Chương 10: Chapter 9 — Dewey

Releasing her hold on the man, Chelsea wriggled her way out from under him, the heat of his smoldering clothes still prickling against her skin. The ground was blackened where the flames had licked across it, ash and embers rising in lazy spirals. Her own tunic steamed faintly as the last of the fire clung to it. The burning haze made it hard to see beyond a few strides. Shapes wavered in the heat, flickering and bending like mirages. At last she picked out the proctor's outline ahead and staggered toward him.

"Hey," she asked, her tone edged with sheepishness, "is defeating him with his own magic allowed?" The proctor's eyes widened, his usually steady voice breaking with urgency.

"Are you okay?!" he all but yelled over the roar of the fire crackling in her ears.

"Are demons not fireproof? I assumed they were," she asked, brushing soot from the fabric on her arms. Chelsea was impressed with whatever the seamstress mad e this out of. It was on fire, but it was not melting or burning.

"Some higher bloodlines maybe," he said, calming a fraction, "but no... most aren't." His gaze flicked toward the flames licking at her sleeves.

"Let's get your clothes put out before you end up naked out here." That thought had not crossed her mind until now. She glanced down at her tunic and yelped, "Oh my god, yes, please. Hurry, hurry, hurry." Bright words shimmered faintly in the corner of her vision, as if the world itself was trying to hand her a message. But the glare and shifting light made them unreadable. Two guards approached, carrying a heavy wooden trough between them.

Water sloshed over the rim as they staggered closer, then tipped it up, dumping half the contents over her head and shoulders. Steam billowed as the last of the flames died. The sudden weight of the water plastered her hair to her face in dripping clumps.

"Thanks, guys," she muttered, shoving it back with both hands. The guards lugged the trough toward Mardie's remains, careful as they tipped the rest over him. Steam hissed louder this time, rising in a white cloud from the blackened corpse.

"Those two were brothers," the proctor explained grimly. His eyes lingered on the body a moment before shifting to Chelsea again.

"The third guy isn't with them, but..." His words trailed, then he finished more firmly, "This one, you'll actually have trouble with. If you can, refrain from killing him. Among other things, he shows promise." Chelsea blinked, confusion flickering across her face.

"You're the ones throwing them at me. I don't even want to be here." Before the proctor could respond, a sound cut through the hiss of dying flames, slow, deliberate footsteps. Heavy enough that the ground itself seemed to thud in rhythm. Out of the haze emerged a towering figure. Shoulders broader than the proctor's, arms corded thick with muscle, his shadow seemed to swallow the space around him. Compared to him, even the proctor looked diminished, like a man standing next to a mountain.

"Grimble," the man said simply. His head was shaved smooth, the sun catching on the bare skin, but his beard was thick and full, braided in places like he took pride in its upkeep. His frame was massive, every inch of him wrapped in furs and battered leather that looked built for surviving harsh winters and harder battles. To Chelsea, he wasn't just big, he was the kind of big that made the air feel smaller around him, like he carried his own gravity.

On his back rested a double-bladed axe so large it looked like it should belong on display in a fortress hall, not slung casually across a man's shoulders.

"Dewey," the proctor returned evenly. Chelsea blinked.

"Hold on. A behemoth like yourself is named Dewey?" She tilted her head, dumbfounded.

"I was expecting Magnus. Or Tank. Something that rumbles when you say it. But Dewey?" The big man did not so much as twitch.

"My father fought the demon hordes," he said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that rolled through the plaza. Chelsea felt it more than heard it.

"He told me many stories. Never did he say they were crafty. He would use words like mindless." The words should have stung, but Chelsea found herself closing her eyes, savoring the sound of his voice. She could have listened to him all day. Please continue. When no more came, she opened one eye and found his gaze locked firmly on her.

"Wait. Was that supposed to be an insult to my people? Please, as long as you keep talking, you can insult all you want." He grunted, unimpressed.

"She's stalling. What are the rules?"

"Yes," the proctor answered.

"This will be unarmed combat. No spells, abilities, or weapons will be allowed." Dewey reached behind him, unfastened his axe, and with one smooth motion held it out to the side. He opened his hand. The weapon fell like a stone, striking the ground with a metallic crash that echoed off the plaza walls. Chelsea noted a fist-sized rock cracked faintly under the weight. Chelsea's eyes widened. That thing had to weigh over a hundred pounds.

"How are you a lowest-rank adventurer?" she asked, almost shyly.

