"First... need to make a paper cube..."

I spoke the words out loud, more to center myself than anything else. The morning light pooled through the curtains, painting the edges of my desk in a soft, golden wash. A breeze stirred the stack of untouched parchment at my side, as if eager to be folded.

The cube in question—[Paper and Pencells]—was what the Gloss classified as an Itemworlder cube.

Not me, mind you. I wasn't technically what people called an "Itemworlder." That term referred to someone whose entire combat style or progression relied on manipulating a crafted or bound object. Think of smiths who forge their weapon once and bind it to their soul. Or cartographers who walk across their own maps. That kind of niche.

But this skillcube fell under that Itemworlder classification, because it required a physically crafted item as its conduit. In this case: a paper cube. Not conjured from spirit. Not summoned. Built—fold by fold.

On the surface, the Gloss was laughably simple.

Create a labyrinth made of folded paper and the user's artistic capability.

That was it. Just one neat sentence. But like many Skillcubes, the wording was a trap. A small sentence hiding a vast abyss.

Because in practice? This cube was terrifying.

Fold here. Fold there. Mark. Line. Curve. Crease. Edge. Seal.

What emerged under my hands wasn't just origami. It was a world. A container. A labyrinth I designed from the ground up, room by room, choice by choice. Every crease represented an intersection, every square a chamber, a puzzle, a passage, a threat. I wasn't just making a cube—I was composing a symphony of architecture and intent.

The physical object had to be perfect. That was the condition. Sloppy folds meant unstable walls. Misaligned edges meant the labyrinth wouldn't manifest properly, or worse—might collapse inward mid-use. So I took my time. Breath steady. Motions precise.

This cube wasn't just part of the spell—it was the spell.

Most combatants didn't have to go through this. Their skillcubes conjured what they needed: swords of fire, bows of wind, ghostly chains, temporary shields of hardened air. Most people had a buffer between them and the artifact—something spiritual, ephemeral, disposable.

But Itemworlder-type cubes? They demanded more. They required material commitment. If you didn't have the item? The cube didn't function.

In my case, no paper cube meant no labyrinth. No effect. Just silence.

But if I did have the cube—if it was crafted just right—then I could trigger the full potential of [Paper and Pencells]. And that potential was vast.

The cube I finished this morning had 144 squares. That meant 144 chambers. Some would be dead ends. Others would shift. A few might contain things I hadn't even fully designed yet, but suggested through instinct. Traps, riddles, drawings made real. Paper guardians. Ink ghosts. Doors that led nowhere—or everywhere.

It wasn't flashy. It wasn't explosive.

It was artistry.

A labyrinth made with intent.

And it was mine.

I placed the finished cube on the table and exhaled. I didn't even realize I had been holding my breath.

Outside, someone was humming. The scent of toasted bread and honeyed tea drifted in under the door. The others were already up. I'd join them soon. But for now, I stared at the cube. My cube. My world.

It looked so unassuming. Just a folded paper artifact—edges inked, corners sealed, filled with the quiet hum of potential.

But inside? A kingdom. A trap. A place where my enemies would wander, lost.

A knock came. Cordelia's voice followed, sharp as always. "You're missing breakfast."

"One minute," I called back.

Fold. Crease. Dot. Then began my favorite part. The lines were already drawn, the geometry secured—now came the personality. Did I want the labyrinth to rise like towers of confessionals, with truths hidden in every fold? Or spiral inward, a trap disguised as sanctuary? I wasn't just folding paper. I was architecting something ancient and alive. Each square on the cube's surface represented a room, and each room was a thought I hadn't said aloud.

That's when the silence cracked—not from my hands, but from the low, rumbling growl of a stomach.

I froze, blinking.

Then it came again, like a stormcloud dragging a metal chain across marble. A snarling whine undercut by the faintest huff of brimstone.

"Basarioel…" I muttered, glancing down.

The Diabolos Griffin lay draped across the back of a chair like a cat in mourning. Dark feathers puffed out in offense, and his furred chest heaved with every overacted breath. His curved, obsidian claws tapped against the wood in annoyance, and his third eye—the red one set between the others—blinked at me with simmering indignation.

