Chapter Text
Wemmbu feels the invisibility thinning before he sees it.
It’s subtle at first, like the air resisting him, like the world remembering he exists. The shimmer around his hands stutters when he sprints, the edges of his outline threatening to betray him with every careless movement. He clicks his tongue, irritated, golden eyes flicking down to his hotbar out of pure habit even though he already knows what he’ll find.
Empty.
No spare potions tucked away. No backups hidden in a shulker. He used the last one earlier, fighting that demon, cutting it too close on purpose because that’s how he’s always played, pushing luck until it snarls back.
“Great,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and sharp. “Just perfect.”
He veers off his original path without slowing, diamond boots with netherite trims skidding slightly over stone as he redirects toward the ruins he spotted earlier. Ancient. Wrong. The kind of structure the world pretends not to notice. Half-swallowed by terrain, cracked and slanted like it sank there to hide.
Of course that’s where he ends up.
Wemmbu slips down the slope toward it, movements precise even as his invisibility continues to decay. He hates this part, the waiting, the vulnerability, the way his survival depends not on skill but on timing. Pride has never been his weakness, but being constantly jumped? Being forced to prove his strength?
Yeah. That gets under his skin.
The rumors were supposed to buy him peace.
Dead Wemmbu. Gone. Finally quiet.
Eggchan had done his job well, whispers spread fast on this server, especially when blood and spectacle were involved in the server's strongest players' death. A dramatic end. No proof, of course, but that never stopped anyone. People wanted the idea of his death more than proof of it. They wanted to believe the strongest could fall.
Everyone except Flame.
Wemmbu’s mouth twists into a smirk at the thought, equal parts amused and annoyed. Of course Flame wouldn’t buy it. Too stubborn. Too loud. Too obsessed with “fairness” in battle, as if the world had ever cared about rules.
Still mad about that last fight, no doubt. Elytra. Mace. Orbital cannons. Effective tools, all of them, and Flame had raged like a struck Blaze, yelling about swords and honor and pride like it was some sacred oath instead of a self-imposed limitation.
If you lose, you lose. Simple.
Wemmbu slips between two fractured pillars and ducks into the structure just as the invisibility finally collapses.
The world snaps him back into existence.
He exhales sharply and stills, listening.
Nothing immediate, no footsteps, no distant clatter of armor. Just the low, echoing hum of the ruin itself, a sound like stone remembering something it shouldn’t. He straightens slowly, fingers flexing around the handle of his mace as his eyes adjust to the gloom.
The place is older than most of the server. Moss creeps along carved walls, symbols half-erased by time and neglect. Purple-tinted light filters in from cracks above, catching in his long hair as it slips loose from its ponytail.
He scowls faintly and reties it with practiced speed, movements sharp with impatience.
He hates hiding. Hates waiting.
But he hates being caught unprepared even more.
Wemmbu moves deeper, boots quiet against the cracked floor. His golden eyes scan every corner, every shadow, cataloguing exits, choke points, vertical space. Gambit rests comfortably at his side, heavy, familiar, reassuring. He’s always preferred weapons that end fights decisively. No dancing around. No unnecessary ceremony.
Get it done. Win. Move on.
He finds a partially collapsed chamber and slips inside, positioning himself where the shadows are thickest. The ceiling has caved in just enough to let moonlight spill through, painting the stone in fractured silver. It’s almost peaceful, in a way that makes his skin itch.
He leans back against the wall and clicks his tongue again, irritation bubbling up now that the adrenaline fades.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Running out of invis like some rookie bro.”
A pause.
“…Not that anyone saw.”
His gaze flicks instinctively to the entrance, sharp and suspicious. He knows Flame is looking for him. He can feel it in the way the server seems tighter lately, like a net being slowly drawn closed. Flame doesn’t give up, not when pride’s involved, and definitely not when he feels cheated.
And Wemmbu did cheat. Fair and square.
The thought makes him smirk again, even as a flicker of something else coils in his chest, not guilt, never that. Something closer to anticipation…annoyance, maybe even… interest.
He rolls his shoulders, draconic instincts prickling under his skin, it hums faintly in his veins, urging him to move, to vanish, to strike first. Waiting goes against every instinct he has.
But for now, this is the smartest play.
He settles in, back against ancient stone, mace resting across his knees. His fingers drum against the handle as he counts the seconds, the minutes, the distance between himself and the rest of the world.
