Chapter Text
The sun barely pierced the jagged mesa horizon when Wemmbu slipped out of the base. The sky was a muted orange, the light scattering across the broken stone and scorched walls of Flame’s ruined stronghold.
That morning was deceptively calm, the world outside seemed normal, peace, but inside, both men carried the weight of the curse, a constant, invisible pull, and the scars of the last fight still hummed faintly in their shared bond.
Wemmbu had been lying awake for hours, listening to the faint creaks and groans of the base settling after the night. He’d been restless. Even after two days of rest, his body still itched with an unspent tension. The curse, while healed physically, had left a residue in the nerves, a constant reminder that any fight, any misstep, could suddenly cascade into shared pain.
He rose quietly from the couch, golden eyes glinting with calculation, his long purple ponytail slipping over one shoulder.
Carefully, he gathered the invisibility potion from his shulker box, shaking it slightly to rouse the liquid inside. He knew Flame was still asleep, or at least pretending to be. There was no sound in the base except the faint whisper of the wind outside.
With a practiced flick, Wemmbu drank the potion. Immediately, the shimmer ran along his skin, and within moments, he had vanished completely from sight, except for his armour of course. The base suddenly felt empty, as though his presence had been erased from the world entirely.
The invisibility wasn’t foolproof, he could still feel the subtle pull of shared awareness, the tether of pain if he moved too abruptly, but it was enough to give him the freedom he craved.
He paused at the doorway, hand resting lightly on the frame, listening. No footsteps or murmur. Flame was still in the main room, wearing that same tight tank top from the other day, his broad shoulders slumped slightly, strong arms folded across his chest. He looked calm, almost annoyingly so, like he’d slept through the entire morning without a care. That thought alone made Wemmbu’s lips twitch with a faint, sly smile.
Bastard, he thought.
He slipped outside, boots crunching softly over the rough stone and broken debris at the base entrance. The desert wind of the mesa tickled his skin, though invisibility rendered him untouchable by the casual observers that might have been around.
He moved like a shadow, calculating, deliberate, and careful not to trigger any unwanted attention.
Two hours passed as Wemmbu wandered across the mesa, exploring a narrow canyon just beyond the base. Every step was measured. Every rock he stepped over was considered. He felt the tingle in his ribs that came with each movement. Shared pain…the curse reminded him constantly: move too recklessly, and Flame pays.
But Wemmbu was methodical. He liked the thrill of being untethered for just a few moments, even if it was only illusory. He tested his limits, ducking under jagged overhangs, leaping across narrow crevices, feeling the wind whip his ponytail across his face.
Every so often, he’d test the bond, lean into a particularly sharp movement, swing the mace against a boulder, feel the jolt of pain ripple through his body. He winced slightly, teeth gritting, but the thrill of the secret, the thrill of breaking their rules, the one he wanted them to keep, kept him moving.
Meanwhile, back at the base, Flame stirred. His blindfolded eyes flicked toward the doorway, sensing something was off immediately. Not obvious, not clear. Just a whisper of movement. He didn’t hear the creak of Wemmbu’s boots, didn’t see the invisible figure slip out. But his instincts told him something was wrong.
Flame’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword automatically. “…Wemb?” he muttered. His voice carried that mixture of irritation and alarm, a low growl that filled the empty space of the ruined base. There was no reply.
The shared awareness didn’t confirm anything yet, just a faint pull in his side, subtle, teasing, unfamiliar.
Flame’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…No. You didn’t.” He shot to his feet, moving to the doorway, scanning, hand gripping the wall for balance as he felt the absence of Wemmbu’s presence. “bro.”
On the other hand, Wemmbu crested a ridge, to survey a small base, probably abandoned. He adjusted his grip on the mace in his hand. He’d come this far without alerting Flame, and he intended to test the limits just a bit more. He wanted to see, with precision, just how far he could stretch this tether without triggering a meltdown, or a hunt.
But the curse was patient. Every movement, every risk, every whispered step he took sent tiny waves of discomfort through both bodies. He felt a pinch in his shoulder, a small reminder of the last fight, and immediately knew Flame was feeling it too and that he's awake.
He almost chuckled at the thought. The poor guy’s probably squirming somewhere, clueless and pissed off.
Sure enough, back at the base, Flame’s frustration was palpable even to Wemmbu through the curse. “…You little—” he muttered, gripping the edge of a table for balance. His muscles tensed. His pulse accelerated. He could sense Wemmbu moving in the desert air, every step visible to him in the way their shared injuries and awareness twitched.
Wemmbu ducked behind a large boulder, crouched low as he pulled a few resources from his inventory. He was careful, and fast. Every block he touched was calculated to avoid wasting time or triggering unnecessary damage. Yet the thrill of breaking the rule, the first major rule they’d set for themselves, made him feel lightheaded, exhilarated.
“Two of the best players on this server,” he murmured to himself under his breath, voice low, almost a whisper carried away by the wind. “Bound by some cursed code that neither of them can break….Huh… How funny."
Flame’s frustration simmered into something sharper back at the base. He paced, one boot scraping against the floor, fingers tightening around his sword. Every jolt of pain, every subtle ripple in their shared health reminded him: Wemmbu broke the rule.
“…You better not be stupid,” Flame muttered into the empty base, voice carrying both warning and threat. His fingers flexed along the hilt. “…If anything happens out there bro, you’ll pay for it. And so will I.”
Wemmbu froze for half a heartbeat. He could feel Flame’s irritation like a physical pull pressing along his spine. A shiver ran down his ribs, shared bond again, and he almost laughed at the irony.
But the thrill was too strong to stop now.
He crept forward, moving carefully toward a small ravine where he could practice a few risky maneuvers. With invisibility, he danced along the edge of the rocks, leaping, spinning, letting his mace crash into imaginary targets.
The sharpness of every movement, the bite of every controlled risk, made the tether flare faintly, Flame winced on the other side of the base, a low growl audible even in the distance.
“You’re going to regret this,” Flame muttered, muttering under his breath more to himself than to Wemmbu. But Wemmbu felt it. And smiled.
Both men felt in perfect synchronicity with each other, unwittingly coordinating despite themselves. Every painful step Wemmbu took sent a signal through their shared health, every jolt of strain mirrored in Flame’s muscles, every breath they took tied to the other’s survival.
And yet Wemmbu pushed on, sly and reckless, thrilled by the delicate, tense dance of rebellion against the one rule they had agreed upon to keep at all cost.
He was out there, pushing boundaries, testing limits, feeling the raw thrill of power… while Flame, back at the base, fumed and tensed, chest tight, hands gripping his sword, waiting for the inevitable reckoning.
The day stretched long. The tension between them thick and taut, like a wire that could snap at any moment. And both of them, unseen and seen, lived on that edge, knowing full well that the moment one of them slipped, both would pay the price.
The game of cat and mouse had only just begun.