"Can only sign up at the guild when you are eighteen years old," he replied without hesitation. His voice was even, not hostile.

"I have been a member for a year. This is my advancement assessment." Wait. He wasn't threatening her. He wasn't taunting her. He was polite. Courteous, even. Nineteen? Chelsea's jaw nearly dropped. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties.

"Oh." Her cheeks warmed, and she quickly covered them with her hands. No. She was not allowed to have a crush on someone sent to kill her. Absolutely not.

"What do you need to accomplish to advance, exactly?" she asked, forcing her voice to steady.

"Defeat the monster assigned to me." Chelsea's lips tightened.

"First off, I'm not a monster. Second, defeat me? Not kill?" He paused, clearly considering.

"I have never defeated a monster without killing it," he admitted at last.

"Same thing." She sighed. So she would have to win this one too. Dewey shifted slightly, squaring his shoulders.

"I have a question," he said, voice low and deliberate.

"How do you know Adriane?" Before Chelsea could react, the proctor stepped in, hurried.

"You two know the rules. You may begin." Annoyed, Chelsea glanced over at the proctor and instantly regretted it. A fist the size of a cinder block smashed into her face before she even realized it was coming. The blow lifted her clean off her feet, hurling her backward across the plaza. She hit the ground hard, skidding several feet before coming to a stop. Pain radiated across her skull, explosive and hot, but not nearly as unbearable as she expected. Her jaw ached, her vision swam, yet she could still move.

He's holding back, she thought, half grateful and half insulted. But the look on his face was not one of restraint. It was confusion.

"You're not dead," he rumbled, the words more observation than question.

"No, you asshole! That hurt!" Chelsea snapped back, her voice cracking as she pushed herself upright. Adrenaline surged, and before her brain could talk her out of it, her legs were already carrying her toward him. She had no plan. Charging a man built like a mountain was insane, but stopping was not an option. The giant swung again, his arm cutting through the air like a battering ram. She ducked, felt the rush of displaced wind graze her hair, and latched onto his wrist.

Using the momentum of her sprint, she leapt, her body going horizontal against his massive arm. With both legs tucked, she snapped them out, heels slamming into his face. At the same time, she yanked down on his wrist, doubling the force of her strike. The impact was sickening. A crunch echoed through the plaza, bone giving way beneath her kick. The sensation jarred her, dragging up the unwelcome memory of her horns piercing Judd's eye socket. She let go as he staggered back, his balance broken.

Chelsea hit the ground hard on her side, pain flashing up her ribs, but she scrambled up before the moment slipped away. He was falling, dazed and vulnerable, and she had to end this before he recovered. She pounced, hand angled like a blade, claws bared for his throat. But before the strike landed, a hand clamped around her wrist. Not just strong. Absolute. Her whole arm stopped as if she had been caught in iron. She twisted on instinct, expecting strain, a shift, anything. Nothing moved.

"That's enough." The voice cut through her frenzy, calm and commanding. Chelsea froze. She turned her head and saw Adriane holding her wrist, her expression smooth to the point of being unreadable. No anger. No alarm. If anything, that made it worse. Chelsea's gaze dropped to the man sprawled on the ground. His face was a ruin of blood and shattered cartilage, his nose crushed almost flat. He was not moving. He was not even conscious.

"How?" Chelsea breathed, still trying to process. With the impossibly powerful grip on her wrist, Chelsea began noticing… things… about her maid. Odd scary things. Adriane leaned closer. Her movements were economical, almost unnervingly precise, as though she had already calculated exactly where to stand, how loud to speak, how long to look at her.

"The king is coming," she said, low and urgent.

"You don't know how you did it. You don't know anything about your enhancement. Say it was a lucky shot."

"Adriane," the proctor whispered, his voice almost lost beneath the steady approach of armored boots.

"Stay out of it. This is royal business. You don't need to..." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Grimble," Adriane cut in. Her tone was sweet. Soft, even. That made the words worse.

"With all the love in my heart, shut the fuck up and don't say anything to anyone." The dwarf-like man froze, lips pressed tight. For one strange second, Chelsea thought he might argue anyway. Then something in Adriane's stare made that thought die before it reached his mouth. He exhaled a long, beleaguered sigh and rubbed at his forehead with two thick fingers, the gesture equal parts frustration and resignation.