Let Flame search.
He’s just watching, sly, hidden, and already planning how to win the next encounter too.
The next thing Wemmbu hears is Flame’s voice.
Not footsteps. Not armor clanking.
That would’ve been easier.
“Bro,” Flame calls out, tone lazy, mocking, echoing through the stone corridors. “You really think I didn’t see where you ran?”
Wemmbu stills instantly.
His back presses flatter against the ruin wall, muscles tight, breath carefully measured. The invisibility timer is long gone now, no shimmer, no mercy, just stone and shadow and the very real knowledge that if Flame rounds the right corner, this stops being a game.
He shuts his eyes for half a second, jaw clenching.
So he followed…Of course he did.
Flame’s voice drifts closer, bouncing off broken pillars, deliberately loud. He isn’t searching quietly. He wants Wemmbu to hear him.
“I swear,” Flame continues, amused irritation threaded through every word, “you invis players all run the same way. Panic, right turn, hide somewhere ugly.”
A pause. Then, sharper, baiting.
“Pretty disappointing for a guy who supposedly took down Wemmbu.”
Wemmbu’s fingers twitch around the handle of his mace.
Ah yes… the strong undefeated invisible player that defeated Wemmbu in battle.
That was one of the rumors Eggchan spread about his death.
Rage flares fast, hot and instinctive, curling in his chest like a struck nerve. He bites it down immediately, getting angry is exactly what Flame wants, he lives for reactions, for tells.
Stay rational.
He shifts his weight minutely, repositioning deeper into the collapsed chamber, careful not to scrape armor or disturb loose gravel. His golden eyes track the entrance, sharp and calculating, every exit already mapped in his head.
Flame keeps talking.
“You know,” he says, dragging the word out, “I never bought that rumor. Not for a second. ‘Wemmbu’s dead’? Yeah, right. Bro doesn’t die, he just runs when the fight stops being fair.”
There it is.
Wemmbu’s lips curl into a silent, irritated smirk.
Still mad.
Flame’s footsteps finally become audible now, unhurried, confident, crunching deliberately over stone. He’s circling, not charging. His sword drawn, probably.
“C’mon bro,” Flame calls, voice closer now, teasing but edged with something more serious. “You gonna stay quiet forever? Or you gonna admit you’re here?”
Wemmbu exhales slowly through his nose.
He wants to snap back. Wants to mock him, to needle him, to say something just sharp enough to make Flame rush in swinging. It would be so easy to ragebait him right back.
But this isn’t about winning a duel.
This is about surviving long enough to control the next one.
So he stays silent.
Flame scoffs when there’s no response.
“Figures,” he mutters. “Guess hiding suits you better than fighting fair.”
The word fair makes Wemmbu’s eye twitch.
He adjusts his grip on his mace, grounding himself in the familiar weight. His instincts hum under his skin, urging him to blink, to reposition, to vanish somewhere Flame can’t reach, but without invis, without potions, that urge is nothing but static.
He listens instead.
Flame’s footsteps stop, too suddenly…
Wemmbu freezes, heart rate ticking up despite his control. His gaze flicks to the broken archway just outside the chamber. If Flame steps through that opening, they’ll be within striking distance.
Silence stretches.
Then Flame laughs, quiet, knowing.
“Y’know what’s funny?” he says. “If you’re not Wemmbu… you’re doing a real bad job proving it.”
The last bit of Wemmbu’s smirk fades, irritation sharpening into something colder.
Flame knows.
Not proven, not confirmed or known.
He hates that almost as much as being chased.
He shifts again, silent as a thought, settling deeper into the shadows as Flame resumes his slow, taunting patrol of the ruins. For now, patience is his weapon. Flame can talk all he wants. Flame can tease, accuse, bait.
Wemmbu will wait.
Because when he moves next, it won’t be out of anger.
It’ll be to win.
But he is met with another sudden silence, suffocating and brutally long.
The silence breaks wrong.
Not with footsteps retreating, Not with Flame’s voice drifting farther away.
It just… stops.
Wemmbu’s brow furrows instantly.
That’s not like him.
Flame never shuts up when he thinks he’s winning. He prowls, taunts, announces himself like the world owes him attention.
The sudden absence of sound sends a prickle up Wemmbu’s spine, ender instincts flaring sharp and insistent.
Where did you go?
