A brief silence fell over the kitchen, broken only by the crackling of the fire.
"I see… Well, to be honest, I was also waiting for a chance to talk to you privately about some things," Carmen admitted, her tone flat but attentive, as she poured potatoes and carrots into the pot. "But you go first if you want."
Mirac didn't hesitate and took a step forward.
"You know, the entity I'm in Syntony with sometimes, without warning, sends what I call 'Fortuitous Knowledge' into my mind: random information about people, objects, or the environment around me," he explained calmly. "Sometimes it's simple details, like the height of a piece of furniture or the temperature of a flame. Other times, I perceive more specific things… like the exact age of a person or an object—though, in the latter case, it refers more to when it was made rather than its 'age' in the common sense."
His voice, muffled by the mask, was low, as if he feared even the walls might be listening.
But inside, Mirac was weaving a web of half-truths.
The reality was far different from what he had just described: through his extensive studies, Math had rewarded him with extraordinary gifts, granting him a range of abilities tied to the same source—namely, "Instantaneous Knowledge."
Thanks to these, every time he laid eyes on an object or person, he could instantly know its dimensions, distance, mass, volume, capacity, temperature, and age.
These were not "random visions," as he had just told Carmen, but rather a constant and precise stream of information.
Yet, Mirac had chosen to conceal this truth, presenting it as accidental and unpredictable "Fortuitous Knowledge."
This was because he didn't want to risk Carmen piecing together the identity of the entity behind his Syntony and his many powers…
'This should work…' Mirac thought, a shadow of tension hidden behind his steady breathing.
Across from him, Carmen remained silent for a while, continuing to stir the pot's contents with a wooden spoon.
Steam rose in gentle spirals, and for a moment, the silence was broken only by the fire's crackle.
"Go on," she said finally, her voice neutral but tinged with curiosity—without lingering on or acknowledging the revelation Mirac had just shared about his strange ability.
Mirac nodded and continued explaining:
"Today, when I saw the Rogthars emerging from the cave, the entity transmitted something… odd into my mind. The moment I laid eyes on them, I perceived… their age. And that's how I discovered something truly unsettling: all three of them were less than three months old! To be precise, seventy-two days since their birth."
Carmen didn't turn, but the rhythm of her stirring slowed.
"Seventy-two days?!" she repeated, her voice calm but laced with perplexity. "So… you're telling me they were born on New Year's Day?"
"Exactly," Mirac continued. "And as you can imagine, this makes no sense at all! No Rogthar should be this young and developed. But the even more absurd thing is that they shouldn't even exist anymore! Rogthars were supposed to have been wiped out more than a thousand years ago during the Great Extermination! Or at least, that's what the history books say…"
He paused, lowering his voice slightly.
"Even though I've come up with various theories to explain why there were Rogthars in that cave and why they were so young yet robust, I can't shake the feeling that there's something more to this…"
Carmen narrowed her eyes, her gaze fixed on the sizzling onions, as if the fragments floating in the oil might offer an answer.
"Hmm…" she murmured thoughtfully, the spoon still slowly swirling.
"Do you have any idea in mind? Maybe a hypothesis?" Mirac asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Carmen didn't respond immediately.
She added a handful of lentils to the pot, then a pinch of salt from a clay jar.
The aroma of the soup began to fill the kitchen, warm and inviting, but the atmosphere between them remained tense.
"Unfortunately, no…" she said finally, without turning. "We'll have to investigate this Rogthar matter completely from scratch…"
Mirac's eyes widened, caught off guard.
"I-Investigate?" he stammered, surprised, as if he hadn't expected that word.
"Exactly," Carmen replied, setting the spoon on the counter and finally turning to face him.
Her dark eyes fixed on him, as piercing as ever, but her face remained impassive as she leaned against the kitchen windowsill and crossed her arms.
"The fact that we've found a species thought to be extinct for over a thousand years is not something we can ignore," she continued. "There could be greater forces at play behind all of this. And if there's even the slightest chance that this is true—that there's something bigger than a mere quirk of nature behind these Rogthars—it's our duty to uncover it and, if possible, solve the problem before it's too late! After all, this is one of the duties assigned to every member of the organization I'm part of: ensuring that evil does not thrive."
Mirac swallowed, the weight of her words settling over him.
"I-I see…" he murmured. "So, you're like a secret team of superheroes saving the world, huh?"