Wemmbu crouched low at the mouth of the cave, invisibility shimmering faintly around him. The desert sun above the mesa had climbed high, but here, beneath the jagged stone, light didn’t reach.
Shadows swallowed the entrance whole, and the air smelled damp, earthy, and faintly metallic. The silence was complete, except for the occasional drip of water echoing off stone walls deep within.
He stepped forward cautiously, every booted footfall deliberate. The ground was uneven, littered with pebbles and broken stalagmites that had crumbled with time.
He could feel the subtle tug of the curse, the lingering reminder of shared vulnerability.
Each bad movement sent a spike of pain through his side where he’d been injured, mirrored faintly in Flame’s body. A reminder that even here, miles away from the base, the curse remained relentless.
The cave narrowed quickly, forcing him to bend his long frame low. His ponytail brushed against the jagged ceiling as he moved, and he hissed softly, adjusting his posture. The darkness wasn’t threatening, yet, but it held a weight, a sense of isolation that only amplified the thrill of being alone, invisible, and free to explore without judgment or interference again.
He raised a hand, brushing it along the cool, rough wall. Moss clung in patches, and the rock felt damp to the touch. Tiny scratches ran along his palm as he moved deeper, but he didn’t care.
He thrived on small risks like these. He knew Flame would feel the subtle jolt every time he grazed a jagged edge or slipped slightly on loose stone.
The cave forked, rough fingers of rock stretching both left and right. Wemmbu paused, tilting his head, golden eyes scanning the shadowed walls. The deeper he went, the cooler the air became, carrying with it a damp, musty scent that clung to his clothes. He could hear the distant drip of water echoing like a pulse, as if the cave itself were breathing.
He chose the left passage, reasoning it would be less traveled. With each careful step, he traced the walls with one hand, navigating blind corners and sudden dips.
In the dim light, minerals glinted faintly, catching just enough to mark the path ahead. The narrow corridor opened into a larger cavern, wide enough that Wemmbu could stand upright, though the ceiling still loomed unevenly above.
He paused, letting his eyes adjust. The chamber stretched before him like an untouched realm, its walls lined with natural crystal formations that caught the faint light filtering from unseen cracks above. Shadows danced across the walls with his every movement, and he crouched again, letting the thrill of the unknown wash over him.
A faint sound reached him, a scuttling somewhere deep within the cavern.
Wemmbu froze, listening. His invisibility made him unknown, but his instincts sharpened.
The sound repeated, subtle but deliberate. Small creatures, perhaps, or the echo of wind through hidden cracks. He flexed his fingers around his mace, ready for whatever might appear.
Deeper still, the cave twisted and sloped downward. Wemmbu moved carefully, feeling the weight of the world above him press down in the darkness.
Every drip of water, every scrape of stone underfoot, resonated through the cavern like a distant warning. And yet, he pushed forward, almost entirely free, save for the faint pull of the bond he couldn’t escape.
Finally, he reached a small chamber deep within the cave, a natural alcove hidden behind a curtain of unnatural rocks. He crouched low, surveying the space, then sank to one knee, letting himself rest.
Alone and untouchable for the first time in days, Wemmbu allowed the rare luxury of stillness. The cool air kissed his bruised side, and for a fleeting moment, the constant pull of the curse seemed distant, almost like he had control again.
Golden eyes scanned the shadowed chamber as he let himself breathe, every muscle still coiled with readiness.
Somewhere deep, he felt the echo of Flame’s presence, mirrored faintly in the sting of the curse that would never truly let him forget he was never entirely his own.
He leaned back against the cavern wall, letting the shadows envelop him, and for the first time in days, allowed himself to sink into that rare, precarious stillness.
The stillness Wemmbu had carved for himself in the hidden cavern lasted barely a heartbeat.
A faint sound, almost imperceptible, a scuff of boots on stone, the whisper of air shifting, told him something was coming.
He froze instantly, senses flaring. The cool air of the cave suddenly felt heavier, oppressive, as though the shadows themselves were gathering against him.
His hand went reflexively to where his elytra would normally hang on his back. Then his stomach sank: he hadn’t brought fireworks or wind charges, no backup escape tools, just himself, his sword, and the mace locked away in the corner of his inventory.
Great.
Golden eyes narrowed beneath his ponytail, muscles tensing as the group materialized, or rather, emerged from the shadows.
Five of them, all invisible to casual observation but betrayed by subtle ripples in the air and the faint sound of motion.
The telltale shimmer of their invisibility was there, but more than that, Wemmbu noticed the emblem etched into the shields they carried: a stark white field with a yellow symbol in the center. There was nothing familiar about it, no alliance he recognized, no friendly sigil. Nothing to question, nothing to hesitate over.
They were coming for him, and the moment had no room for doubt.
He gritted his teeth and shifted, the invisible hum of his body threading with shared tension in Flame’s form. Every muscle flexed as he prepared to strike.
Normally, he would have leapt into the air, used his elytra to soar above, swinging his mace with brutal momentum, but today, he was grounded. Sword only. And that, he decided bitterly, would have to be enough.
The first of them lunged, blade drawn, a flash of white and yellow cutting the air in front of him. Wemmbu stepped forward with a sharp twist of his wrist, parrying and countering with the edge of his own sword. The clash rang through the cavern like a bell, reverberating off the jagged walls, the sound bouncing in endless echoes.
“Why are you here!” one shouted, voice muffled yet clear enough to pierce the tension.
Wemmbu’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “…You’re loud for someone invisible.”
Another one moved in from the side, attempting to flank him. Wemmbu pivoted, blade slicing in a low arc, connecting with a spark against the intruder’s sword.
He could feel the subtle sting in his ribs as the curse relayed the faint damage from their clash. The curse hummed, and he winced, though he didn’t allow it to slow him down.
Stay focused.
He weaved through the jagged rock formations, moving deeper into the cave.
The others followed, staying coordinated despite their invisibility, shield symbols glinting faintly when the dim light caught the edges of their gear. Wemmbu had to track them carefully, listening to every step, every scrape of metal against stone, every whisper of air displaced by a sudden leap or swing.
One of them lunged again, aiming for a high strike. Wemmbu sidestepped, feeling the edge of the sword graze his shoulder.
He jabbed upward in response, steel striking the player's chest, killing them.
Another attacker lunged immediately from the shadows, forcing Wemmbu to spin and slash in one fluid, defensive motion.
The clang of metal rang again, echoing endlessly as he twisted, ducked, and spun through the cavern’s twisting corridors.
He moved with careful precision now, every step a calculated gamble. Every attack was defensive at first, gauging strength, testing reflexes, measuring their speed.
They were skilled, too skilled to underestimate. He could feel it in the pull of their swings, the timing of their feints. Not one misstep could be allowed.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” one hissed, voice carrying around the cavern walls. “Alone.”
Wemmbu tilted his head, lips curling into a teasing edge. “…Guess I’ll have to prove you wrong.”
