The communal room felt larger with all of them inside it.

  Leo stood between the groups like a poorly negotiated treaty.

  “This is… us,” he said, gesturing first to Bert and Harlada. “And this is also us.”

  The Unibrows stood together near the far wall, perfectly aligned, single brows casting permanent suspicion over their eyes.

  The satyr lingered near the opposite exit, hooves angled for retreat.

  No one moved closer.

  No one smiled.

  The Unibrows were the first to act — not toward the satyr, but away from him. They shifted to the far side of the circular chamber as a unit.

  The message was clear.

  Distance.

  The satyr noticed.

  Of course he noticed.

  He slowly took a wooden flute from his belt and raised it to his lips.

  A soft, wavering melody filled the room — low, melancholic, almost apologetic. It wasn’t a performance. It was insulation. Something to wrap around himself so the silence didn’t crush him.

  Across the room, the Unibrows crouched and began arranging small round pebbles on the stone floor. They nudged them into tight formations, flicked them in controlled arcs, recalculated angles. It looked like a crude strategy game — quiet, precise, territorial.

  Two camps.

  One room.

  Bert rubbed his hands together. “Right. I’ll handle diplomacy.”

  “No stabbing motions,” Harlada warned.

  “I learned.”

  Bert crossed the room toward the Unibrows, crouching beside their pebble formation.

  He pointed at the satyr.

  Then at their group.

  Then made a small circle motion. Together.

  The Unibrows paused their game.

  One mimed a hand creeping forward slowly. Careful.

  Another mimed a sudden snap. Dead.

  Then all three tapped their temples.

  Think first.

  Survive first.

  They arranged the pebbles again — placing one alone in the center.

  Then they flicked three toward it.

  The lone pebble toppled.

  Bert winced. “That’s not helpful.”

  One Unibrow shook his head and rearranged the pieces. This time, he placed the lone pebble behind a small wall of others.

  Then he nodded once.

  Prove position.

  Prove stability.

  Trust after.

  Across the room, Harlada approached the satyr slowly, stopping well outside his reach.

  “You don’t have to play for protection,” she said quietly.

  The melody faltered but didn’t stop.

  “You expect everything to kill you,” she continued.

  The flute lowered.

  “Yes,” the satyr said plainly. “That is the pattern.”

  “We’re not that pattern.”

  “You clear traps,” he replied. “You wound cyclopses. You coordinate. That makes you strong.”

  “That makes us careful,” Harlada said.

  “Strong things remove weak variables,” he answered.

  Leo, from the center, spoke gently. “If we wanted to remove you, we wouldn’t sit across the room from you.”

  The satyr’s eyes flicked toward the Unibrows. “They don’t trust me.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “No,” Harlada admitted.

  “They survive because of that,” the satyr said.

  As if summoned, the Unibrows tapped the pebble wall they’d built. Then tapped their chests.

  Careful.

  Survive.

  Then one pointed toward the satyr.

  Then held up a single finger.

  One run.

  Prove.

  The satyr looked back at them.

  “And if I fail?”

  The Unibrows flicked the lone pebble again. It toppled.

  The message was not cruel.

  It was honest.

  The satyr let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

  “I expect everything here to kill me,” he said again, softer now. “The scorpions. The cyclopses. The traps.”

  His gaze shifted to Leo.

  “And the normal party.”

  Silence held for a moment.

  Leo didn’t deny it.

  Instead he nodded once.

  “That’s fair,” he said. “But we survive because we choose carefully.”

  He gestured between the two parties in the room.

  “And today, we’re choosing you.”

  The satyr looked unconvinced.

  But he didn’t raise the flute again.

  Across the chamber, the Unibrows resumed their pebble game — but one of the pebbles now sat slightly closer to the others than before.

  Not trusted.

  Not yet.

  But no longer entirely separate.

  ***

  Leo froze mid-sentence.

  Heavy footsteps.

  Stone trembling.

  “The cyclopses,” he said.

  The Unibrows were already on their feet.

  “We run?” Bert asked.

  Leo tilted his head.

  Another sound — sharper, closer to the western hall.

  Claws scraping stone.

  “The scorpions too,” he said.

  Harlada exhaled slowly. “So we don’t run.”

  “No,” Leo agreed. “We defend.”

  The room shifted instantly from awkward diplomacy to formation.

  Bert stepped forward without hesitation, planting himself near the center entrance. Beside him, Unibrow Leo mirrored the stance — broad shoulders squared, ready to absorb impact.

  Behind them, both Harladas raised their staffs, lightning and wind gathering, ready to burst.

  Unibrow Bert slipped to the side near the secondary entry point, crouched low, watching angles.

  Leo moved toward the rear, guarding the inner circle.

  The satyr hesitated only a heartbeat.

  Then he raised his flute.

  The first note trembled.

  The second steadied.

  A low, resonant melody spread through the chamber — not loud, not heroic — but grounding. The air seemed thicker. The pulse in Leo’s chest slowed.

  They felt braver.

  The cyclopses entered.

  All three.

  They stopped just inside the doorway.

  Seven opponents.

  That gave them pause.

  A single massive eye blinked.

  Then they roared and charged anyway.

  The impact was immediate.

  Bert braced as the first pillar-club came down. Unibrow Leo intercepted the swing with calculated timing, redirecting it just enough that it shattered stone instead of skull.

  Behind them, both Harladas unleashed controlled bursts of force — not lethal, but sharp, staggering.

  “Wait!” Harlada shouted at the lead cyclops. “We don’t have to—”

  The creature responded in a booming stream of incomprehensible grunts.

  She blinked. “…I don’t speak that.”

  The second cyclops barreled forward, slamming into Bert’s shield stance. The force knocked him back a step but not down.

  The flute music intensified.

  Not faster.

  Stronger.

  Unibrow Bert darted from the side, striking at a wounded leg with precise efficiency.

  Leo moved in tandem with the satyr’s rhythm, striking only when openings appeared.

  It was brief.

  Violent.

  Controlled.

  One cyclops took a blast full to the chest and staggered. Another caught a spell across its shoulder. The third roared in frustration as it realized this wasn’t a scattered trio.

  This was a wall.

  Seven.

  After a few more exchanges, something shifted in their single eyes.

  Calculation.

  They backed toward the doorway.

  The wounded cyclops was dragged between the other two, bleeding but upright.

  They retreated down the corridor.

  Toward the hall where the scorpions had been heard.

  Silence followed.

  The flute faded.

  Only then did Leo see the blood.

  Unibrow Leo had taken a deep gash across his arm. Unibrow Harlada was clutching her side, robes darkening.

  The Unibrows stood rigid, pretending not to feel it.

  The satyr lowered his flute slowly.

  Then, without asking permission, he stepped toward them.

  The Unibrows stiffened instinctively.

  He knelt.

  Placed one hand over Unibrow Leo’s wound.

  Soft light bloomed.

  Not flashy.

  Not dramatic.

  Steady.

  The flesh knit.

  The bleeding slowed, then stopped.

  He moved to Unibrow Harlada next, repeating the gesture.

  When he finished, the room felt quieter than before.

  Unibrow Leo looked at his healed arm.

  Then at the satyr.

  Shame flickered across his face.

  Unibrow Harlada bowed her head slightly.

  They mimed carefully:

  Hand over heart.

  Then toward him.

  Regret.

  The satyr gave a small, tired shrug.

  “I didn’t trust you either,” he said simply.

  He stood.

  The Unibrows watched him differently now.

  Not fully trusted.

  But proven.

  And in the center of the room, they stood not as two cautious camps.

  But as one formation that had held.