He shifts his stance subtly, mace lifting a fraction, golden eyes scanning the chamber again. At the entrance, ceiling breach, or maybe the side corridor. But he's met with nothing. No movement, no shadow out of place.
“…Tch,” he mutters under his breath. “Don’t tell me you—”
A rush of heat snaps into existence right behind him.
“Found you, bro.”
The world explodes.
Wemmbu barely has time to twist before Flame slams into him from behind, sword already swinging. The impact drives him forward, shoulder clipping stone as sparks fly where blade meets ancient wall. Flame’s presence is overwhelming, heat, pressure, aggression incarnate, like a Blaze condensed into human form.
“—knew it,” Flame snarls, annoyed and triumphant all at once. “You are real bro.”
Wemmbu stumbles, then pivots hard, mace coming up just in time to block the second strike. Metal screams against metal, the force of it vibrating straight up his arms.
“Bro,” Flame continues, already irritated, “you really thought you could just hide and I wouldn’t—”
Wemmbu rams his shoulder into Flame’s chest mid-sentence, shoving him back with a sharp grunt. “You talk too much buddy.”
Flame laughs, sharp and breathless, eyes hidden behind the ever-present blindfold as he recovers instantly. “Says the guy pretending to be dead.”
They clash again, sword against mace, sparks lighting the chamber in violent flashes.
Flame fights clean and brutal, every swing precise, controlled, fueled by pride and pure irritation. No tricks, no shortcuts, just raw, relentless pressure.
Wemmbu fights to win. He ducks under a horizontal slash, mace coming up in a brutal arc that Flame barely parries.
The impact rattles Flame’s arms, and Wemmbu doesn’t let up, spinning, forcing him back toward the broken wall, exploiting every inch of terrain.
“You vanish now?” Wemmbu snaps, irritation bleeding through despite himself. “What happened to fairness bro?”
Flame clicks his tongue. “Ender pearls aren’t cheating. Cry about it dude.”
Wemmbu snarls, rage flaring hot, but he reins it in just as fast. Getting emotional will get him killed. Instead, he feints left, then brings the mace down hard, aiming to break Flame’s guard rather than out-speed him.
Flame blocks, but it costs him ground.
Stone crumbles under his heel as he skids back, annoyance spiking. “Oh, so now you wanna fight close?”
“Didn’t say that,” Wemmbu fires back, smirk sharp despite the chaos. “You’re just easier to hit when you stop posturing.”
That does it.
Flame lunges, sword blazing, every strike heavier now, angrier. The chamber fills with heat and motion, the echo of combat bouncing off ancient stone. They’re too close, too fast, no room for theatrics, just instinct and muscle memory.
Wemmbu takes a hit to the side, pain flares, sharp and biting, and he hisses, twisting away before Flame can follow through. He retaliates immediately, mace slamming into Flame’s shoulder with a solid, bone-jarring impact.
Flame grunts, teeth clenched. “Still cheating, I see.”
“Still losing,” Wemmbu snaps back, breath quickening.
They separate for half a second, both tense, both breathing hard, eyes locked, one visible and burning gold, the other hidden behind cloth but unmistakably focused.
Ancient dust drifts between them.
Neither backs down.
And whatever this is, hunt, rivalry, obsession, it’s officially over.
Now it’s a fight.
The impact of their clash doesn’t stop at steel and stone.
It goes deeper.
Wemmbu swings wide, Flame counters hard, and they collide shoulder-to-shoulder with enough force to send both of them skidding backward. The mace scrapes against the floor. Flame’s boot catches on a cracked tile…
—and the ground answers.
A low, ancient thrum ripples through the ruin, vibrating up the walls and into their bones.
Both of them freeze.
“What the hell was that?” Flame mutters, irritation sharpening into suspicion.
Wemmbu doesn’t respond immediately. His golden eyes flick to the floor beneath them, where faint lines, barely visible before it began to glow.
Redstone veins, old and cracked, flaring to life like a pulse. Symbols ignite one by one along the walls, crawling upward in a spiral.
“Oh,” Wemmbu mutters flatly. “…That’s bad.”
“Bro,” Flame snaps, already backing up a step, sword lifting again. “What did you do.”
“I didn’t do anything—”
The structure activates.
A mechanism snaps open above them with a violent clang, and before either of them can react, something bursts downward between them, an explosive splash of shimmering liquid, hot and cold at the same time. It detonates on impact, knocking the air from their lungs.