He darted left, spinning around a protruding stalagmite, bringing his sword up in a quick arc to catch a high strike aimed at his head. The clash rang again, metallic, sharp, sharp enough to make his arms ache in sync with the pain Flame must be feeling somewhere miles away.
But, his health kept getting regenerated even when he didn't chew onto a golden apple.
Flame…
The cave narrowed, forcing them into a tight passage. Shadows swallowed the combatants whole. Rocks scraped against armor, swords clanged, and every movement carried risk.
Wemmbu had to pivot constantly, his body twisting unnaturally to avoid blows while still delivering counters. He ducked under a strike that would have torn his shoulder, swung low to trip another, and jabbed upward in a sudden thrust that forced one attacker back against the wall.
A sharp edge nicked his side as he pivoted. He hissed softly, golden eyes narrowing. The pain flared, sharp, bright, and shared.
Flame’s feeling that too.
The battle pressed deeper into the cave.
Dripping water echoed ominously above, and the narrow tunnels forced Wemmbu to rely on instinct and precision alone. No elaborate maneuvers, no high-speed elytra strikes, just sword against sword, dodge against lunge, every muscle taut with tension.
“Give it up,” Wemmbu muttered, voice low but audible even in the vast shadows. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Whoever you are—!” one shouted back. “You’ll regret sneaking here!”
They swarmed him like shadows themselves, but Wemmbu was faster, sharper, fluid in motion. Every strike he parried, every swing he deflected, echoed painfully in both their heath. The curse reminded him constantly: every move has a consequence.
One attacker lunged too close, sword thrust low. Wemmbu pivoted, felt the sting, then jabbed upward. Sparks flew against the blade, echoing through the cavern as the intruder staggered. Another moved in, weapon raised high, only for Wemmbu to step aside, side-slash cutting shallow but enough to make them reel back.
He ducked under a wild swing, rolling low over the damp floor, sending a sharp kick into an attacker’s midsection. Pain flared faintly in his ribs, and he grimaced, but he pressed on, sliding past scuffed stalactites and over slick patches of stone.
Deeper still, the cave twisted into a vast, low-ceiling chamber. Shadows pooled in corners, but Wemmbu’s invisibility allowed him to move like a ghost among them. He struck, parried, spun, every motion precise, deliberate, brutal.
He wasn’t here to play; he was here to survive, to test their strength, and to remind them that even invisible, he was lethal.
The attackers were skilled, coordinated, relentless, but Wemmbu was meticulous, calculating. He exploited every overreach, every misstep, every tiny mistake. The fight became a slow, grueling dance, echoing through the cavern walls, metal ringing, feet skidding, muscles screaming.
And yet, even as he moved like a predator in the dark, he couldn’t shake the hum of the curse reminding him, constantly, that Flame was always there too, feeling, hurting, tied to every decision, every strike, every risk.
Even invisible, even alone, Wemmbu wasn’t entirely free.
He could feel their momentum shifting, could hear the subtle rhythm of their attacks faltering, the strain of coordination fraying. And still, he pressed deeper, sword flashing, shadow weaving, determined not to falter, determined not to die, not for himself, and not for the shared tether he could never escape. But for him.
The deeper he went, the darker it got. The cave narrowed. The air grew cooler and heavier. The fight pressed in tighter, echoing with every strike. Every clang of steel rang sharp and endless through the chamber.
Every move, every slash, every parry was a pulse of life, a test of skill, a silent war against both the attackers and the curse that bound him to Flame.
And somewhere deep in that dark, silent, dripping cavern, Wemmbu moved like a shadow, golden eyes glinting in anticipation, deadly, and tethered in ways he could never ignore.
Wemmbu’s mind had been entirely focused on the fight, on the clash of swords and the push-and-pull with his opponents. Each swing was mechanical at first, instinctive, just another skirmish to test his limits, to push against the curse that bound him to Flame. He didn’t think much as the fight carried him deeper into the cavern system.
The rocky walls twisted, dripping water echoing off surfaces, shadows stretching long and deep. His steps were precise, careful and calculated, he knew the tether of shared damage would punish any reckless movement.
Then, without warning, the air shifted. The attackers had suddenly pulled back, leaving him alone in the middle of a dark, gaping chamber. Wemmbu’s muscles tensed, golden eyes narrowing. He instinctively scanned the surroundings, pivoting slowly, sword at the ready, ready for a trap or a fresh ambush.
And that’s when he saw it.
A faint click, muffled behind the jagged rocks. A lever, barely visible, pulled with deliberate precision from behind a block.
Before he could even react, the ground beneath him gave way. The stone split open like teeth, cavernous, threatening to swallow him whole. Wemmbu barely had time to react, reflexes honed from countless fights kicking in. He swung his hand to the water bucket he always carried, always prepared for the unexpected.
The water hit the pit just as he fell, the torrent breaking his descent. He clawed at the sides of the bucket, clutching it with every ounce of strength, and the stone scraped his back, cutting shallow but painfully deep. The bucket tumbled with him as the pit swallowed his form, but it was enough to minimize the damage, enough to save him from what would have been a fatal plunge.
Pain flared through his ribs, through the side where he had been injured in the prior fight and, of course, through Flame as well. He hissed quietly, teeth gritting, muscles shaking from the impact as he finally pulled himself upright at the bottom of the pit.
The world around him was darkness.
Complete, suffocating darkness. The only sound was the faint drip of water from the ceiling, echoing across the cavern like ghostly footsteps.
Wemmbu swallowed, jaw tightening, gripping his sword tighter. There was nothing else in sight. The attackers had vanished. The trap had been laid meticulously, and he hadn’t questioned it. The trap was obvious. The intent behind it didn’t matter; he wasn’t here to philosophize.
He rose slowly, careful with every step. The floor beneath him scraped his boots. He moved forward cautiously, scanning with his senses instead of relying on sight. Every footfall was calculated, deliberate, soundless as much as possible.
Then came the first real frustration: mining fatigue.
The moment his tools made contact with the wall to test its integrity, his arms felt heavy, lethargic, unresponsive. Every motion took twice the effort, each swing of the pickaxe or shove against the rock requiring focus he didn’t have. His eyes narrowed, jaw clenching.
“Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, though no one could hear him.
Wemmbu didn’t stop. He clenched his jaw, feeling the fatigue in his arms and shoulders, and forced himself to keep moving forward. Each step took concentration, each reach, each swipe was deliberate.
He brushed against the walls lightly, scanning for any irregularities, listening for any sound that might indicate the presence of an exit, or another ambush.
The cave stretched endlessly in both directions, narrow and oppressive, forcing him to slither past jagged stalactites and uneven rock outcroppings. The shadows swallowed him. The smell of damp stone filled his nostrils, metallic and sharp, lingering like a warning.
Then came the sound.
A low, resonating growl, distant at first, almost indistinguishable from the echoes of water dripping from the cave ceiling.
