When Jack spoke again, his voice was calm and quiet. "You should leave that clan. They're dangerous, and they'll drag you down with them."

"No." Severance shook his head.

He looked sideways at Jack. The tank had a frown firmly etched into his face like it'd been engraved there. That bothered Severance a little, because while he still reeled under the revelation that Jack knew, he wanted the tank to see things from his perspective. He wanted to Jack to understand.

"One of them died protecting me," Severance told him. "There's so few of them already, and yet he didn't even hesitate. He left behind a son, who's almost the same age as me. He gave me a stupid nickname and I hate it, but he's okay. He's teaching me how to fight better."

Jack looked grim. "You won't leave them, then."

"No. And..." Severance hesitated, then admitted, "I can't. Like you said, I have several Gifts. They're powerful enough that if I left and lost them, I'd probably die. For real."

The tank sat very still. He didn't say a word.

"That's why I feel things now," Severance added. The lack of response made him uncomfortable. "It was pretty realistic before, but now I can't tell the difference. It's just like being on Earth, except I'm a lot taller and in way better shape."

Still, Jack said nothing. He stared stonily out at the world like a brooding statue.

"It makes dungeons tougher," Severance went on. "But it's fine. Being a healer helps a lot. As long as-"

"Enough," Jack said.

Severance shut up. Now the tank was glaring at him again. Great.

"I'd tell you to stay away from dungeons altogether, but you're not going to do that either, are you?" The accusation in that tone was sharp enough to cut.

Feeling almost embarrassed, Severance shook his head. "Can't. I have to reach level 50 as soon as I can."

"Do you now." It wasn't a question.

"There's this special dungeon," Severance said before he could stop himself. "It's important that I get to it first."

He cringed inwardly, because he knew his clan wouldn't be happy about him spilling the beans. But he couldn't help it. The words just kept coming out.

"Why?"

"Clan stuff," Severance hedged. "Either way, I can't let the other clans get it first."

Jack ran a hand through his hair, the movement sudden and sharp. "All right then." He tilted his head to fix Severance with a cold stare. "If you want to be a fool, then so be it."

Who asked for your opinion? It wasn't like he needed permission to do dungeons. It wouldn't even effect Jack Coyote anyway.

Severance had trouble understanding what was going through the tank's head. That was further compounded when he got a sudden system message.

Jack Coyote has sent you a friend request. Would you like to accept?

Severance stared at it. This didn't make sense. Wasn't Jack mad at him?

"Why?"

"Accept it," Jack commanded. "And next time you want to run a dungeon, message me."

Severance slowly turned his head, giving Jack a baffled stare. Nope, this still wasn't making sense. "Why?"

Jack looked annoyed. "I've seen enough soldiers self-destruct. I don't want to see it again. You want to keep doing this, you're going to need a shield."

"What? You want to-? Hang on." Severance shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around this. Jack was offering to tank for him? "You really don't have to do that. It's okay."

"I do," The tank said grimly. "We both know this place isn't a game. There's something going on, and I'm starting to think you're at the heart of it. You and your clan."

"I didn't say-"

"You did, actually. You said plenty, just not all with words." There was that almost-sneer again, curling one side of the tank's lips. "Another reason you need a shield. You wouldn't last five minutes with a real interrogator. Send me a message tomorrow. If you don't," Jack's eyes fairly glowed with cold promise, "I will find you."

Jack didn't wait for a response. He teleported away in a flash of violet.

The east wind blew across the wall and threaded through Severance's hair, cold and bitter. Still, the message floated before him:

Jack Coyote has sent you a friend request. Would you like to accept?

Severance shivered. Then he accepted it.

***

Time Elapsed: 04:24:52

When Severance arrived back at the Veiled House, a familiar face was there in the courtyard. It wasn't a face he was overly excited to see, either.

As far as teenagers went, Wellon had to be the creepiest one that existed. He didn't look like much, being the average teen with black hair and black eyes, but that was only if you didn't look closely at his face.

Wellon had perfected the art of a true neutral expression. No matter what he was thinking or feeling, he never showed it.

It made getting murdered by him all the more disturbing. Severance would know. He had gotten the full experience of what it was like getting stabbed in the back by the freaky teenager. It had been right after a disastrous dungeon run.

Those unpleasant memories were thoroughly shattered when he saw what Wellon was doing. It was strange: the teen was busy draping wet laundry over two lines that ran from the House to the outer guard wall. Severance stared, unsure if he was seeing correctly.

Having noticed his audience, Wellon looked up with a perfectly blank expression. Though there was no indication of it, Severance got the sense that he was being scowled at.

"What, you never see wet clothes before?"

"No," Severance reflexively responded. And then before he could slap the filter into place between his brain and mouth, he added, "It's just, well, I thought you'd be out killing small animals or something. Not doing laundry."

"I did the small animal killing before breakfast," Wellon said flatly. He peered between two hanging tunics to stare unblinkingly at Severance. "And after dinner, I move on to bigger things."

It was obvious as to what he was alluding to. But Severance couldn't bring himself to be bothered. Because despite how unsettling Wellon could be, the whole thing just seemed so trivial compared to well, everything else.

"Good for you." He halfheartedly shrugged, and then looked about to see if anyone else was nearby. Maybe Vast was around, though he suspected he'd have been bowled over by the giant furball already if he had been in the vicinity.

"Hmm," Wellon hummed.

A flicker of movement jolted Severance's instincts like a shock of electricity, and he leapt sideways, his toes propelling him ten feet before he'd even realized he'd moved.