"Not at all," Carmen said. "Heroes are celebrated in the spotlight. We, on the other hand, operate in the shadows…"
There was a moment of silence, heavy with unspoken meaning they both seemed to understand.
The smell of sizzling onions filled the air, mingling with the aroma of herbs hanging above the sink.
"Alright, I understand…" Mirac said finally. "In that case, I suppose the best choice would be to start our investigation in the Rogthars' cave, right?"
"Exactly," Carmen replied. "But first, we'll need to register with the Association and become Mercenaries, for a number of reasons. First, to obtain the Association's Identity Document: having it will offer us numerous advantages in the future, including access to other cities in the Kingdom without needing the actual Continental Identity Document. Second, tomorrow Blake will likely report the various Dungeons he discovered during the week, including the one with the Rogthars. So, starting from tomorrow, that Dungeon will no longer be public property but will fall under the Association's jurisdiction. Going there alone would not only be extremely dangerous but also against the rules. By becoming Mercenaries, however, we'd solve this issue, as we could join a potential future raid on the Dungeon. In fact, as soon as they realize the threat posed by the Rogthars, I'm sure the Association will waste no time sending as many Adventurers and Mercenaries as possible to deal with those demons. Therefore, tomorrow morning we'll head to the Association and sign up as Mercenaries, in preparation for everything I just explained. Clear?"
Mirac paused for a moment, the weight of Carmen's words still heavy on his mind.
Reflecting carefully, Mirac realized that investigating the Rogthars would mean extending their stay in Raerno far beyond what they had initially planned.
This would inevitably lead to a delay—or, more precisely, an extension—of their original plan: to quickly earn some money, acquire better equipment, and set off towards the Red Desert to reach the organization.
And it was this thought that made him hesitate.
It wasn't just a matter of time or money: accepting this mission meant facing an unknown danger, possibly greater than anything he had ever encountered before.
A raid in the Rogthar Dungeon would therefore, without a shadow of a doubt, be highly dangerous, and the idea of facing a horde of those anomalous creatures—most of which, probably, much stronger than the three already defeated at the entrance of the cave—sent a shiver down his spine.
Yet, Mirac had no choice…
He couldn't simply "refuse" and walk away.
Or rather, even if he could, he wouldn't!
In fact, Mirac saw this Rogthar matter as a unique opportunity to impress Carmen's organization!
After all, his goal at the moment was to reach their headquarters and manage to become part of the organization.
Thinking it over, Mirac realized that standing out in an impromptu mission, even before officially becoming a member, could prove to be the key to catching the organization's eye as a promising recruit, and perhaps earning the respect and trust of his future companions right from the start.
Consequently, proving his worth—not just as a fighter, but as someone capable of facing the unknown—was an opportunity he could not afford to miss!
"Yes, all clear," Mirac said finally, his voice steadier than he expected. 'I'll uncover the mystery behind these Rogthars!'
Carmen observed him for a moment, as if assessing his resolve.
"Good," she replied, turning back to the pot.
At that point, Mirac was about to leave and head upstairs, but he stopped abruptly, remembering the other reason he had come down to talk to Carmen.
"Oh right! I almost forgot…" he began vaguely. "There's one more thing I don't understand…"
"What is it?" asked Carmen, just before tasting the soup she was preparing with a spoonful.
Mirac didn't hesitate and asked in a low voice:
"Why did the Rogthars hesitate to attack us at first when they saw you?"
Carmen stopped stirring the soup, but she didn't turn around.
For a few seconds, silence reigned in the kitchen; neither of them spoke or moved.
Carmen remained still in front of the stove, while Mirac watched her from behind, waiting for an answer.
All of this lasted about three seconds.
Then, suddenly, Carmen resumed stirring the sauté, her face still hidden from Mirac's view.
The firelight lit her features, deepening the shadows beneath her eyes.
"You think I intimidated them with my powers, don't you?" she said finally, preempting his assumption. "Well, in that case, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you're wrong. I don't know why they stopped, but it wasn't my doing. I can assure you of that."
Mirac furrowed his brows beneath the mask, finding her response evasive.
'Heh! From the tone of your voice, I don't think you're lying. But at the same time, why did it take you longer than usual to answer? Is there something else I don't know?' he wondered, clenching his jaw. 'Either way, this might be the perfect chance to finally gather some clues about her powers!'