Wemmbu froze mid-step, golden eyes narrowing, muscles coiling like springs.
The growl multiplied, echoing through the caverns. It was not one creature. Not two. Dozens, perhaps more, moving with the quiet yet undeniable presence of predators. Wardens.
The air shifted, carrying a vibration that Wemmbu could feel through the stone under his boots. His heart dropped slightly, chest tightening, not in panic, but in the meticulous calculation of danger.
Every second counted. Every misstep could alert them. Every loud movement could mean death. He took a slow, measured breath, forcing calm over his racing thoughts.
He pressed himself against a corner of the cavern, crouching low. The floor scraped against his knees, but he barely moved, forcing his breath to the softest rhythm.
Sword at the ready, hands poised, invisibility flickering faintly from the potion, he became a shadow within shadows. He didn’t dare swing, didn’t dare step forward. He simply waited, listening. Thinking about what he should do.
The Wardens’ steps echoed faintly, their sonar-like sensing probing through the darkness, searching for the slightest anomaly. Wemmbu stayed absolutely still, letting the vibrations roll harmlessly past him, willing the silence to protect him.
Every tiny scrape of his boots on the stone, every exhalation, every finger twitch was calculated to avoid triggering the creatures’ attention.
His mind raced. Options. Always options. He considered escape paths, the narrow walls, small crevices, anything to put distance between himself and the growing horde. But the cavern twisted unnaturally, labyrinthine, and every attempt to move quietly risked a stumble, a misstep that could instantly reveal him.
The silence stretched, heavy, oppressive, broken only by the distant, low groans of the Wardens. Their presence was all-consuming. Wemmbu’s golden eyes darted constantly, scanning for imperfections in the walls, for escape routes, for any leverage.
Sweat pricked his brow. He could feel the sting in his side where the fall had scraped him, the lingering ache from prior injuries, and the phantom flare of pain echoing from Flame’s body.
Every second here demanded patience, precision, and calculated restraint. One misstep could cascade into shared agony, one slip could end in death, and yet Wemmbu pressed on.
He shifted slightly, careful to avoid vibrations that might echo through the cavern floor, moving inch by inch toward what looked like another passage.
The Wardens were close now. Their low, resonant growls filled the cave system, vibrating through the stone like a warning drumbeat.
Wemmbu froze again, pressed flat against the wall, golden eyes narrowed into slits. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, invisibility flickering faintly as it started running out. Every muscle ached, every nerve screamed for movement, but he forced himself to breathe slowly, to think, to plan.
He inched along the wall, barely making a sound, each step measured, silent. The floor was slick in places, jagged in others. He felt the presence of multiple Wardens surrounding him, their movements echoing through the caverns.
Golden eyes scanned constantly, searching for a weakness, an opening, any chance to escape.
The cave seemed endless, twisting into darker, narrower passages, dripping water echoing ominously, shadows pooling thick and impenetrable. Wemmbu’s heart beat steadily now, controlled but tense, muscles coiled for a sudden strike or flight. Every step was a test, every motion a gamble.
He crouched in the corner of a narrow chamber, listening to the faint footsteps, growls, and reverberations that indicated dozens of Wardens moving nearby. He flexed his fingers around the sword’s hilt. His mind raced in thoughts, thoughts about what Flame is thinking right now, doing.
He was alone, barely invisible, trapped. Surrounded by predators. Exhausted from a fall, slowed by mining fatigue, and tethered by the curse to someone far away.
Yet even in this moment, even pressed to the edge of survival, Wemmbu’s golden eyes glinted with that familiar sly determination. He had survived worse. He could survive this. He just needed patience, calculation, and control.
And so he waited.
The Wardens moved. The cave breathed around him. The silence, the darkness, the invisible threat, the tension stretched taut.
Every heartbeat, every breath, every micro-movement counted.
Hurry up you bastard.
Flame sat at the edge of the ruined table, blindfolded eyes pressing into the grooves of tension along his forehead.
The remnants of the destroyed base lay scattered around him, the scorched wood, toppled barrels, broken stone, a chaos that screamed defeat, but his mind wasn’t in the mess.
It was on the tug of his shared health, the pulse of damage that had flared without warning a few minutes ago.
His hands flexed, tapping the hilt of his sword with sharp, impatient clicks. He had felt it immediately: the subtle, creeping drop of HP that wasn’t his doing. But of Wemmbu. He knew it instinctively. It wasn’t a question.
Whoever had dared to challenge Wemmbu had triggered the connection. The curse, it never lied. And suddenly, that calm, structured world inside the base vanished, replaced by the sharp adrenaline of worry, irritation, and the dangerous pull of instinct.
He growled low under his breath, not loud enough for anyone else to hear. “Damn it bro…” The words were clipped, half frustration, half threat, but underneath, a tension coiled in his chest that he refused to name. Concern? Fear? Both tangled and impossible to separate from the anger he felt at the situation.
He refused to admit to the worry, that was weak.
That wasn’t Flame.
But every muscle along his shoulders and back screamed in alignment with the damage his body shared with Wemmbu, and the knowledge of what could be happening beyond his sight gnawed at him.
He didn’t hesitate. He leapt to his feet, boots scraping against the stone floor. Inventory bars flicked in his mind’s eye as he thought through what he’d need: potions, gear, restock.
He opened his personal storage, rifled through barrels, grabbing a couple of strength and speed potions, and a few golden apples for good measure. His fingers moved fast and precise, no thought wasted, no hesitation.
“Damn it,” he muttered again, louder this time, voice laced with a controlled edge of panic, masking the worry that simmered underneath. He didn’t allow himself to dwell. There was no time.
Wemmbu was somewhere out there, in trouble, and Flame didn’t need his pride slowing him down.
He strapped potions to his belt, equipped his armour and his sword, feeling the familiar weight in his hand, and prepared for the journey into unknown terrain.
Outside, the mesa stretched under the pale morning sun. Dust rose in faint plumes as Flame sprinted across the broken paths leading out of the base, blindfold tight over his eyes, every footfall purposeful.
He moved fast andagile, muscle memory and battle instinct carrying him, even as his chest tightened with the subtle sting of shared damage. The pulse of the curse hummed faintly along his side, like a warning note against the risk of the unknown.
Damn it, Wemb, he muttered internally. What the hell did you get yourself into?
His steps carried him across the desert’s rocks, past fallen mesas, over precarious cliffs that jutted out like sharp teeth.
The wind whipped his locks, orange-tinted ends whipping against his nape as he adjusted his footing constantly. Every step carried a subtle throb in his body, a constant reminder that this wasn’t just about pride anymore.
Shared damage wasn’t something you could ignore. Every stab, every cut, every bit of pain that Wemmbu took was now a weapon against him as well.
His mind raced. He hadn’t been this anxious in years, not in duels, not in battles, not even in the chaos of server-wide raids. But now… Now it was personal. This wasn’t just about skill or pride. This was about Wemmbu, out and reckless, out in a world that was suddenly dangerous on a scale Flame couldn’t fully control.
