Part Fifty-Five — Four, Now

　Word of our small, informal group started spreading through Roshan's guild circles faster than I expected — not fame, exactly, just a growing recognition among the regulars that the odd little party of a suppressed-aura kid, a quietly powerful girl, a wolf who was clearly smarter than he had any right to be, and now a sharp-eyed elf archer, tended to complete jobs cleanly and without the usual mess.

　"You're building a reputation," Marta told us, processing our latest completed contract with something like approval. "Iron rank's starting to feel a bit small for what you four are actually capable of."

　"We like small," I said. "Keeps things manageable."

　"Sure," she said, clearly still not buying it, same as always. "Manageable. Right."

She's not wrong to be skeptical. Guess we've been undersaying our own capability since the first day we walked in here.

　Lyra proved, once properly settled, to be an even sharper asset than the market square incident had suggested — an archer of genuine skill, supplemented by a working knowledge of elven mana techniques distinct from anything Eris or I had encountered before.

　"Elven magic emphasizes precision over raw output," she explained, one training session, demonstrating a technique that let her thread an arrow through gaps I wouldn't have believed possible without seeing it. "Humans tend toward power first, control second. We reverse the priority."

　"That explains a few things," Eris said, watching with open admiration. "Wish I'd learned that lesson before I started throwing my own aura around like a battering ram."

　"You're improving," Lyra said, already falling into an easy, teacherly rapport with her. "Control follows understanding. You simply need more of the second."

Good. She's not just settling in — she's actually contributing, teaching, making the whole group sharper by being part of it. That's more than I expected this fast.

　<"Lyra's combat efficiency has increased measurably since joining the group," Anti-Subconsciousness observed, one evening, unprompted. "I would attribute this partially to genuine skill, and partially to increased motivation stemming from having people worth protecting again, following her losses.">

That's a surprisingly generous read, coming from you.

　<"I am capable of nuance. You have simply not always asked questions that required it.">

Fair. I'll ask more nuanced questions, then, if that's what gets better answers out of you.

　<"That would be appreciated.">

Didn't realize 'appreciated' was in your vocabulary.

　<"I contain multitudes," it said, and I nearly dropped the water skin I was holding.>

Did you just—

　<"Ace informed me of the phrase's significance. I found the application situationally appropriate.">

You two are going to be an absolute menace together, aren't you.

　<"Undoubtedly.">

　That evening, camped just outside the city on a job that had taken us briefly beyond Roshan's walls, the four of us settled into an easy rhythm around the fire — Eris and Lyra comparing notes on aura control, Ace dozing with one ear perpetually tilted toward the conversation, and me, watching all of it with something that felt, increasingly, like the specific contentment I'd almost forgotten how to trust.

　"Can I ask something?" Lyra said, eventually, glancing my way. "You mentioned once that you 'collect people who've had a rough time of it.' Was that a joke, or an actual pattern you've noticed about yourself?"

Both, probably.

　"Bit of both," I admitted. "Doran and Fenrik — the two I traveled with before all this — I found them the same way, more or less. People with nowhere else to go, who deserved better than what the world had handed them so far."

　"What happened to them?" Lyra asked, gentle, clearly sensing the weight behind the past tense.

Here we go again. Different audience, same wound.

　"They died," I said, simply. "The Church killed them. Same institution that's still hunting whatever I actually am, and possibly whatever Eris is too, now."

　Lyra was quiet a long moment, something solemn settling over her features.

　"I'm sorry," she said, and I felt, oddly, that she meant it more specifically than most people managed — not a reflexive condolence, but genuine grief on behalf of people she'd never met.

　"Thank you," I said. "For what it's worth, I think they'd have liked you. Doran would've appreciated your practicality. Fenrik would've teased you mercilessly within the first hour."

　That got a small, surprised laugh out of her. "High praise, I think, judging by how fondly you describe the teasing."

　"It was," I confirmed. "Still is, honestly, thinking about it."

　Eris, listening quietly through most of this, reached over at some point and rested a hand briefly on my arm — the same steadying gesture she'd offered before, back in Roshan, the first time dragons had come up in conversation.

She's good at this. Noticing exactly when the weight's getting heavy enough to need a hand on it.

　"We're here now, though," Eris said, quiet, to all of us. "Whatever's still coming. Whoever else the Church decides to come after. We're not facing it the way any of us faced things before — alone."

　"Four of us," Lyra said, raising an imaginary toast with her water skin, something warm cutting through the earlier solemnity. "That's not nothing, against whatever's still out there."

　"Four of us," I agreed, and meant it as fully as I'd meant anything in a long while.

Doran. Fenrik. I don't know if you can actually hear any of this, wherever grief and memory actually go once someone's gone. But I think you'd both be glad, knowing the shape this turned into. I think you'd both approve.

　We sat around that fire long past when sleep should have claimed any of us, four unlikely companions trading small pieces of themselves the way found family always seemed to, in my experience — slowly, carefully, one honest evening at a time.