“Dude like what—!?”
The force throws them apart and then slams them together again just as hard.
Flame hits the ground first, back striking stone with a sharp crack as the breath is punched clean out of him.
Wemmbu goes down on top of him.
Armor clatters. The mace skids away. Flame lets out a strangled noise somewhere between a curse and a groan as Wemmbu’s weight crashes into his chest.
For a split second, everything is chaos, the heat, stone, the lingering sting of whatever the hell they were just splashed with.
Then silence.
Wemmbu blinks, momentarily stunned, breath hitching as he realizes exactly where he’s landed.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me dude,” he mutters.
“Get off bro,” Flame growls immediately, voice rough with pain and fury.
Wemmbu pushes himself up quickly, rolling to the side and scrambling to his feet. Flame sits up with a hiss, one hand braced against the floor, the other gripping his sword like it personally offended him.
“What was that?” Flame snaps, scanning the glowing walls. “Did you set a trap?”
Wemmbu scoffs, rubbing at his shoulder where the splash still tingles uncomfortably. “Yeah, because I love getting hit by mystery liquids and crushed by architecture.”
Flame snorts, pushing himself upright. “Figures. You run, you hide, and now you’re pulling environmental nonsense?”
“Bro, you literally teleported behind me,” Wemmbu fires back. “Don’t talk to me about fairness.”
They glare at each other, tension snapping back into place like a pulled wire. The glowing symbols fade slowly, the structure settling into an uneasy quiet, as if satisfied.
Flame adjusts his grip on the sword, irritation rolling off him in waves. “Whatever that was, it didn’t finish the job.”
Wemmbu’s lips curl. “Then let’s not waste it.”
They move at the same time.
Flame lunges first, sword slashing toward Wemmbu’s ribs. Wemmbu twists out of the way and retaliates immediately, bringing the mace around in a brutal arc aimed straight for Flame’s shoulder.
The mace connects.
Flame grunts as the impact rattles through him—
—and Wemmbu chokes.
Pain flares through Wemmbu’s side like lightning, sharp and immediate, forcing a startled gasp out of him. His grip falters just long enough for Flame to stagger back, clutching his shoulder.
“What the—” Flame snaps, then freezes.
Because his own health bar dips again.
At the exact same time Wemmbu’s does.
They both look down instinctively.
Then at each other.
Silence stretches, thick and wrong.
“…Okay bro,” Flame says slowly. “What did you do.”
Wemmbu’s eyes narrow. “Excuse you bro?”
“You hit me,” Flame continues, jabbing a finger toward him. “And you flinched like I hit you back.”
Wemmbu scoffs, sharp and defensive. “Yeah, because you probably reflected damage or some stupid—”
Flame swings again without warning, a short, controlled strike aimed at Wemmbu’s arm.
The blade barely grazes him.
They both hiss in pain.
Wemmbu staggers back, clutching his forearm as Flame jerks like he’s been cut in the same place.
“What the hell?!” Flame snaps, backing up instinctively now. “Okay, no. No way. You’re cheating bro like.”
“Oh, I’m cheating?” Wemmbu snaps back, rage flaring hot. “You literally just hit yourself.”
“I didn’t—”
Flame punches the wall in frustration.
The impact echoes—
—and Wemmbu gasps, doubling over as pain blooms across his knuckles like he’d done it himself.
Both of them freeze again.
This time, the silence is louder.
“…what,” Wemmbu says, voice suddenly tight. “Why do my hands hurt?”
He straightens slowly, golden eyes wide now, anger giving way to sharp, creeping realization. He flexes his fingers experimentally. The ache mirrors Flame’s exactly.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters.
Flame steps closer, sword lowering despite himself. “No. No, that splash—whatever that was bro—”
He drags the sword lightly across the stone floor.
Wemmbu sucks in a sharp breath as a matching sting slices across his palm.
“That’s not possible bro,” Flame snaps, whirling on him. “You’re doing something.”
Wemmbu laughs, sharp and humorless. “You think I’d do this to myself?”
Flame hesitates.
Just for half a second.
Enough.
They test it again, angrier now. Flame slashes the air near Wemmbu’s shoulder. Wemmbu swings the mace down onto the floor. Each movement, each impact, results in mirrored pain. Shared damage. Perfectly synchronized.