Wemmbu was strong, tremendously so. But right now, they share health, not only is there an invisible pull tugging at them both constantly and slowing them down. But they are both weakened from this curse they are bound to.
They have to stick together, no matter what.
He stopped briefly on a ridge overlooking a canyon, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, teeth gritted. His shared health dipped again, the pulse of damage sending a jolt through his body, and he growled through the blindfold.
“Damn it bro! What the hell are you doing out there, idiot?” His voice was more threat than question, more frustration than worry, but the tremor of adrenaline through his veins betrayed the edge of concern he refused to name.
Flame calculated. He couldn’t see Wemmbu, couldn’t track him directly, couldn’t rely on the usual sense of motion. But he could feel it, the subtle tug of presence, the tiny pull of pain, the faint echo of struggle carried through the curse.
Every step Wemmbu took, every motion, every swing of the sword, he could feel it, mirrored, reflected, feeding into the low, taut coil of fear and irritation in his chest.
As he continued walking, his heart beat faster. The emotions he was feeling, that were not his, grew stronger.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t question it. The desert, the mesas, the broken ridges, they blurred past him in a haze of motion and purpose.
As he descended into a deeper canyon, the sun dipping just enough to cast long shadows, he felt the subtle shift in the air, the faint vibration that signaled movement ahead.
The shared damage ticked again, a sharp pain throughout his entire body that made him flinch slightly, a mirrored stab of pain that told him Wemmbu wasn’t just in trouble; he was in serious trouble.
Flame paused briefly on a rock, blindfold tight, jaw flexing. He chewed onto two golden apples. No hesitation, there wasn’t time for hesitation. He cursed under his breath again, one hand tightening around the sword.
“…Damn it, Wemb. You better be alive when I get there bro.”
He moved again, faster now, leaping over rocky outcroppings, sliding down narrow ridges, boots kicking up stone. The canyon walls pressed in around him, tight and jagged, forcing him to adjust every motion, to anticipate every landing, every swing of his arms.
Every misstep he took would cost Wemmbu too.
That bastard deserves it anyways.
Every thought, every step, every movement carried the same weight: find him, protect him, keep him alive.
Screw you, bro.
His chest tightened, and for the first time, his pride, a pride that had guided him for years, was secondary to something else. Fear? Concern? Responsibility? He didn’t name it, he didn’t let himself.
He just moved, sword ready, blindfolded, heart hammering, muscles taut, chasing the faint pull of life and pain that marked Wemmbu’s presence somewhere ahead in the twisting canyon labyrinth.
And even as annoyance simmered beneath the surface, sharp and biting, he couldn’t deny the truth: the tether of the curse was screaming at him, drawing him forward, pulling him into danger, pulling him toward Wemmbu. And Flame, no matter how much he growled and cursed, would follow, relentless, precise, and determined, until he found him.
The desert wind howled around the cliffs. Dust lifted, sand scraped across stone, but Flame didn’t slow.
Every rock, every shadow, every echo of a movement in the canyon was a potential clue, a potential threat, a potential lifeline.
Flame never moved like this, so careful of everything around him.
Somewhere ahead, Wemmbu was alive, trapped, and in danger. And Flame would not stop until he was found.
It's like back to looking for him when he was dead apparently.
Each pulse, each flare of HP loss, nudged him forward like a silent compass.
As he rounded a jagged corner, his keen senses picked up an unusual glint against the shadowed stone. Normally, he would have brushed it off, a shard of glass, a piece of broken armor, debris from some long-forgotten battle, but something about the way the light caught it made him pause. He crouched slightly, blindfolded eyes narrowing behind the fabric, muscles taut.
There it was: a small, empty bottle lying carelessly on the rocky floor. The glass was clear, smooth, and at first glance, useless. But then he noticed it, a few drops of liquid clinging stubbornly to the inside walls, shimmering faintly.
The familiar, almost electric tingle ran down his spine. Invisibility potion. Someone had left it here recently, and it wasn’t much, but it could make all the difference.
Flame’s hand closed around the bottle instinctively. He tilted it, catching the drops, watching them cling. His mind raced. Wemmbu. This was a trail, maybe, and it was worth checking out. And suddenly, the cave entrance just beside the bottle wasn’t something to bypass. It was the only logical place the trail could lead.
He crouched low at the mouth of the cave, senses straining. Darkness swallowed the opening, deep and opaque, but the faint smell of damp stone and faint minerals told him it went far deeper than the eye could see. The faint tingle of magic, residual from the potion, thrummed faintly in the air, giving him a sense of direction.
Flame didn’t hesitate. He adjusted his footing, tightened his grip on his sword, and moved inside. The cave walls swallowed him almost instantly. Dust fell from the ceiling in tiny clouds, and the dim light from outside barely touched the stone. He was careful with every step, boots scraping lightly, mindful of any sudden drops or loose rocks.
The darkness pressed against him, thick and suffocating. He could feel the subtle tug of Wemmbu’s presence, distant, wavering, but there. The tether pulsed sharply, a warning and a beacon at once.
Every step he took, the pulse intensified slightly, and Flame gritted his teeth, moving faster now, muscles flexing with anticipation.
The cave narrowed at first, forcing him to duck and pivot carefully, but soon it opened into a wider chamber. Shadows pooled along the edges, and the floor sloped slightly downward.
The air was damp, cold, and thick with the earthy scent of stone and water. Flame could feel the weight of the space pressing on him, the confined ceiling amplifying every movement. He paused, silent for a moment, listening.
Nothing but the soft echo of his own boots.
Then his HP dropped a heart.
Wemmbu, somewhere ahead, possibly trapped, possibly injured. His pulse spiked, a mix of irritation and something he refused to name boiling under his blindfolded focus.
He stepped deeper into the cave. The shadows swallowed him, stone pressing tight along his sides, and every movement sent faint vibrations echoing off walls far too close. The tether of the curse hummed faintly, a constant reminder: Wemmbu was ahead, alive, but in danger.
Flame’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…Hang on, bro,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m coming.”
Boot by boot, step by careful step, he moved deeper into the darkness, letting the cave guide him, the invisible drops of potion hinting at the path ahead, and the faint, inevitable tug of the curse pointing him forward.
The cave wasn’t silent anymore.
Flame froze mid-step, one boot hovering just above the stone. Voices, low, careless, confident, echoed faintly through the tunnel ahead. Not loud enough to pinpoint immediately, but close. Too close to be coincidence.
Players.
His jaw tightened. Of course.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t charge in like his instincts screamed at him to. Instead, he slipped back into the shadows, pressing himself against the cold stone wall as footsteps scraped somewhere ahead. Armor clinked faintly, subtle, disciplined, these weren’t amateurs.
Flame reached for his belt.