The clanking of steel grew louder, an entire retinue of soldiers, heavy and disciplined, their steps hammering against the plaza stones. Grimble straightened his posture and put on his most professional face, slipping into his role without further protest.

"I can have the healers look him over," he announced loudly enough for the king's party to hear. He gestured toward Dewey's unconscious form, adopting a tone of practiced calm.

"Most likely just a broken nose. No need to worry, Miss Chelsea." Chelsea caught the cue and forced her own expression into something softer, more appropriate. She looked down at Dewey, letting her brows knit together in worry. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, blood still trickling from the mangled wreck of his nose. Her claws flexed involuntarily, guilt gnawing at her.

"Is there any way I can get an update on him?" she asked, voice carefully measured.

"You know... just to make sure he's okay?" Grimble glanced discreetly at the king for guidance. The monarch gave a single approving nod, and Grimble inclined his head.

"I will send a messenger to the castle when he is back on his feet."

"Out of curiosity," the king interjected, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the courtyard. His gaze pinned her in place.

"Why are you concerned about him when you killed the other two?" The word killed landed like a slap. Chelsea's body stiffened, a tremor running through her shoulders. She swallowed hard before answering.

"To be honest," she said, voice quieter than before, "he was respectful. He didn't threaten to harm me or seek revenge. He just wanted to rank up with the guild. I can respect that." The king's expression shifted, the faintest flicker of approval crossing his stern features.

"Commendable," he said at last. He turned slightly, gesturing to Adriane without looking at her.

"Servant girl, see that the message reaches her."

"Yes, your excellency," Adriane replied smoothly, dipping her head in a controlled bow. Too controlled, Chelsea thought suddenly. Even her obedience looked deliberate. The king returned his attention to Chelsea.

"Any idea yet what your enhancement does?" She shook her head.

"As of now, no. It just says 'locked' with 'soul-marked' next to it." The king's brows furrowed, but only briefly. He gave a single, decisive nod.

"Shame. You are free to return to your room and prepare for lunch. Afterward, we will convene with our experts, who are standing by to offer their opinion on a class for you." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, his retinue falling into step around him as they made their way back toward the looming shadow of the castle. The rhythm of armored boots faded slowly with distance. Chelsea exhaled once they were gone and crouched beside Dewey, brushing her fingers over his forearm with a faint touch.

"I'm so sorry about your nose," she whispered. Adriane made a short, unladylike snort, quickly stifled as she straightened her posture again. Chelsea glanced up at her, grinning despite the horrific events of the day.

"Seriously, what is your deal?" she whispered, amusement tugging at her lips. But Adriane did not answer. Her posture had gone still in a way that did not look natural, chin lifted, eyes fixed straight ahead on the retreating figure of the king. Not watching him leave. Measuring him. The walk back past the group of men, now three fewer than before, felt heavier than the first time. The stares no longer carried just the broad, familiar hatred for her race, they carried something more, something personal.

Real malice radiated from their eyes, the kind born of grief looking for a target. Their silence pressed like a weight on her shoulders, until one man finally broke it.

"Can't believe you're protecting that scum," he muttered, loud enough that it might as well have been shouted. His gaze lingered on Adriane, not Chelsea.

"How far you've fallen." Adriane's hand closed around Chelsea's before she could even glance back. The grip was vice-tight, almost punishing. Not wild. Controlled. Chelsea looked up, startled, but Adriane never turned around. She just kept walking, long strides dragging Chelsea forward with silent insistence. It hurt, but Chelsea bit her tongue and kept moving, recognizing that this was not the time to complain. The proctor's measured authority was gone.

All that was left was Adriane's unrelenting pull toward the castle. At the looming gates, Adriane finally let go. The release was abrupt, her fingers leaving faint crescents in Chelsea's skin. Their pace slowed, smoothed over into something almost casual, as though nothing had happened. Under her breath, Adriane muttered a single word.

"Idiots." Chelsea caught it, but the way she said it made the word feel colder than it should have. She tucked the question away. There would be time later. They made it back to the room. Even Charles, sandwiched silently in the elevator, survived the tense ride without catching Adriane's temper. At the suite, the attendant entered first, and Chelsea trailed after, flashing one of the guards a bright smile and patting his armored shoulder with a breezy "Good job."

Then she pushed the door shut and leaned her back against it, letting out a breath she had not realized she was holding. Adriane did not pause. She moved like a bloodhound catching a scent, sweeping from corner to corner with relentless precision. Chelsea slid down until she was sitting on the floor, knees up, head tilted as she watched Adriane stalk through the room. A crunch broke the silence, the sound oddly brittle, like glass or crystal snapping under pressure. Adriane did not react.

