command — even in the flickering light, that much was obvious.

Ronald, who had been sitting with the other knights, immediately rose and bowed. "My lady, it's late. You shouldn't—"

"It's fine, Ronald," she interrupted softly. "I just needed some air."

Her voice was gentle — refined, with the faintest trace of noble upbringing in her tone. The knights straightened but said nothing, pretending not to watch as she approached the fire.

Elara stood for a moment, her hands clasped before her, gazing at the flames. The firelight reflected off her silver mask, hiding most of her face — until a soft breeze swept through the clearing.

The veil fluttered.

Just for a second, Oliver caught a glimpse beneath it — porcelain skin, a pair of pale blue eyes that glimmered like moonlight, and lips that curved in a faint, melancholic smile. Beautiful — far beyond anything he'd expected. The kind of beauty that didn't belong to the battlefield or the road, but to palaces and thrones.

She turned slightly, her gaze meeting his across the fire.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.

Then the veil fell back into place.

Elara blinked, seemingly unaware of the moment that had just passed, and took a seat near the fire. Ronald stood behind her like a shadow, ever watchful.

One of the knights offered her a skewer of roasted meat, but she only shook her head. "I'm not hungry. Thank you."

Oliver shifted slightly, his curiosity piqued even more now. He wasn't easily impressed by appearances — he'd seen his share of nobles, after all — but something about her was… different.

She didn't look pampered or vain. Her beauty wasn't fragile. It carried something else — something older, deeper.

He forced his gaze away, focusing on the woods again. Don't stare, idiot. You'll just make it awkward.

"Can't sleep either?" a familiar voice asked behind him.

He turned. Isolde was standing a few paces away, her arms folded, a teasing glint in her eyes.

"Not tired," he said.

"Liar," she replied lightly. "You just don't want to stop watching her."

Oliver frowned. "You noticed?"

"I notice everything." She smirked faintly, stepping closer so only he could hear. "She's interesting, I'll give you that. But don't let curiosity get you killed. The kind of girl that hides behind masks and knights never comes without strings attached."

He chuckled quietly. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Do that," she said, patting his shoulder. "Because I'd rather not have to rescue you from royal trouble next time."

Then she turned back toward the fire, her silver hair catching the light before vanishing into the shadows.

Oliver exhaled softly, leaning against the tree again. His eyes drifted back toward Elara's tent one last time.

The veil hadn't moved again — but the image of those eyes lingered in his mind long after.

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