The glass bottle was cool in his palm. He uncorked it silently and splashed the invisibility potion over himself in one smooth motion. The familiar cold shimmer crawled over his skin, magic settling deep into his muscles. Immediately, he stripped off his armor, chestplate, leggings, boots, each piece placed carefully in his inventory.
The tunnel split ahead, two paths diverging sharply, one sloping downward into deeper darkness, the other widening slightly, air carrying the faint scent of torches and something… lived-in.
Flame didn’t hesitate.
He turned right.
The stone underfoot changed texture as he went, smoother in places, worn down by repeated passage. This wasn’t a natural cave anymore, it was man-made, built in, claimed. His steps slowed further, every movement deliberate, breath controlled, muscles coiled and ready.
The tunnel opened suddenly into a massive hollowed chamber.
Flame stopped at the edge, pressed into shadow, and took it in.
A base.
Not crude. Not temporary.
This was organized.
Torches lined the walls in deliberate patterns, casting warm light over storage units, crafting tables, reinforced stone, and bedrolls tucked into carved alcoves.
Chests stacked neatly. Brewing stands bubbling quietly. Maps pinned to the wall with various locations pinned. The hum of enchantment tables thrummed faintly through the room.
And players.
Seven. No…eight.
All invisible.
Each one carried a shield.
White, marked with a yellow symbol, sharp and angular, like a sigil.
Flame’s grip tightened on his sword.
So this was it.
His chest throbbed faintly, he could very well feel the strong pull.
“Yeah the invis guy was a bit of trouble, he made us use the trap meant for FlameFrags!”
“Who even is he?”
“Dunno, but oh well, he'll probably die soon anyways. He'll see his name in chat.”
Wemmbu.
He didn’t move yet, he watched.
He counted their patterns. Who stood guard. Who moved between stations. He memorized rotations, timings, blind spots. One by one, he mapped the room in his head.
Flame’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Eight.
He didn’t feel fear, he felt clarity.
This is easy.
He adjusted his stance slightly, he exhaled slowly.
Killing all of them would be easy. But he needed answers, so one would live.
Flame shifted his grip on the sword, rolling his shoulders once, feeling the weight of resolve settle into his spine. His pride wasn’t screaming now. His fairness wasn’t arguing.
Flame moved. The first strike was soundless.
He surged forward in a blur, sword flashing just long enough to catch torchlight before sinking cleanly into the overwatch player’s back. The invisibility shattered instantly, but the body hit the stone already dead, no cry, no warning. The sudden absence was enough.
Just the death message appearing in chat.
Confusion rippled through the room.
“What—?” one of the players said.
Flame was already gone.
He rolled sideways as a splash potion shattered where he’d been standing a heartbeat earlier, glass and particles scattering uselessly. He came up behind the brewing stand, grabbed the nearest player by the collar, and drove the sword through their ribs, twisting sharply.
The room erupted.
Invisibility dropped everywhere as players panicked, drawing weapons, shields snapping up with the same white-and-gold insignia. Flame welcomed it. He thrived in chaos.
Two rushed him at once.
He met them head-on.
Steel rang against steel as he parried the first strike, ducked under the second, and slammed his shoulder into one attacker’s chest, sending them crashing into a chest hard enough to splinter it. He didn’t even look as he turned and decapitated the other in one fluid arc.
Blood sprayed across the stone.
“Flamefrags is here—!”
A crossbow bolt grazed his arm. He hissed, pain flaring, and somewhere far away, Wemmbu felt it too. Flame snarled, anger spiking, and closed the distance in three long strides, blade flashing. The crossbow clattered to the ground moments before its owner did.
Five left.
They regrouped fast, credit where it was due. Shields raised, formation tightening, trying to box him in. Flame laughed breathlessly, adrenaline burning hot in his chest.
“Too slow, bro.”
He rushed them.
One shield slammed into his ribs, hard. Pain bloomed, sharp and deep. He staggered a step, then bit back, grabbing the shield’s edge and yanking the player forward into a knee strike that knocked the wind clean out of them. Sword through the throat, downwards.
Another caught him across the back. Flame growled, rolled with it, came up slashing. The blade caught armor, bit through, and the player dropped with a choked gasp.
Three.
The “leader” shouted something, orders, probably, but Flame was already on him. They clashed hard, sword against sword, sparks flying. The player was skilled, and quick.
Flame feinted left, then headbutted them brutally, blindfold and all. The impact was enough. His sword followed immediately, driving straight through their chest.
Two.
The last pair hesitated, fear finally crept in.
One turned to run and Flame let them.
The other raised their shield, hands shaking. “W-wait—!”
Flame stopped inches from them, sword dripping red, chest heaving. He tilted his head slightly, blindfold stained now, locks sticking to his neck with sweat.
“No,” he said calmly. “You wait.”
He struck, fast, precise, shattering the shield, cutting deep but not killing. The player screamed, collapsing to the ground, clutching their side.
Silence fell.
Bodies littered the base. Torches flickered. Brewing stands hissed softly, absurdly calm in the aftermath.
Flame stood in the center of it all, breathing hard, every muscle tight, pain pulsing through his body, and through the curse. His jaw clenched as he forced it down.
He turned slowly toward the one survivor.
They were shaking, bleeding from the sides and utterly terrified.
Flame crouched in front of them, sword resting casually across his knee.
“You’re gonna talk,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “About the cave. About the trap. About the invis player that came here.”
He leaned in closer.
“And if you lie bro?”
The blade lifted slightly.
“You’ll wish you didn’t survive.”
The player was shaking so hard their armor rattled against the stone.
Blood soaked through their fingers as they pressed a trembling hand to their side, eyes wide and glassy with terror. They didn’t dare look at the bodies around them—didn’t dare look anywhere but at Flame.
“I—I’ll talk,” they blurted, voice cracking. “I swear—I swear I’ll talk…”
Flame didn’t move. He didn’t nod. He didn’t threaten again.
He just stared. The silence was worse than screaming.
The player swallowed hard. “We…we didn’t mean to fight him. He came to our base… so we had no choice but to lead him…”
Flame’s grip on the sword tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Lead him where.”
“Deeper,” the player said quickly. “There’s an ancient section under the cave, sculk everywhere. We rigged it. Trap floor. Lever. Once he fell, we sealed the upper paths.”
Flame’s jaw clenched.
“And then?”
The player’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The wardens. There’s… a lot of them. We’ve been farming the area, keeping them alive and spawning more and more. They can’t get out easily, but once you’re down there…” They shook their head. “There’s no clean escape.”
Flame felt it then.
A sharp, distant flare of pain through the curse.
His chest tightened.
“Where,” he repeated, slower now, colder.
The player fumbled, pointing shakily toward a side tunnel at the far end of the base. “There’s a maintenance shaft. Hidden behind a reinforced wall. It drops into the deep dark. He should still be alive cause we didn't see any death message yet.”
Flame stood.
The movement alone made the player flinch violently.