She just kept going, eyes narrowed. She tore through the mattress, hands probing deep. Crunch. Into the bathroom. Silence, then another crunch. Back out. Pacing. Searching. It went on and on, methodical and merciless. Chelsea tried counting, but lost track after eight. The rhythm of the breaking, the searching, the silence was hypnotic. By the time Adriane stopped, there had to have been close to twenty. Finally, Adriane turned, one finger raised. Chelsea blinked. Wait? Stay put? She was not sure.

But the attendant gestured for her to come closer, so she scrambled to her feet and obeyed. Adriane muttered something under her breath, and suddenly a translucent yellow wall shimmered into being, sealing the stone around the door.

"Wha..." Chelsea began, but Adriane was already pressing a finger to her lips. The gesture should have been ordinary. It was not. Her eyes were sharp enough to halt the word in Chelsea's throat before the touch ever could. Adriane squinted into the air, scanning the invisible with the intensity of a hunter scenting prey. For a long, taut moment she seemed to weigh the silence itself, then turned abruptly.

"Miss Chelsea, let me go draw you a bath," she said in a voice pitched for any listening ears. Chelsea hesitated, then gave a quick nod, slipping into the role Adriane had carved out for her.

"Sure," she said, squinting at Adriane's back, trying to make sense of her constant vigilance. She followed the woman into the bathroom without protest. Inside, Adriane wheeled around immediately, casting the same yellow wall against the stone as the door sealed behind them. The barrier shimmered faintly, then steadied. She lifted a finger again, pausing, straining, eyes narrowed. The silence stretched, heavy and waiting. Then Adriane let out a long, measured sigh.

"Okay," she said at last, voice low but steady.

"We're free to speak."

"What the hell was all that?" Chelsea demanded, her voice bouncing a little too echo-y off the tiled walls.

"Peering stones," Adriane answered smoothly as she lowered herself onto a cushioned bench near the vanity. Her posture was calm, but her eyes still carried the edge of vigilance.

"Say what you want about this kingdom, but their spy network is second to none. The stones let their maker listen to everything within a fixed range. That..." she flicked her fingers toward the shimmering yellow wall still humming faintly in the room, "is a basic shield spell. Good for defense, better for soundproofing." Chelsea blinked, trying to absorb it.

"Who are you?" she asked after a pause, her voice quieter, tinged with genuine unease. Instead of answering, Adriane stood.

"Let me actually run you a bath first," she said, as if that were the most natural response in the world.

"I'll explain everything once you're in."

"Ah!" Chelsea squeaked, springing a little on her toes.

"In front of you? I already bathed this morning!" Adriane raised a brow. Nothing more. Somehow that was enough to make Chelsea feel like she had just said something incredibly stupid.

"Yeah, you did," Adriane replied finally.

"And then you rolled around in burning leather and mystery barn water. You reek of charred flesh and mildew. I'm not sure what that trough was, but it had green floating on top." Chelsea wrinkled her nose.

"Still, you don't have to be in here." Adriane tilted her head with genuine puzzlement.

"This isn't even the body you grew up with. Why are you acting shy about it? Besides, I have a little sister. I'm used to this sort of thing." Chelsea opened her mouth to argue, then stalled.

"Yeah, but..." She frowned, thought for a moment, and sighed.

"Actually... fair point." Adriane took that small victory without comment. Instead, she leaned against the vanity, folding her arms.

"So. Explain to me what you know about the enhancement so far." Chelsea crossed her arms over her chest stubbornly.

"No. Not until you tell me who you are." The attendant dipped her hand into the steaming bathwater and gave a satisfied nod.

"Fair enough. Water's perfect. Though..." Her eyes flicked back up to Chelsea.

"Do you even feel temperatures? Hm. Doesn't matter. Not until I tell you everything." Chelsea rolled her eyes but began peeling off her ruined, soot-streaked clothes. She felt awkward, exposed, but she managed to slip into the tub, sinking down until the water swallowed her shoulders. When she resurfaced, wet bangs clinging to her face, Adriane was standing exactly where she had been before, as if she had not moved an inch she had not needed to.

"So. Let's start from the beginning," Adriane said, voice settling into a steady cadence.