Another growl, this time louder. His tail, barbed and tufted, thudded against the chair leg like a drumbeat of judgment.

"I fed you yesterday," I said, gesturing with the cube in one hand.

He narrowed his eyes. All three of them.

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"Three times," I added.

That didn't help.

"Okay, sure, one of them was just a stale cheese roll, but you don't even digest food properly. You siphon mana from it."

Basarioel opened his mouth and belched out a puff of black smoke and tiny embers, then made a sound that could only be described as a sarcastic coo.

I sighed, setting the cube aside. "Guess we're getting breakfast, huh?"

He perked up immediately, his wings fluttering once as he slid from the chair with uncanny grace, claws clicking softly on the stone. His horns—twisted like a ram's but glossy with some ink-like sheen—glinted under the morning light as he turned toward the door with regal impatience.

"You're lucky you're adorable for a creature that's part griffin, part nightmare, and part void-glutton."

Basarioel didn't respond. He simply padded forward, pausing once to look back at me with a low rumble, like, Well?

I grabbed the cube and tucked it into my satchel. It still wasn't finished, but the lines were crisp, and the intent had taken shape. Just a few more folds. A few more secrets layered in.

As I reached the doorway, Basarioel was already out of sight, no doubt racing ahead to stake a claim on the last of the smoked sausages or torment Wallace again with those haunting, ever-staring eyes of his.

I followed, smiling faintly.

It wasn't lost on me that a creature birthed from darkness and forged from a contract of trust now hungered for something as mundane and mortal as breakfast. And it wasn't lost on me either that his presence—his companionship—was something I'd come to rely on far more than I'd ever admit aloud.

Especially to him.

Especially when he was probably perched upside down on the breakfast table already, demanding eggs seasoned with pepper and shredded mana crystals.

***

Breakfast wasn't anything glamorous. But it was filling. And—unfortunately for me—metallic.

I sat at the table chewing on two bronze waxing coins, courtesy of a Skillcube that demanded "currency digestion" as a trigger clause.

And I was the lucky fool who had to eat coins for breakfast a few times a week.

"They really need to rewrite that cube," Fallias muttered, watching me with a pinched beak and narrowed eyes. "You're going to end up with metal poisoning. Or worse—cavity death."

"It's not even that old a cube," I replied, voice slightly garbled as I finished the second coin. "Just obscure. And temperamental."

V raised a brow from across the table. "And yet you keep activating it voluntarily. That's the part I'm still wrapping my mind around."

"You'd be surprised what it unlocks. Short-term enchantment coating on the skin, temporary mental clarity, a reactive shield if I get struck. Costs a couple coins. Worth it."

"Still a rip-off," Ten chimed in, tossing a chunk of scorched mutton into her mouth. Her breakfast plate looked like a training dummy that had been lit on fire and then chewed apart. "You could just give me the coins and I'd punch clarity into you."

"I've seen how you define clarity," I said. "No thanks."

She winked.

Fallias, wisely, was sitting as close to me as possible—and as far from Ten as the bench allowed. She didn't comment on Ten's breakfast, but she did push her tea to the side every time Ten's elbow got too close.

Breakfast overall was modest. A loaf of spiced flatbread, a small ceramic cup of sheep milk, and a jam made from melderberries, one of Everis Hills' few local miracles. The berries could grow in sand, rock, and even iron-rich soil, and the bushes needed almost no maintenance. But the jam?

"These taste like… cheese?" V said, pausing mid-bite and holding his spoon like it might be cursed.

"That's generous," Ten added, licking some off her knuckle. "Smells like feet. Tastes like… fermented feet."

"Ah. So like your personality," Fallias said quietly, not looking up from her bread.

Ten grinned. "Feisty feather today."

"Every day."

I ignored the sparring. My taste buds had long since made peace with melderberries. They weren't sweet. They weren't sour. They were… complex. Earthy. Like someone tried to make cheese out of a fruit and then decided to call it a delicacy before anyone could argue.