But before Mirac could say or ask anything, the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps echoed from the wooden stairs, breaking the tense silence in the kitchen.
"Here I am!" a familiar voice exclaimed.
Suddenly, Blake appeared behind Mirac, standing in the kitchen doorway with a beaming smile, clean clothes, and a towel wrapped around his hair, still damp from the shower.
"Wow, that smells amazing!" he exclaimed, approaching the pot with childlike enthusiasm. "I bet you're an incredible cook, Ananya! I can't wait to taste this masterpiece!"
In an instant, Carmen became "Ananya" again, her face recomposing into a mask of neutrality.
"Don't exaggerate," she said, pouring another handful of lentils into the pot with a precise gesture. "It's just soup."
Blake chuckled, seemingly oblivious to the tension lingering between the two.
He ran the towel through his damp hair, scattering small droplets on the floor.
But then, noticing the tense faces and the heavy silence that hung in the room, he guessed that he had probably arrived at the least opportune moment.
"Oh, uhm… Sorry if I interrupted you, I didn't mean to…" he said timidly, clutching the towel around his head.
"No, it's fine. You didn't interrupt anything…" Carmen replied, her tone neutral but with a hint that closed the conversation.
Mirac didn't speak up to contradict her.
He remained silent, his gaze fixed on Carmen, as if still mulling over her words.
"W-Well, then, uhm… Isaac, if you want, you can go take a shower now. I just finished," Blake said, breaking the almost palpable silence that had settled in the kitchen.
Mirac nodded silently.
"You can leave your dirty clothes folded somewhere in the bathroom. I'll wash them for you later," added Carmen, her tone discreet.
"As for a change of clothes, feel free to grab something clean from my wardrobe, no problem," Blake said, laughing lightly to try to ease the tension.
"Alright," Mirac replied, his voice flat but polite. "Thanks, Blake…
With one last glance at Carmen, who continued stirring without lifting her eyes from the soup, Mirac turned and left the kitchen.
He climbed the stairs, the weight of the interrupted conversation still pressing on him.
'Dammit! I should have asked her right away!' thought Mirac, regretting that he had started by talking about the age of the Rogthars instead of mentioning that they had hesitated to attack them at first when they saw Carmen. 'But, now that I think about it, I highly doubt I would have been able to extract any information about her powers anyway. That woman is incredibly private and would rather die than reveal certain secrets. And even though there are personal reasons related to her past, or the fact that she is part of a secret organization, that might partly justify her behavior, I believe there is something else behind her silence… Something more than just the "professional secrecy" imposed by the organization…'
However, dwelling on it further made no sense, so Mirac put his curiosity aside in a corner of his mind and focused on climbing the stairs.
Blake's voice and the smell of lentils simmering grew fainter as he approached the bathroom.
Once he arrived on the upper floor, Mirac entered, closed the door behind him, and looked at himself in the mirror, slowly removing the mask that covered his face.
He placed it gently on the edge of the sink.
He hadn't taken the mask off in a week, and the air now brushing his skin felt foreign, almost new, but strangely pleasant, like a rediscovered memory.
But the moment his eyes fell on the mask, a flash crossed his mind.
As when he first saw it, "Instant Knowledge of Age" revealed that the mask had been created 16 years and a few months ago.
This time, unlike seven days ago, Mirac froze at the revelation.
"Hmm…" he murmured, almost unconsciously, as a whirlwind of thoughts sparked in his head.
His mind raced, weaving hypotheses and questions.
He wondered, for instance, if Carmen had ever worn it, perhaps in a distant past when she had to hide, or if it was just an ordinary mask she had packed in case she needed to give it to the "Fugitive Prince."
'Honestly, it doesn't seem anything special. Besides, I don't even sense any Magical Energy emissions…' thought Mirac, scrutinizing the scarred surface of the mask. 'And then, even if it had some kind of magical properties, Carmen would have surely informed me by now, right?'
In truth, even he wasn't entirely convinced by this conclusion.
"Well, whatever… Now's not the time for more questions," he muttered aloud, shaking his head as if to dispel the tangle of thoughts. "Instead, I should take this chance to relax and have a nice shower!"
With that, Mirac looked up at his reflection in the mirror.
His black hair was a tangled mess, and the dust from the journey had caked onto his skin.
"Damn! I look like a wreck…" he muttered to himself, a wry half-smile curling his lips as he studied his reflection.
