The headache arrived before the light did.

  Dane stirred with a groan, each movement drawing protest from muscles that felt like he'd been mana-starved. His mouth was dry, with a taste stuck in it somewhere between copper and ash; his tongue felt like it had been sandpapered in his sleep. He wished he had some water and, more importantly, knew where the hell he was. Rough-hewn wooden beams, faintly charred near the far corner. A laundry line strung above the door with two pairs of stockings, one of which still had a dagger tucked in the cuff.

  He shifted slightly and realized two things. First, he was naked beneath a silk sheet. Second, there was someone else in the bed. Her leg was draped over his hip, and her dark hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled ink. Dane stared up at the ceiling, a long breath dragging through his lungs.

  He tried to reconstruct the night. He remembered Jason. His drink smelled like floor cleaner. The second one tasted like floor cleaner: the tavern noise, the laughter. Someone dared him to arm wrestle three guards. He lost for sure. Or maybe he had won; he couldn't recall. There was something about a song, then a toast. Jason was shouting his name like it meant something.

  The woman beside him shifted, murmuring something into the pillow before settling back into sleep.

  Dane sat up carefully, the blanket sliding off his chest. His system interface blinked faintly in the corner of his vision, several notifications ignored, two messages unopened, and one injury flagged as "mild but stupid."

  He reached for a pair of pants that he didn't remember purchasing.

  As he stood and stretched, he caught a glimpse of himself in the smudged mirror propped against the wall. His hair was a mess. His eyes were ringed with fatigue and shadows that no sleep could scrub out.

  Still, his lips twitched faintly in half a smirk.

  Dane wanted nothing more than to go home and clean up, but he needed to sort his resupply out first. His pickaxes needed some TLC. To do that, he needed to raid the treasury and see Amelia.

  The dirt path was pitted by the footsteps that looked to have been dragged from the training grounds. The fifth floor was a deserted city ruin. The crumbling wooden buildings had a Scandinavian feel with a dwarven twist. The teakwood was embellished with gold script, shattered ruins that had lost their magic. The sky was bleak and grey. "At least there is a day and night cycle here." Dane thought out loud.

  He heard the ringing of swords and the thud of wooden shields absorbing their impact. Underneath all of that was Amelia's voice, "Keep your guard up, we may be dealing with blunted weapons, but we have to take the first floor next week. If you get sloppy now, you won't make it back."

  Dane watched the drills in silence, patiently waiting for the conclusion. He noticed many flaws in the form of the swordsmen, spearmen, and shieldbearers. The individual form may have been less than perfect, but what the militia excelled in was the unison that they had. No one took a step that wasn't covered by someone else.

  He couldn't bring himself to jump in and offer critiques that he knew the troops would need. He felt as if he hadn't earned the right to instruct his army. More than half of the faces were unfamiliar, and he didn't know a single name. He was a king with a paper crown.

  The drills concluded with the archers focusing on rapid fire. This was supposed to be at the beginning of the siege, but they drilled at the end because it was going to be the most time-intensive part of the raid.

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  "Alright, everyone, that's good work for today. You are dismissed," Amelia said to the militia.

  Dane waited for the dust to settle and the echo of bootsteps to fade into the silence of the ruined city. Only when the last of the recruits filed out did he move. His footsteps were quiet and deliberate. The training field, once a market square, now bore scars of both war and rebirth: lines drawn in chalk, divots from drills, a makeshift target dummy propped up with scavenged rope and stubborn optimism.

  Amelia stood at the edge of the square, peeling off her bracers like someone disassembling a weapon. Her hair was tied up in a rough knot, her neck damp with sweat. She didn't look up.

  "You planning just to lurk there, or are you going to make yourself useful?"

  Dane smirked faintly. "Didn't want to interrupt the drill sergeant mid-execution."

  She shot him a glance. "You've looked better."

  "You should see the other guy," he muttered. "Asshole in the mirror nearly took me out."

  Amelia's eyes flicked over him with clinical detachment. "You look older."

  "Yeah. I am."

  "It's only been four weeks."

  "Not for me."

  She didn't respond. Just pulled a strip of cloth from her belt pouch and wiped down the staff she'd been using as a teaching stick. "Time dilation. Figures."

  "Nice to see you too."

  "Spare me the reunion talk," she said, finally meeting his eyes. "You coming back doesn't change the raid. If you're planning to get involved, I need your gear squared away, your mana stable, and no surprises. I don't care what Jason dragged you into."

  Dane gave a humorless laugh. "He dragged me into something that tasted like floor cleaner and possibly shaved years off my life."

  "He should bottle that," she said flatly. "Might kill fewer people than his advice."

  She turned away again, already halfway toward the supply crates near the ruined wall.

  "You did good work out here," Dane said, quieter now.

  Amelia didn't slow. "Not good enough. We're not ready for the first floor. They're holding formation because I'm standing in front of them. Take me out, and it falls apart."

  He nodded slowly. "Then I'll be standing next to you."

  That, at least, made her stop.

  "You're serious?"

  "I'm not here to take a vacation."

  "You're not even wearing proper boots."

  Dane looked down. "That's fair."

  "Go see Murphy. Get cleaned up. Get armed. And if you're planning to jump back in, I expect you to know the plan and not get sentimental about it." She tossed him two round coins with a hammer on one side and a basket on the other. The coin was the size of a silver dollar but was made of cheap, pot metal.

  Her tone was sharp, just enough to let him know this wasn't a welcome-back parade. She didn't care that he'd aged. She didn't care that he looked half-starved or sleep-deprived. She cared whether he could pull his weight.

  Dane let the silence stretch. "Got it."

  "Good," she said. "Now get out of my line of sight before I start assigning drills."

  He turned to leave.

  "Dane," she added, her voice quieter this time.

  He stopped, halfway past the edge of the training square. She was stringing her bow in slow, deliberate motions, not like she was in a rush, but like her fingers needed something to do. Her gaze stayed fixed on the string, but her shoulders shifted, the set of them easing just slightly. Like letting go of a breath she didn't want to admit she was holding.

  "Don't make me regret waiting for you." She spoke softly, as if the words weren't meant to escape.

  She glanced his way, just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for her eyes to betray what her voice wouldn't, warmth, then it was gone, tucked behind the practiced efficiency of a hunter at work.

  Dane didn't say anything. He just nodded once, sharp and straightforward. He reflected on what she had said, and then he turned with reluctance and walked off, the sound of his boots fading into the ruined city's silence. And behind him, Amelia let her fingers rest on the bowstring a moment too long, then slowly unstrung it, as if training was over for now.

  Having never been a slave on this floor, Dane couldn't help but notice the elven encampments were identical. It was like someone had hit copy-paste on tyranny. The smithy was where he remembered: tucked behind the barracks, next to the rusting racks of broken tools and discarded armor. It had once served as the repair hub for slave equipment, including pickaxes, wheelbarrows, and the occasional training sword, oiled just enough to prevent it from falling apart. Something inside the building reached out to Dane; it felt like an old friend.