Still, they were filling. And cheap. Which made them invaluable.

The sheep milk was an acquired taste, but one I'd gotten used to—especially with how many of our sheep weren't even bred for wool. They were milkers and meat-stock, sturdy and low-maintenance, much like everything else around here.

"Where's Sven?" I asked between sips of tea, letting the bitter warmth settle the lingering taste of bronze on my tongue.

Fractal perked up immediately, her spoon clinking against the side of her cup. "Likely out cataloging optimal farmland locations. He mentioned last night that he was considering starting a Pine-Pear orchard. Honestly, I think it could be an excellent revenue stream for the territory."

She was nodding, genuinely enthusiastic about the idea. The rest of us, however, groaned in unison. Even V gave an exaggerated sigh and leaned back in his chair.

Except Fallias.

She blinked and looked around, confused by the sudden mood shift. "What's wrong with Pine-Pears?"

Cordelia, as always, slid smoothly into lecture mode, barely glancing up from her plate. "They're carrion-pollinated. While the fruit is sweet and nutritious, the flowers smell like rotting flesh. I don't mean that figuratively, either. They emit the precise chemical signature of decomposing meat. It's how they attract pollinators like fleshflies and corpse beetles."

Fallias paled, beak twitching. "Oh. Well, that's horrifying."

"It gets worse," Cordelia continued, unfazed. "Their leaves are covered in fibrous, acidic needles. Touching one is like brushing up against rancid, spiced jerky soaked in vinegar. The burn lingers."

Fractal, to her credit, looked slightly sheepish but still stood her ground. "Yes, but they're hardy plants, and the fruit sells well in coastal markets. They store for months without refrigeration, and one tree can feed a whole caravan if managed right."

"They're profitable," I admitted. "But no one grows them unless they have to. That's why the fruit fetches such a high price outside the Nomadic Kingdoms. Some of the beast tribes there cultivate them specifically to lure Morta-Flies."

Fallias tilted her head. "Morta-Flies? Those giant, iridescent ones?"

"The same," Cordelia said. "They can digest carrion into a refined protein sludge. Some tribes use them to pre-digest compost for mushroom farms or recycle battlefield remains."

Fallias stared down at her bread like it might start squirming. "I suddenly feel less hungry."

V cracked a grin. "Welcome to breakfast at Castle Duarte."

"It's not a castle," I said reflexively, biting into the bread. "It's a reinforced hill house with delusions of grandeur."

"Well, you're a Walker with delusions of retirement," Ten added, tearing off a hunk of charred mutton with her teeth. "It fits."

Fractal glanced at me with a small shrug. "Still. If we did grow Pine-Pears and kept them on the outskirts, maybe downwind… it's not a bad idea. Sven said he could rig up some flower-dampening resonance fields."

"Let me guess," V said. "He wants to make the stink sing so it doesn't offend people."

"That's exactly what he said," Fractal replied, too earnestly.

This time even Fallias couldn't help but chuckle. "You people are mad."

"We're practical," Cordelia corrected. "And desperate."

That part was true. Resources weren't exactly pouring into Everis Hills. We had a little meat, a little milk, and some fiercely independent berry bushes that smelled like old boots. The idea of a steady export crop—even a cursed one—was tempting.

But it'd be Sven's job to figure out how to make it bearable. That's why I was thinking of assigning him the Steward's role. He was strange, sure—but he was brilliantly strange.

I glanced out the window, toward the barn. Smoke curled from its chimney, the telltale sign that Sven was already tinkering with something far too dangerous for polite company.

"Still," I muttered into my tea, "If he starts bringing Morta-Flies into the valley, I'm requisitioning his bed and turning it into a quarantine bunker."

"I already did," V said. "Slept like a king."

"I will burn that mattress," Cordelia warned, and she meant it.

Breakfast went on in laughter, but in the back of my mind, I was already turning over Sven's strengths, weighing his reliability, his oddities, and the fact that—beneath all that chaos—he'd not yet let me down.

Not where it counted.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to call him Steward.

For now.

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