With a deep breath, Mirac snapped out of it and headed toward the tub.
He undressed and left his clothes in a corner where the floor wasn't wet—including his cloak, which he retrieved from Blake's room where he had left it.
He turned on the tap and slowly submerged himself under the warm water, letting the sensation of heat and steam relieve him of all the weight he had accumulated.
* * *
After the shower, Mirac dried off quickly, wrapping himself in a towel.
He then put his mask back on and headed to Blake's room.
He opened the wardrobe doors with a decisive gesture but immediately regretted his carelessness.
An avalanche of clothes—t-shirts, hoodies, pants haphazardly stacked—crashed down on him, making him stumble backward.
"Damn it!" he muttered, pushing away a hoodie that had landed on his face. "I completely forgot…"
After a few curses and a couple of minutes rummaging, he found a gray t-shirt and a pair of black pants that seemed to fit.
He slipped them on quickly, hesitating only briefly before getting used to the renewed sensation of soft, fresh-smelling fabric against his skin.
"Not bad…" Mirac thought, checking himself in the mirror in Blake's room.
With one last glance at the wardrobe, now resembling a battlefield, he returned to the kitchen, where the aroma of the soup had grown stronger.
Carmen and Blake had just finished setting the table: simple bowls, glass cups, and a steaming pot at the center.
Blake was laughing about something he had just said, while Carmen placed a spoon next to a bowl and responded to his humor with a faint smile.
Mirac joined them, and the trio finally sat around the wooden table in the small kitchen.
The fireplace's glow danced on the walls, and the warm aroma of lentil soup filled the air.
Carmen had placed the steaming pot in the center, next to a basket of hard bread chunks that Blake had broken up just before Mirac's arrival.
The bowls were simple, made of smooth wood, and the spoons of the same material made a soft sound against the edges as everyone served themselves.
Carmen, with her still-damp hair tied back in a ponytail, took her seat with her usual composure, her face impassive but her eyes attentive—framed by her usual rectangular glasses.
Mirac, with the black mask covering his face, sat across from her, his movements slow and measured, a clear reflection of his old life at court.
Blake, on the other hand, was the picture of enthusiasm: he rubbed his hands together with a radiant smile, his eyes sparkling as he looked at the soup.
"Wow, this looks absolutely delicious!" he exclaimed, grabbing a spoon and diving into the pot with an almost theatrical flourish. "Well, bon appétit, everyone!"
Carmen tilted her head, a faint smile brushing her lips.
She took a piece of bread, broke it further with her fingers, and dipped it into the soup, eating calmly.
Mirac, after a brief moment of hesitation, followed suit.
With a quick, discreet motion, he lifted his mask just enough to allow the spoon to reach his mouth.
The movement was so swift that no one noticed.
Then, Mirac began eating, starting with the soup.
The flavor was simple but hearty: soft lentils, perfectly cooked vegetables, a pinch of salt, and the aroma of herbs tying it all together.
That soup felt like a caress to the palate, a luxury compared to the apples, bread chunks, and dried meat he had eaten during his long journey.
'So gooood!!' Mirac thought, on the verge of tears from the emotion.
He was deeply moved by the interplay of flavors but didn't show it, remaining impassive and silent.
Blake, in contrast, held nothing back: he devoured the soup with the fervor of someone who hadn't eaten in days, alternating heaping spoonfuls with bites of bread soaked in the broth.
"Mmm! This is… slurp… the best soup… slurp… I've ever eaten… slurp… in all these years!" he mumbled between bites, splashing a few drops onto the table. "Ananya, you should seriously open a tavern, you know?"
'Yeah, I agree with him!' Mirac added in his head.
Carmen laughed softly, a gentle sound that broke her usual composure.
"Haha… Thanks, Blake. I'll keep that in mind," she replied.
The trio continued eating the vegetable soup, the sound of spoons against the wooden bowls blending with the crackling of the fireplace.
Blake, with seemingly inexhaustible enthusiasm, served himself a second, third, and then fourth helping of soup, filling his bowl to the brim with a satisfied smile.
Mirac, who was bringing a spoonful to his mouth under the mask, paused for a moment, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.
'How much does this guy eat?' he thought, his brows furrowing beneath the mask. 'It's his fourth portion, and he hasn't even slowed down!'
