The morning sun filtered through the curtains of the guest room, warm and soft. Oliver had barely slept, mind turning over Isolde's words again and again.

Finally, he sat up, exhaled, and said quietly:

"…I'll do it."

Isolde, already braiding her hair at the vanity, glanced over with a knowing smirk.

"So you've decided?"

"Yeah," Oliver nodded. "I'll join the expedition."

She didn't react dramatically—just a small, satisfied smile.

"And your condition?"

"It still stands." He stretched his neck. "No one can know it's me. Not the other adventurers, not the soldiers, and definitely not the otherworlders."

Isolde hummed. "Then tell her. Before breakfast."

*****

The group was escorted to a small sitting room where Princess Elisha waited, sipping tea with Ronald standing behind her.

Elisha brightened immediately.

"You're early! I thought you all were exhausted last night."

Oliver stepped forward.

"Princess… I've decided. I will participate in the Velanthris expedition."

Ariana beamed.

"Yes! Finally!"

Even Ronald managed a faint approving nod.

But Oliver raised a hand.

"—But there's a condition."

Elisha blinked. "A condition?"

"My identity must remain hidden. Completely. I'll join the expedition, but disguised. You can't disclose who I am to anyone."

A hush fell over the room.

Ariana looked confused.

Isolde kept a straight face.

Elisha frowned slightly.

"…Why? You do not seem the type who enjoys theatrics."

Oliver shrugged lightly. "It's just something personal. I don't want to say more."

Elisha studied him for a long moment.

His expression was serious but calm.

And she knew better than to pry too deeply into a warrior's past.

Finally, she nodded.

"Very well. If that is your wish… I shall honour it. Your identity will remain between us."

Ronald bowed in agreement.

"Thank you," Oliver said sincerely.

******

Elisha tried again, hopeful:

"Since you are heading back anyway, why not stay a little longer? I can show you the capital—the gardens, the sky bridge, the magical academy district—"

Isolde cut in smoothly:

"We appreciate the offer, Princess. Truly. But we've been resting too long. They may be younger, but that doesn't mean they can slack off."

Oliver groaned. "Can't we at least enjoy a day—"

"No."

Ariana muttered, "…She didn't even hesitate."

Seraphine simply nodded, expression calm.

"Master requires optimal preparation before a high-risk mission."

Oliver sighed.

"She's taking your side too…?"

Isolde smirked triumphantly.

Elisha puffed her cheeks a little—not quite offended, but disappointed.

"…Then at least let me accompany you to the gate."

The group walked side by side with Elisha down the long walkway. Servants bowed from both sides; knights saluted as Elisha passed.

At the grand palace gate, she finally stopped.

"Remember," Elisha said, clasping her hands behind her back, "you must return before next week's expedition briefing."

Oliver nodded.

"We will."

"Take care," she said softly. "…All of you."

Ariana waved enthusiastically.

"See you soon, Your Highness!"

Isolde just gave a cool nod.

Seraphine bowed politely.

"Acknowledged."

Elisha's eyes lingered on Oliver just a little longer than necessary—a small smile tugging at her lips.

Then she stepped back.

"Until next week."

The group turned away and walked into the bustle of the capital streets.

And the moment they were out of sight—

Isolde cracked her knuckles.

"Alright, Oliver. Enough resting. Back to training."

Oliver groaned.

"Damn it… you didn't forget."

"Of course not."

Ariana sighed in despair.

"I should've joined a quieter party…"

Seraphine simply tilted her head.

"Initiating training mode?"

Oliver gave up.

"…Yeah, sure. Let's just go."

The next week would be brutal.

***

The inn room looked like a battlefield.

Burn marks on the floor.

Splinters everywhere.

A dozen wooden dolls in various states of mutilation — missing limbs, cracked torsos, some straight-up incinerated.

And in the middle of that chaos…

Isolde stood with her arms crossed, foot tapping the floor impatiently.

Oliver sat cross-legged on the ground holding a runic pen, shoulders slumped, face covered in tiny soot patches. One of the wooden dolls still smoked beside him.

Seraphine-01 sat on the bed with perfect posture, legs crossed, calmly observing the devastation like it was a nature documentary.

"Again," Isolde snapped.

Oliver groaned, grabbing another wooden doll from the pile. "Isolde… I swear this little bastard exploded on purpose."

"It's unpowered wood, Oliver."

Isolde's expression deadpan.

"That's like accusing a chair of attempted murder."

"She's correct," Seraphine added in her soft monotone, tilting her head. "Likelihood of wooden object developing hostile intent: 0.0001 percent. Margin of error: negligible."

Oliver glared. "Not helping."

Isolde knelt beside him and snatched the ruined doll from his hand.

"Look," she said, pointing at the charred rune. "I told you twelve times — the movement stroke must be carved at a forty-degree angle. You carved it at sixty."