"The kingdom allied with two others to summon you. They pooled their resources for the ritual. Now, hypothetically, if you were one of those three nations, responsible for maintaining this ridiculously expensive summoned being, what would you do to keep her safe? And, just as importantly, what would you do to keep your kingdom safe from her, in case things went wrong?" Chelsea squinted at her, working through the layers of that question.

"You're an adventurer? They hired you and made you pretend to be a maid?" Adriane's lips curved slightly. Not quite a smile.

"Both true."

"And you're not just some random hire, are you? They wouldn't risk putting someone weak next to me."

"Right again," Adriane said with no trace of arrogance.

"I'm the only rank S across the three kingdoms." She let that sit for a moment before adding, almost offhandedly, "And I have my own reasons for taking this job."

"Cool," Chelsea replied with a calmness she did not quite feel.

"That's good, right?" Adriane let out a breath that might have been a laugh in less intimidating company.

"Yes, hon. It's the highest rank. There are only a handful of us on the continent." Chelsea blinked, taken aback.

"So, that's why I couldn't get out of your grasp earlier when I went to kill..." Her voice trailed, cheeks warming as she realized where her mind was drifting, thinking about that giant kid with the beard.

"No," Adriane cut in, voice firm. Chelsea tilted her head.

"No? Then why were you so strong?"

"Not that," Adriane said quickly, leaning forward, eyes narrowing.

"Get that look off your face. Dewey is off-limits." Chelsea froze.

"Oh. Oh no, no. Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Are you two together!?" Adriane stared at her for a long, unreadable moment.

"No," she said at last.

"He's my baby brother." Chelsea blinked.

"Ooooh." She sank back into the bath, the steaming water rippling as she let her hands drift across the surface. Her face began to pink again despite herself. Adriane caught it instantly.

"Chelsea!" Adriane scolded… almost playfully? Chelsea jerked her head up faster than if Adriane had shouted.

"I didn't say anything!" she argued, but her tone came out defensive, guilty even.

"He's an idealistic oaf who would kill you just because you appear to be a demon," Adriane warned, brows drawing tighter.

"Do not romanticize this." Chelsea's lips pressed together, then parted again.

"But is he with anyone?" Adriane's stare went flat.

"We are done talking about my brother now." The authority in her tone left no room for negotiation. Chelsea shrank a little into the bath, cheeks hot, the water suddenly feeling much too small a place to hide. Adriane folded her arms.

"So. Tell me more about your enhancement." Chelsea huffed, sending a ripple across the bathwater.

"Fine. So it's called The Perfect Outfit. Obviously, you know it's soul-marked. It says there are two effects. The first effect is..." She lifted her hand and traced a finger through the surface of the water, drawing idle circles.

"'All wearable items automatically size to fit you perfectly when entering your area of influence.'""Okay," Adriane said slowly, in the same tone someone might use while inspecting a suspicious knife.

"That's... not great. But keep going. What's the second effect?" She pulled up her status eye… thing…

"Tier 4," Chelsea said simply. She hesitated, then frowned.

"Oh, actually... it said Tier 1 the last time I checked it."

"That's all it says?" Adriane rubbed at the bridge of her nose, exhaling in frustration.

"I have a theory." She reached down without hesitation and picked up one of Chelsea's shed clothes from the floor, a red tunic. Or at least, it should have been red. The fabric was blackened, cut nearly to ribbons. Chelsea's furrowed her brows.

"What? That makes no sense. It was just fine a few minutes ago."

"I think your enhancement actively repairs items while you're wearing or wielding them," Adriane said.

"Remember the wooden sword in that first round?" Chelsea opened her mouth, then closed it again as the memory clicked. Adriane did not wait for her to catch up. She held out the ruined tunic.

"Here. Hold out your arm." Chelsea obeyed, stretching out her arm with a puzzled look. Adriane slipped the tunic over it, and in an instant, the charred tatters rewove themselves, color flooding back into the cloth until it was whole again, red and vibrant, as if brand new. Chelsea gasped, then laughed in disbelief.

"Well, that seems handy." She twisted her arm to admire the restored fabric, water dripping down her skin.

"It's a great thing to have, no doubt," Adriane admitted. Her eyes studied the garment with the same unreadable focus she seemed to give everything.

"But I still don't get it. It's not a true repair because..." She pulled the tunic off Chelsea's arm, and as soon as it left Chelsea's body, the vibrant red bled back to blackened rags in Adriane's hands. Chelsea's eyes widened.

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