Wellon stood right where he'd been, and for the first time, he actually looked shocked. Slowly, he turned to stare at Severance. And then his gaze dropped to the pitch-black marking on Severance's shoulder, where 5 leafy spokes spiraled out of a center point. Wellon's eyes tightened just a bit.

"I don't know what they see in you," the teen said coldly. "Our skills are wasted on you."

With that, he turned his back to Severance and proceeded to pull another pair of wet trousers from the basket. He slung them over the line, having apparently dismissed Severance entirely.

And Severance, having faced fire and rockets and the intimately awful sensation of being blown apart and restored over and over again, went rigid. He'd paid a price for those skills. He'd risked his own life for them, so he could get stronger as fast as he could to help these people.

Wasted? No. Not a chance in hell.

Wellon knew nothing.

He surprised them both—himself probably more than Wellon—when he snapped, "Then it's great they found out a good use for yours." He gestured at the laundry.

There was a sharp inhale of breath. Then Wellon was suddenly there in Severance's face, fist pulled back. Severance jerked his head aside. He felt the brush of wind as Wellon's attack hit nothing but air.

Surprise flickered in the teens' coal-black eyes, but only for a moment. Wellon pivoted at the hip and snapped up a leg. Severance twisted out of range, though not fast enough; the toe of Wellon's boot scraped the cloth covering Severance's torso. There was no damage done, but Severance realized that Wellon was fast, and to underestimate him would be extremely idiotic.

"Is dodging all you can do?" Wellon sneered. "Or can you actually hit back?"

Severance watched the teen warily. He was having trouble reconciling what he remembered of Wellon to this impulsive, overly angsty version of him. Had the kid always been this immature?

"I don't want to fight you."

The neutral expression returned to Wellon's face, masking his emotions once more. Though Severance could still see the subtle tension across the bridge of the nose, the tightness around the eyes told far more than Wellon probably realized.

"That's because you're a coward." Wellon feinted a low punch, then drove the heel of his palm straight up.

Severance drew back reflexively, but the teen's palm still clipped his chin. It snapped his head up and shot his vision full of stars. He staggered, tasting blood because he'd bitten his tongue. A large amount of hp had vanished with that single attack. It made him wonder whether he'd have died if he'd taken that hit fully.

Wellon stalked towards him. "You're weak. Useless. And if you'd even been good at the one thing you're supposed to be, then no one would have died. You're supposed to ensure our survival, but all you've done is get us killed."

There wasn't a shred of wind in the courtyard, yet Severance felt it howl in his ears. Before he knew it, he had his war fans in his hands. "Suppress."

A colorless blast of wind burst out, lacking either Dance, but that didn't stop it from ripping all the laundry off the line and tossing it several feet away. It slammed into Wellon, stunning him.

Severance snapped both fans shut. Then he stood in front of the teen, regarding him with a calm that he didn't feel. He wanted to lash out, to do something, but he didn't know what. It wasn't like he hadn't heard those very words before. He had, many times, because it's what he told himself thousands of times. And hearing it from Wellon made him realize that he was sick and tired of hearing it.

So he kept very still, locked in a silent struggle.

Finally, he said, "Maybe you should worry about yourself. Because if a healer can trap you this easily, that's kind of sad, isn't it?"

This close, he could see Wellon's throat work to swallow. He drew away, just as the paralysis wore off and Wellon sort of sagged. Severance turned and began to walk away, feeling drained. And maybe a little unsteady on his feet, because he couldn't believe what he'd just done. Threatening someone? Had he lost his mind? That so wasn't him.

That was more like Maun. And Dhin. And Wellon, for crying out loud.

"Great," he muttered to himself. Now he was starting to act like the kid. That was a terrible sign. I'm too tired for this crap, he decided.

After he saw Mouna, he was totally going to call it a night.

He found her at her usual spot; the workshop at the back of the House. She had two heavy metal cauldrons hanging over a large fire. Both were bubbling away, and the one she carefully stirred with a long wooden spoon gave off a delicious aroma.

The very sight of her was like a ray of sunlight piercing the gloom, and he found himself smiling a little as he approached. In an instant, he forgot entirely about Wellon and his stupid attitude.

"Hey."

She immediately paused her stirring and peered over her shoulder. He glimpsed dark eyes and a slender nose before she turned back to whatever she was making. It didn't offend him; he'd already learned that Mouna was the type to finish whatever she was doing before she'd give him her attention.

He wandered over to one of the stools and sat. Leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees, he watched as she added some dried green stuff to the one pot, stirred it, and then carefully stirred the contents of the other pot. The second brew didn't smell nice, and whatever she was boiling was lumpy and dark. If he had to guess, it wasn't even food she was boiling in that one, but leather.

Some time passed, but he barely even noticed, content to simply sit and do absolutely nothing but watch her. It was probably a little creepy in retrospect, but she didn't seem to notice or care. Eventually, she scooped up a small bowl from the edible pot and came over to sit next to him. She held the bowl cupped in both hands, blowing on it softly.

Curious, he leaned closer, their shoulders almost brushing, and peered at it. "Soup? Smells good."

She looked sideways at him through her lashes. Then she silently offered him the bowl, a silent question being asked.

He eyed it, hesitating. It did look pretty tasty. And it smelled kind of like the chicken vegetable soup Uncle Fenn used to make. Suddenly, he felt a powerful longing for something that he could never have again, and a quiet sorrow pulled at his heart. Maybe it was stupid, but he missed that soup more than anything at this moment.

"Yeah, I'll try it." He reached out to take it. So what if he didn't need to eat in this world? He wanted to taste this, even if it wasn't anything close to what his uncle made.

It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw her give the tiniest of smiles. Her soup wasn't anything like his uncle's cooking, but it was just as good. He even asked for seconds.