"They look the same!" Oliver retorted.

Bam.

"OW!"

Oliver grabbed his head where Isolde flicked him… very hard.

"Do not," she said through gritted teeth, "insult rune theory by saying that these two strokes look the same."

Seraphine nodded solemnly from the side.

"Master's observational accuracy is below standard parameters."

"Seraphine—! You too?!"

She blinked.

"Diagnosis: 78 percent probability Master is simply bad at fine-angle precision."

Isolde cleared her throat. "Seraphine… stop bullying him."

Seraphine nodded obediently.

Oliver mumbled, "Traitor…"

Isolde placed a fresh wooden doll in his lap. "This time, follow exactly what I do."

She sat behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, guiding his hand with the pen. Her warm breath brushed his ear.

"Relax your wrist," she murmured. "Runes respond to intention. If you carve with hesitation, they destabilize."

Oliver tried to focus but… this position was not helping.

"Um… can you not breathe on my neck while teaching me?"

"No," she said flatly. "You learn faster like this."

Seraphine spoke in her typical neutral tone.

"Data supports this. Master's heart rate spikes by 22 percent, blood circulation increases… cognitive focus temporarily heightened."

Oliver turned red. "Stop monitoring my vitals without permission!"

Isolde ignored them both.

With her hand over his, she guided him through a graceful, precise stroke, letting the pen glide smoothly along the wooden surface.

"Good," she whispered. "Now the second stroke, curve it gently— not like you're stabbing someone."

"I don't stab people gently either," he muttered.

Another whack landed on his head.

"OW— OKAY, okay!"

By the time they finished the sequence, a flawless mini-rune glowing faintly appeared on the doll.

Oliver blinked. "…I did it?"

"Correct," Seraphine confirmed. "Movement rune stabilized. Forty-degree precision achieved."

Isolde sat back with a smug smile. "See? You're teachable."

Oliver exhaled proudly. "Finally. Now what?"

Isolde pointed at the doll. "Tell it to walk."

Oliver stared at the tiny wooden doll.

"…Walk?"

The rune pulsed.

The wooden doll twitched—

Then took one jerky step.

Then another.

Then it wobbled—

And fell face-first with an "onk."

"…It moved," Oliver said triumphantly.

Isolde pinched the bridge of her nose. "Barely."

"Success probability for further movement: 0.3 percent," Seraphine noted.

Oliver threw his hands up. "Hey! Don't kill my confidence!"

Isolde smirked. "We'll spend all day making sure you can carve that rune in your sleep."

*****

The charred remains of yet another wooden doll dropped from Oliver's fingers with a sad little plop.

Smoke curled upward.

Oliver coughed, waving it away. "Okay, that one wasn't my fault. The grain in the wood was weird."

Isolde slowly turned her head toward him, vein ticking. "The grain… made you carve a rune that literally loops back into itself?"

"That's… a possibility," Oliver muttered.

"Master Oliver's logic is flawed," Seraphine said cheerfully from the corner, sitting perfectly straight on the floor with a notepad in her lap. "Statistical probability of wood sabotaging your runic sequence: 0.00003 percent."

Oliver glared. "Why are you even logging that?"

"Because Mistress Isolde told me to monitor your incompetence."

"I said progress," Isolde corrected while massaging her temples. "Not incompetence. Don't twist my words."

Seraphine tilted her head. "My apologies. Shall I delete 'incompetence' and replace it with 'catastrophic failure rate'?"

"Seraphine," Oliver said flatly. "You're not helping."

Isolde clapped her hands once. "Alright, again. Pick up a fresh doll—"

"No—please—Isolde, I'm begging—give me five minutes of rest—"

"You will carve a simple command rune for 'walk.' Not 'explode,' not 'burn.' Walk. W-A-L-K."

Oliver groaned like a dying man but reached for another wooden doll. "I swear these dolls hate me."

"No," Isolde said sweetly. "I hate you. The dolls are innocent."

He stuck his tongue out at her, earning another sharp flick to the forehead.

Thwack.

"OW—!"

"Focus."

Oliver leaned in, shaping the rune carefully, tongue poking out ever so slightly in concentration.

The doll trembled.

The rune glowed.

Isolde leaned forward.

Seraphine observed with eerie calm.

The doll…

…took one wobbly step forward…

…and its head immediately snapped off and rolled across the room.

Oliver sighed, defeated. "…I'm making progress. I made it walk before it died."

Seraphine added another line to her notes. "Failure with partial success. Better than expected."

Isolde facepalmed. "Spirits help me…"

And right when she opened her mouth to lecture him again—

The door banged open.

Ariana stumbled in, holding two paper packets and a bag of skewers.

"Guys! Guys! I brought food—!!"

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