The realization settles heavy between them, ugly and undeniable.
“…We’re linked,” Flame mutters.
Wemmbu’s jaw tightens. “Looks like it.”
Flame rounds on him instantly, fury reigniting full force. “This is your fault.”
“Oh, absolutely not dude,” Wemmbu fires back. “You chased me into ancient ruins and started swinging.”
“Because you were running!”
“Because you don’t know when to drop a fight!”
They step toward each other, heated, reckless—
—and both flinch at the same time as the structure emits a low, warning hum, redstone veins faintly glowing again.
They stop.
Breathing hard. Eyes locked.
Bound.
Whatever that splash was, whatever this ruin decided to awaken, it didn’t care about pride or fairness or rivalry.
It bound them out of spite.
And as the truth sinks in, shared pain, shared damage, no escape without consequences, one thing becomes brutally clear:
If one of them loses this fight—
They both do.
The realization doesn’t settle gently…It grinds.
The ruin is quiet again, but it’s the wrong kind of quiet, charged, humming under their skin like a threat waiting to be remembered. The redstone veins have dimmed, though not completely gone, as if the structure is watching. Listening. Waiting for them to make another mistake.
Flame stands rigid a few blocks away, sword lowered but not sheathed, shoulders tense beneath the heat that never fully leaves him. Wemmbu rolls his shoulder once, then twice, testing the lingering ache. The pain is already fading, too fast.
Just like Flames rapid regeneration…
That alone pisses him off.
“…No,” Wemmbu mutters. “I don’t like this.”
Flame scoffs, short and sharp. “You don’t say, bro.”
Wemmbu ignores the jab. His golden eyes flick from Flame’s stance to the walls, then back again, calculating. Shared damage, mirrored pain. The mechanics are obvious enough, but the limits aren’t…
And limits are meant to be pushed.
He straightens, deliberately casual, and takes a step backward. Then another.
Flame notices immediately.
“Hey,” he says, irritation pricking through his voice. “Where do you think you’re going bro.”
Wemmbu doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns slightly and looks down at the cracked stone floor near the wall—jagged, uneven, sharp enough to hurt if you’re careless.
Or if you’re intentional.
Flame’s eyes narrow beneath the blindfold. “Don’t.”
Wemmbu’s mouth curves into a sly, infuriating smirk. “Relax.”
“Wemmbu,” Flame snaps, the certainty in the name making the air feel tighter, “I swear—”
Too late.
Wemmbu lifts his mace and brings it down hard against his own forearm.
The sound is sickening.
Bone meets metal with a dull, brutal thud.
Wemmbu grunts, not from surprise, but from the sheer force of it, and stumbles half a step, teeth clenched as pain explodes up his arm.
At the exact same moment—
Flame cries out.
“—you stupid!”
His knees buckle as if someone’s yanked the ground out from under him. He drops to one knee, sword clattering against stone as his free hand flies to his arm, fingers digging in hard like he can physically tear the pain out of himself.
“What—what the hell was that?!” Flame snarls, breath coming fast, sharp.
Wemmbu straightens slowly, rolling his wrist despite the ache, eyes bright and unrepentant.
“…Confirmed,” he says coolly. “Direct transfer.”
Flame looks up at him, stunned, then furious.
“You—” His voice cracks with rage. “You hit yourself just for that?!”
Wemmbu shrugs, a little too casual for someone who just fractured his own arm. “Seemed faster than theory.”
Flame pushes himself back to his feet in one sharp movement, heat flaring visibly around him. “Are you insane?!”
“Oh, don’t start,” Wemmbu fires back. “You wanted proof. Now you have it.”
“That wasn’t proof, that was—” Flame cuts himself off, breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might snap. He flexes his fingers, winces, then glares. “That was using me.”
Wemmbu tilts his head, mock-curious. “You’re fine.”
“No,” Flame snaps, stepping forward despite the pain. “I’m not.”
He closes the distance between them in three long strides, heat radiating off him in waves. Wemmbu doesn’t back up, doesn’t flinch, but something in Flame’s posture has shifted.
This isn’t just anger. It’s sharp, focused. Protective in a way that makes Wemmbu’s smirk falter for half a second.
Flame jabs a finger into Wemmbu’s chest, right over where his heart would be.
“You don’t get to hurt me when we're not even fighting just because you’re reckless.”