His gaze slid over Blake to analyze his physique: tall, thin as a rail, with slender arms and a waist so narrow that his pants seemed to stay up by a miracle of the belt.
'Maybe he's the type of person who always eats this much but still stays skinny…' thought Mirac, shaking his head before returning to his soup—helping himself for the third time.
As the pot emptied and the hard bread chunks vanished from the basket, Carmen set down her spoon and, with her usual composure, began outlining the plans for the next day.
Calmly and without delving into the details of their motivations, the red-haired woman explained to Blake that in the morning, she and Mirac would head to the Association to register as Mercenaries.
Mirac nodded in support, his silence a tacit agreement.
Blake, with his mouth full of soup and a piece of bread in hand, listened without asking questions, accepting everything with his usual easygoing nature.
He didn't ask why they wanted to take that path, nor did he seem surprised by their decision.
Instead, with a smile and a shrug, he warned them about three things:
First, that registering with the Association required paying a membership fee. However, Blake immediately reassured them, explaining that the payment could in fact be postponed until after admission, or deducted directly from the rewards of their first missions, until the debt was cleared.
Second, that those enrolling with a Temporary Residence Permit—rather than a Continental Identity Document—were required to complete an unpaid mission. This mandatory trial served the Association as a way to distinguish those truly motivated to join from those merely seeking an easy way to earn money. Even this, however, posed no problem for Mirac or Carmen: in their case, the initial mission would already be included among those linked to the payment of the participation and entry fee.
And finally, Blake informed them that registration required passing two entrance exams: one written and one physical—both, of course, mandatory.
He briefly explained that the written test consisted of a series of questions about monsters, Dungeons, the Kingdom's rules, and other fundamental knowledge for those aiming to become Mercenaries, Hunters, or Adventurers with the Association, requiring a minimum score of 60% to pass.
"It's not a big deal, don't worry," Blake added, breaking off a piece of bread and dipping it into the soup. "If I passed, you'll do just fine! You just need to know the basics of hunting and monsterology."
He paused to swallow a bite, then continued with enthusiasm:
"The physical test, on the other hand, is a simulated combat. You'll have to face an instructor in a short duel—five minutes max—using non-lethal weapons, like wooden swords or low-level spells, depending on your opponent and your class. But don't worry, it's nothing dangerous! It's just meant to assess your strength, technique, and strategy—that is, how you think during a fight. The final score will be added to your profile, so that potential Guilds or clients can get a preliminary idea of the kind of mercenary they're hiring. So, make sure to give it your best, alright?"
Carmen nodded with a confident tilt of her head.
Mirac, for his part, had nothing to fear: years of study under Professor Warnock's guidance had given him an excellent academic foundation, so the written test questions didn't worry him in the slightest.
Nor was the physical test a source of anxiety for him, since his strength—honed through years of training with the second-strongest swordsman in the world—made him confident about the duel that would take place the following day.
And looking at Carmen, Mirac sensed the same certainty in her.
He didn't know her past, but her composure, sharp mind, and the aura of experience she exuded told him she would pass both trials with ease.
After swallowing a piece of bread and carrot, Carmen set her spoon against the edge of the bowl.
"By the way…" she began. "Blake, you need to report the Dungeons you found during this week of exploration, right? If so… would you mind coming with us to the Association tomorrow? You could show us the way."
Blake's eyes widened, his spoon nearly slipping from his hand. He looked visibly uncomfortable, his face tense as he ran a hand through his hair.
"M-Me? U-Uhm… g-go with you?" he stammered, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for an excuse. "I-I mean… it's just that… well, what I mean is…"
He paused, nervously drumming his fingers on the table and biting his lower lip.
Mirac watched him with curiosity. 'Why is he acting like this?' he wondered, though he didn't dare ask out loud—for he wanted to avoid making the same mistake as before.
The silence dragged on for a few more seconds.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Blake let out a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping as if he had resigned himself to an inevitable fate:
"F-Fine, alright. I'll come. I mean… I had to stop by the Association sooner or later anyway…"
Carmen studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you, Blake."
With that, taking a deep breath, Blake forced himself to pick up the conversation, his voice still slightly unsteady as he finished explaining the last details about the Association's registration procedures.
After that, the conversation shifted to their plans for the afternoon.
Carmen announced that, after the entrance test and a quick lunch, she would go sell the Rogthar organs at the various markets around the city.