“How long,” Flame asked.
“Minutes,” they said desperately. “Maybe longer. Time’s weird down there. But he is smart from how he fought. He knew what he was doing. It's best to assume he's hiding.”
Flame turned away.
The player let out a shaky breath of relief…too early.
Flame paused at the tunnel entrance, didn’t look back.
“If something happens to him,” he said quietly, “you won’t stay alive long enough to regret lying.”
Wemmbu was still alive, and Flame was coming.
Flame didn’t kill the player.
That alone should have terrified them more than death.
He grabbed them by the collar instead, fingers locking into the armor at their throat with brutal certainty, and hauled them upright. The player cried out once before Flame slammed them against the stone wall, blade pressing just enough into their side to remind them how fragile survival was.
“You’re coming,” Flame said quietly.
The player’s eyes widened in horror. “W–what—no, wait—”
Flame didn’t argue. He dragged them forward, boots scraping over blood-slick stone as he forced them down the tunnel the player had pointed out earlier. Past torches. Past broken bodies. Past the last illusion of safety.
The tunnel narrowed quickly, stone giving way to darker rock veined with faint, sickly blues. The air changed, cooler, heavier, charged with something wrong. Sculk.
Flame slowed.
They reached the maintenance shaft.
It was barely visible, reinforced blocks disguised behind natural stone, a lever hidden flush against the wall. Flame didn’t hesitate. He yanked it down.
The floor slid open.
Darkness yawned beneath them.
The player began to sob.
“Flamefrags please—”
Flame shoved them forward just enough that they stumbled, half-falling before catching themselves on the edge. He leaned in close, blindfold almost brushing their temple.
“You’re a good bait,” Flame murmured. “Congratulations, bro.”
Then he jumped.
They fell hard.
Stone rushed past as the shaft swallowed them, the air screaming in Flame’s ears before he twisted mid-drop and landed cleanly, knees bending to absorb the impact. The player hit moments later with a sickening crack and a sharp cry of pain that echoed far too loudly.
Flame froze instantly.
The sound carried.
Far below them, something answered.
A low, resonant thrum rolled through the deep dark like a heartbeat against stone. Then another, louder and inevitably closer.
Wardens, as in plural.
Flame’s jaw tightened, but his breathing stayed steady. Controlled. He grabbed the player again, clamping a hand over their mouth before another sound could escape. The sculk beneath their feet reacted instantly, tendrils twitching, faint pulses of light spreading outward.
“Quiet,” Flame breathed, voice barely audible. “Or you die first.”
The player nodded frantically, eyes streaming with tears.
They moved slowly, careful not to make a sound..
Flame adjusted every step, placing his feet where sculk growth was thinnest, avoiding shriekers, skirting sensors by inches. Each movement was deliberate, calculated to the point of obsession. He could feel the wardens now, not just hear them. Their presence pressed against his chest, vibrating through bone and stone alike.
Flame’s irritation burned hotter, not wild, not reckless, but sharp and focused. Of course Wemmbu would end up here. Breaking rules like they were optional suggestions.
Idiot.
The ground trembled as a warden shifted somewhere ahead, its massive form scraping against stone. A faint roar echoed through the cavern, distorted and furious.
The player whimpered despite themselves.
Flame tightened his grip.
“Still alive,” he muttered under his breath, not to the player, but to the tether, to Wemmbu. “Bro’s so stupid…”
They reached a junction where the sculk thickened, spreading like a living carpet across the floor and walls. Flame paused, listening.
Another roar, closer now.
He could hear it now, the heavy, deliberate steps. The way the air itself seemed to bend around the creature’s presence. Multiple heartbeats layered over one another.
Flame leaned down to the player’s ear.
“When I let go,” he whispered, “you run. You scream. You do everything wrong.”
The player’s eyes went wide with realization.
“Flamefrags—”
Flame shoved them forward.
The scream tore through the cavern instantly.
Shriekers wailed.
The deep dark erupted.
Wardens roared in unison, soundwaves ripping through the tunnels as massive shapes surged toward the noise. The ground shook violently, sculk lighting up in frantic pulses as the monsters converged on the player’s panicked footsteps.
Flame vanished into the shadows, moving fast now, but still silent, using the chaos exactly as intended.
Angry wardens thundered past him, blind and furious, drawn to the screaming sacrifice. Flame slipped between stone pillars and sculked walls, heart pounding, pain flaring through the curse with every tremor.
He took a turn, from where wardens were previously camping.
A barely-there outline pressed into a corner of stone, motionless, golden eyes reflecting dim blue light.
And Flame was finally close enough to reach him.
Flame felt it before he heard it, A sharp dip in his HP, sudden, uneven, wrong. Not the heavy, crushing damage of a warden’s sonic blast, but the jagged kind that came from close combat.
His jaw snapped tight.
“Are you serious—”
Then he heard it.
Steel scraping stone. A sharp exhale. The unmistakable sound of a blade being wrenched free of something massive and dead.
Flame didn’t hesitate.
He broke into a sprint, no longer caring about stealth, boots pounding against sculk-coated stone as he followed the sound. The wardens’ roars were further away now, distracted, furious, chasing the sacrifice he’d sent running. The path ahead opened into a wider cavern, blue sculk light pulsing faintly against towering pillars.
And, to his annoyance, mining fatigue hitting him instantly.
Standing in the center of the chamber, sword drawn, and breathing steady.
Around him lay the bodies of wardens, three, maybe four, collapsed into the sculk like fallen monuments, their massive forms still and silent, veins dimming from furious blue to dead black. The ground was scarred with impact marks, stone fractured, sculk torn apart by violence.
Wemmbu’s long purple ponytail hung loose down his back now, strands sticking to his neck with sweat. His armor was scuffed, cracked in places, and his chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. Golden eyes glinted sharply in the dim light as he wiped his blade clean on a fallen warden’s hide.
Flame skidded to a stop.
For half a second, he just stared.
Anger flared first, his temper hot.
Then…relief.
Which pissed him off even more.
Wemmbu turned at the sound of boots, eyes locking onto Flame instantly. No invisibility shimmer, no tricks. Just him, standing there.
“Dude,” Wemmbu drawled, tilting his head with that familiar sly smirk creeping onto his lips. “Took you long enough.”
Flame opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then snapped, “What the hell were you thinking?!”
Wemmbu shrugged lightly, rolling his shoulder as if the weight of the deep dark and several dead wardens was nothing. “Relax, bro—” he paused, smirk widening, clearly enjoying this “—I’m not weak.”
Flame’s hand tightened around his sword.
“Three wardens,” Flame shot back, voice sharp, incredulous. “Three. Do you have a death wish or are you just trying to kill us both?”
Wemmbu’s eyes flicked briefly to the bodies, then back to Flame. “Four,” he corrected lazily. “One collapsed behind you.”
Flame growled.