The words hit harder than the mace did.
The ruin seems to hum in response, like it approves.
Wemmbu’s expression tightens, irritation flaring hot and immediate. “Excuse me? You’ve been trying to cut me in half since you got here.”
“That was before,” Flame snaps back. “Before whatever this is.”
He gestures sharply between them, the movement mirrored in the faint ache that pulses in Wemmbu’s chest.
“You wanna test things?” Flame continues, voice low and furious. “Fine. But you don’t get to decide that my body is collateral.”
Wemmbu scoffs, though there’s an edge to it now. “Since when do you care?”
Flame freezes.
For half a second, the question hangs there, dangerous, loaded.
Then Flame bares his teeth in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Don’t twist it. This isn’t about caring. This is about control.”
“Yeah?” Wemmbu shoots back. “Funny, coming from the guy who chased me halfway across the server because his pride got bruised.”
Flame steps even closer, heat flaring again. “And you think smashing your own arm proves dominance?”
“It proves I’m not scared of it,” Wemmbu snaps. “Or you.”
Flame laughs, sharp and humorless. “Bro, you should be.”
Before Wemmbu can respond, Flame suddenly grabs a loose shard of stone from the floor and drags it hard across his own palm.
Blood beads instantly.
Wemmbu gasps, the pain slashing through his hand like a blade, sharp and immediate. He jerks his hand back instinctively, fingers curling as crimson stains his glove.
“What the—!” Wemmbu snarls.
Flame doesn’t look away from him. His blindfold hides his eyes, but the intensity is unmistakable. “See? Works both ways.”
“Are you trying to kill us?!” Wemmbu snaps, clutching his hand.
Flame’s jaw tightens. “I’m proving a point.”
“You’re being an idiot.”
“And you’re being careless bro,” Flame fires back. “The difference is, your mistakes hit both of us now.”
They stand there, breathing hard, hands bleeding, pain echoing back and forth like a cruel joke. Every shift, every spike of emotion sends a ripple through the bond, tightening it, and even reinforcing it.
Wemmbu breaks the silence first, voice lower now, sharper. “So what. We just… don’t fight?”
Flame lets out a short, bitter laugh. “You think I can just stop?”
Wemmbu hesitates.
For the first time since the curse activated, he doesn’t immediately have an answer.
The structure hums again, faint and satisfied, as if pleased by the tension winding tighter between them, not just shared damage, but shared restraint.
Shared consequence.
Whatever this curse is, it isn’t just binding their health bars.
It’s forcing them to acknowledge something far more dangerous:
They can’t afford to hurt each other anymore.
And neither of them knows how to fight without doing exactly that.
The anger doesn’t burn out, it rots…
It sits heavy in their chests, sour and exhausting, made worse by the slow, creeping realization that neither of them is functioning at full strength anymore. The pain from earlier hasn’t vanished, it’s dulled into a constant ache, shared and persistent, like the curse refuses to let either of them forget it exists.
Wemmbu flexes his fingers again and grimaces. Flame does the exact same thing half a second later.
They both notice.
They both pretend they don’t.
“…This is stupid,” Flame mutters, dragging a hand down his face stooping at the blindfold. His voice lacks some of its earlier edge now, worn down by sheer fatigue. “I can’t even tell which way we came from.”
Wemmbu looks around, irritation flaring again as he takes in the ruin. Every corridor looks the same, collapsed arches, moss-covered stone, faintly glowing symbols that refuse to fully die out. Whatever orientation he’d had earlier is gone, scrambled by the fight and the activation of the structure.
“Yeah,” he snaps. “No kidding. Everything looks like it wants us dead bro.”
Flame scoffs weakly. “Bro, you say that like it’s new.”
Wemmbu shoots him a glare, but it doesn’t have the same bite as before. He exhales sharply and leans his weight against a cracked pillar, and immediately stiffens when Flame does the same a moment later, letting out an annoyed hiss as the stone presses into a bruise neither of them remembers earning individually.
“…Okay,” Wemmbu mutters. “We’re tired.”
Flame straightens a little, jaw tightening. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re diagnosing me,” Flame snaps, then winces when the sharpness of his own voice sends a faint spike of irritation back through the bond. He clicks his tongue, annoyed at himself now. “Whatever. Fine. We’re tired.”
The admission sits between them, ugly and undeniable.