Blake, eager to help, offered to point out the best selling spots, promising to mark them on a city map to maximize profits.
Carmen nodded, accepting his offer.
Blake then stood from the table, rummaged through a drawer, and returned with a crumpled map of Raerno and a worn pencil.
He unrolled the map on the table, the scarred wood creaking under its weight, and began quickly scribbling down street names, squares, and merchants known for paying well without asking too many questions.
Carmen listened intently, memorizing every detail, while Mirac watched in silence, struck by Blake's tireless energy.
With the next day's plans set, dinner came to an end.
Mirac stood to clear the table, gathering plates and spoons, while Blake volunteered to wash the dishes, carrying the empty pot to the sink.
Carmen, meanwhile, headed upstairs to the bathroom.
There, she took Mirac's dirty clothes, carefully hand-washing them in the tub, scrubbing away the dust and sweat from their journey.
Once clean, she wrung them out and placed them in the basket, leaving them ready for Blake to hang out to dry the next morning.
With their chores done, the day's exhaustion settled in.
One by one, the three retired for the night.
Carmen settled into the double bed, while Blake flopped onto his messy bed, and Mirac, without removing his mask, lay on his mattress, his thoughts still lingering on the Rogthars.
"Good night, everyone!" Blake shouted, loud enough for Carmen to hear from the other room.
"Good night," Mirac murmured, wrapping himself in the blankets.
Soon, the house fell silent, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets and the faint crackling of dying embers in the downstairs fireplace.
* * *
The dawn arrived with a soft light filtering through the blinds, tinting the rooms with a pearly gray.
Blake was the first to wake up, heading down to the kitchen with his curly, clean hair.
He lit the fire and prepared a simple breakfast: slices of bread toasted over the hearth, a jar of berry jam, and cups of hot tea scented with mint and chamomile.
Carmen and Mirac joined him shortly after, their movements slow but already charged with determination.
"G-Good morning!" Blake exclaimed. "Did you sleep well?"
"I'd say so. Definitely better than on the ground in a forest," Mirac replied. 'Too bad SOMEONE didn't stop snoring for a single second all night!'
Beneath his black mask, Mirac shot him a glare but kept his thoughts to himself.
"Oh, good!" Blake said, grinning. "Honestly, I was worried I'd keep you up, since Garret says I sometimes snore like a hibernating bear… But if you slept well, then I've got nothing to worry about, right?"
"…"
Mirac said nothing.
After that brief moment of silence, the trio sat at the table and ate, the clinking of cups and the crackling of the fire the only sounds.
After breakfast, Carmen and Mirac prepared to head out.
Carmen, returning to her room, chose practical yet dignified clothing from the wardrobe: a black short-sleeved shirt, form-fitting dark canvas pants, and the leather belt that gave her a simple yet authoritative look.
She tied her red hair into a neat ponytail, adjusting her rectangular glasses on her nose.
Mirac, carefully rummaging through Blake's chaotic wardrobe, opted for a black shirt and matching canvas pants, ensuring his mask was securely in place to conceal his face.
Before heading downstairs, however, Carmen and Mirac made sure they had their Temporary Residence Permits with them, issued the previous evening by Garret and his guards at the west gate of Raerno.
After all, those documents weren't just residency cards but also served as provisional IDs, making them essential for registering with the Association.
Meanwhile, Blake took care of the clothes Carmen had washed the day before, carrying them to the small backyard. He hung them carefully on the clothesline, the rising sun already warming the red roof tiles.
He returned inside just in time to see Carmen and Mirac ready at the entrance.
Carmen had decided to leave both the sack of organs and the Raerno map—with its marked selling points—at home, planning to retrieve them after the entrance test.
Blake slipped on his boots, grabbed his keys from the carabiner, and didn't forget to bring the crumpled paper where he'd noted, during his week of exploration, all the Dungeons he'd found—luckily not lost in the backpack left in the Rogthar cave, as he was the type to always keep important things, like his house keys, on him.
Once ready, Blake opened the wooden door, the dragon-shaped knocker letting out a faint metallic clank.
The morning light flooded the threshold, casting reflections on the pale stone facade.
"W-Well… let's go, then," Blake said, his voice low and lacking its usual enthusiasm.
With him leading the way, followed by Carmen and Mirac, the trio stepped out, Raerno's cobblestone streets stretching before them, ready to guide them to the Association.