The curse hummed between them, steady now, alive, both of them breathing, standing. The tension in the cavern was thick enough to choke on, anger and adrenaline crackling in the sculk-lit air.
Flame took a step closer.
“You disappear without a word,” Flame said low, dangerous. “Break the rules. Get yourself trapped in a warden nest. And you think a joke’s appropriate?”
Wemmbu’s smirk softened just a fraction, not apologetic, but… aware.
“You came,” he said simply.
Flame stopped.
They stood there amid the dead wardens, blue light pulsing around them, both injured, both alive, both vibrating with everything they refused to say.
The deep dark roared somewhere in the distance.
But for the first time since the curse bound them, neither of them was alone.
The silence didn’t last.
Flame closed the distance in two sharp steps, boots scraping against stone until he was right there, he punched Wemmbu on the face and moved closer to him, nose to nose with Wemmbu, heat radiating off him like a forge. His chest rose hard, every breath clipped, restrained only by sheer will.
“You don’t get to do that,” Flame snapped.
Wemmbu didn’t back away.
If anything, he leaned in, golden eyes flashing, smirk still clinging stubbornly to his face like armor. “Do what?” he asked lightly, voice pitched just enough to poke. “Go for fresh air?”
Flame’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. “Disappear. Break our rules. Drag me halfway across the map through a warden nest because you felt like being clever.”
Wemmbu scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, here we go. You’re really gonna lecture me now?”
“Yes,” Flame bit out. “Because this—” he gestured sharply at the dead wardens, at the sculk, at Wemmbu “—this was reckless.”
Wemmbu’s smirk twitched. “Funny. Didn’t hear you complaining when I was the one taking the hits.”
Flame saw red.
“You think this is about hits?!” he barked, stepping even closer until their foreheads almost brushed. “I felt every single one, idiot. Every slash, every blast…my HP dropped out of nowhere and I had no idea if you were dead or just being stupid.”
Wemmbu’s eyes narrowed, irritation flaring hot. “I told you—”
“You told me nothing,” Flame cut in. “You just left.”
That landed.
Not softly, but it landed.
For a split second, Wemmbu’s teasing mask slipped. Just enough to reveal something sharper underneath. Annoyance. Defensiveness. And something dangerously close to guilt.
“Whatever dude,” Wemmbu shot back, chin lifting. “what’s done is done.”
“Now you’re not alone to save,” Flame snapped immediately. “That’s the point you keep ignoring.”
Wemmbu’s fingers tightened around his sword. “Don’t start acting like you own me.”
Flame laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Trust me, bro, if I owned you, you wouldn’t be pulling this kind of crap.”
Wemmbu tilted his head, eyes glinting. “You mad because I broke a rule,” he murmured, voice low, taunting, “or because you were worried?”
Flame’s fist clenched.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Wemmbu smiled wider. “Hit a nerve?”
Flame moved faster than thought, shoving Wemmbu back against a pillar with a hard thud, one hand fisting into the front of his armor. The impact sent a dull ache through both of them, shared pain flaring briefly, but Flame didn’t let go.
His voice dropped, dangerous and tight. “You pull something like that again,” he said, each word carved out of fury, “and next time I won’t be fast enough to drag you out.”
Wemmbu’s breath hitched, not from fear, but from the closeness, the intensity. He looked up at Flame through his lashes, golden eyes sharp, defiant.
“…You came anyway,” he said quietly.
Flame froze.
The sculk pulsed around them. Wardens roared somewhere far off, distant enough to ignore, for now.
Flame released him abruptly, stepping back like he’d been burned. “Yeah,” he muttered, turning away, shoulders tense. “And don’t read into it.”
Wemmbu straightened slowly, rubbing his shoulder where he’d been pinned. His smirk returned, but it was different now. Less playful, more… thoughtful.
“Too late,” he murmured.
The argument lingered between them, unresolved, crackling with heat and something far more dangerous than anger.
For a heartbeat, just one, it felt like the world had narrowed to the space between them.
Too close.
Flame stood rigid, shoulders tight, breath still uneven from the fight and the argument and everything he refused to name.
Wemmbu was right there, close enough that Flame could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the way his long purple hair had slipped loose from its tie and brushed against his collarbone. Too close to the accidental, too close to be safe.
Neither of them moved.
The sculk beneath their feet pulsed faintly, blue light crawling up the walls like a living thing, but it might as well have been darkness for all either of them noticed.
The dead wardens lay heavy and silent around them, forgotten. The curse hummed low and steady in both their chests, a shared rhythm that suddenly felt far too intimate.
Flame’s jaw flexed.
Wemmbu tilted his head just slightly, golden eyes searching, not teasing this time, not mocking. Something raw flickered there, unguarded, like he’d forgotten for half a second how to hide behind smirks and clever words. His lips parted as if he were about to say something, then thought better of it. Or maybe he hadn’t decided yet.
The distance between them was unbearable.
Flame could feel it, the pull, sharp and magnetic, dragging him forward inch by inch. His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling like he might grab Wemmbu again, like he might pull him closer instead of pushing him away this time. The thought hit him so hard it made his chest ache.
Don’t.
Wemmbu’s breath hitched, barely noticeable, but Flame caught it anyway. He could smell him< iron, stone dust, faint potion residue. He could count the freckles of sculk-light reflected in Wemmbu’s eyes.
He could feel the shared damage, the shared exhaustion, the shared survival tying them together tighter than either of them wanted to admit.
Seconds stretched, too many seconds…
The air felt charged, heavy, like lightning about to strike. It wouldn’t have taken much, one step, one tilt of the head, one stupid, impulsive decision, and the space between them would have vanished completely. The thought alone sent something wild and unfamiliar spiraling through Flame’s chest.
A low, distant roar rolled through the cavern.
Both of them stiffened instantly.
The deep dark answered back with a faint tremor, sculk veins lighting brighter, responding to movement and sound somewhere far too close for comfort. Another roar followed, closer this time, reverberating through bone and stone alike.
The moment shattered.
Flame swore under his breath and stepped back sharply, breaking the invisible thread between them like snapping a wire. He turned his head slightly, listening, already shifting back into survival mode.
“We’re leaving,” he said, voice rough, clipped. “Now. Before they notice us.”
Wemmbu blinked once, as if coming back to himself.
“Yeah,” he replied quickly, too quickly, already turning away. “Good call.”
Just like that, he shoved the moment aside.
Ignored it.
Buried it under instinct and sarcasm and motion, like it hadn’t almost swallowed them whole. He adjusted his grip on his sword, posture snapping back into something familiar, controlled.
“Try not to trip this time, bro,” he added lightly, forcing a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Flame didn’t rise to it.
He led the way instead, boots already moving, every step deliberate as he guided them toward the shadows and away from the pulsing sculk. The wardens roared again, closer now, and there was no room left for hesitation.
They moved together, side by side, not touching, not looking at each other.
But the space between them felt louder than any roar.
And neither of them said a word about how close they’d come.