They try to move again, try to walk it off, to shake the exhaustion like it’s nothing more than a bad fight, but every step feels heavier than the last. Wemmbu’s legs drag. Flame’s shoulders slump despite his stubborn refusal to fully relax.
Shared exhaustion.
Of course it would be.
“Fantastic,” Wemmbu mutters. “So we share damage, pain, and apparently stamina now.”
Flame laughs once, short and humorless. “What’s next, bro? You gonna start whining and I feel it too?”
Wemmbu shoots him a look. “Careful. You might regret that.”
“Aren't you supposed to have more stamina than usual player anyways?”
Flame just shrugs, “bro I haven't rested in days.”
They walk in silence for a few moments, boots echoing dully against stone. The ruin seems larger now, corridors stretching longer than they should, shadows deepening as the light fades. Night has settled in above them somewhere, though down here it’s impossible to tell time properly.
Flame slows first.
Not because he wants to, but because his body refuses to keep up.
He's been awake, searching, fighting, hunting, for 7 days straight.
He stops near a partially intact chamber, one wall still standing, the others collapsed into a mess of stone and roots. There’s a faint opening in the ceiling where moonlight spills in, pale and fractured.
Flame exhales, shoulders dropping. “We need to stop.”
Wemmbu bristles instinctively. “Don’t tell me you’re—”
“I’m not saying we’re done,” Flame cuts in, irritation flaring automatically. “I’m saying if we keep wandering like this, one of us is gonna trip, fall, and we both eat it bro.”
Wemmbu opens his mouth to argue.
Then his knees threaten to buckle.
He catches himself at the last second, hand slapping against the wall as his vision swims briefly. Flame stiffens immediately, posture snapping back into alertness before he can stop himself.
“…You good?” Flame asks, voice sharp but quieter now.
Wemmbu scoffs, pushing off the wall. “I’m fine.”
Flame snorts. “Yeah, sure. You look it bro…”
“Shut up.”
They stare at each other for a moment, both irritated, both exhausted, both painfully aware that neither of them is walking away from this tonight.
Finally, Wemmbu clicks his tongue and looks around the chamber. “This’ll do.”
Flame follows his gaze reluctantly. The space isn’t comfortable, but it’s defensible. One entrance. Decent sightlines. Enough rubble to block the opening if needed.
“…Fine,” Flame says. “Just for the night.”
Wemmbu smirks tiredly. “Didn’t peg you for someone who needed permission.”
Flame glares, but the fire behind it is dulled now. “Don’t push it.”
They set about settling in with stiff, irritated efficiency. Wemmbu drags loose stone toward the entrance, stacking it just enough to slow anything that might wander in. Flame does the same on the opposite side, movements precise but slower than usual.
Every time one of them strains, the other feels it.
Neither comments on it.
When they’re done, the chamber is quiet again, the moonlight casting long shadows across the floor. There’s no fire, too risky, too draining. They sit instead, backs to opposite walls, weapons within reach.
For a while, neither speaks.
Then Flame exhales, long and heavy. “This is the worst night I’ve had in a while.”
Wemmbu lets out a tired huff. “You say that like it’s my fault.”
Flame turns his head slightly toward him. “Isn’t it?”
Wemmbu smirks faintly. “Depends on your definition of fault.”
Flame rolls his shoulders, then freezes when Wemmbu does the same a heartbeat later. They both sigh in near-perfect sync.
“…Bro we’re not doing that on purpose, right?” Flame mutters.
Wemmbu snorts. “If I were messing with you, you’d know.”
Another pause.
The exhaustion settles deeper now, heavy and unavoidable. Wemmbu slides down the wall a little, sitting more fully, mace resting across his knees. Flame mirrors the motion despite himself, sword laid carefully at his side.
Neither of them is relaxed.
But neither of them is standing anymore.
“Don’t get any ideas bro,” Flame mutters, eyes hidden but attention very clearly fixed on Wemmbu.
Wemmbu smirks lazily. “Please. If I wanted to mess with you, I’d wait until morning bro.”
Flame scoffs, but there’s no real heat in it. “Figures.”
The ruin hums softly around them, ancient and watchful, as the night stretches on. They don’t trust each other.
They don’t like each other.
But for now, exhausted, disoriented, bound together by a curse neither of them asked for, they stay where they are.
Because moving hurts.
And because, whether they like it or not, this is the safest place either of them has.