The problem with being in charge was that people expected me to have answers.

  Not just some answers. Not just a vague idea of how to avoid immediate disaster. All the answers.

  They looked at me, waiting, trusting—like I had a grand, masterful plan and wasn’t just making things up as I went. And if I hesitated, if I let even a second of uncertainty slip through the cracks, they’d see it.

  And then they’d panic.

  So I couldn’t panic. Not visibly, at least. I couldn’t sit there rubbing my skull and groaning about how everything was an unholy mess of missing orcs, twitchy zombies, and very smug vampires. I couldn’t stand in the middle of my throne room and scream, What the fuck do I do?

  I needed information. Someone who knew the land. Knew the roads, the towns, the supplies we could take without drawing too much attention. And Krix? Krix was a genius when it came to taking things that didn’t belong to him, but his planning process consisted of get in, take shinies, leave before murder happens.

  What I needed was strategy.

  "Boss! Throw jar!"

  I blinked, looking over.

  Grib stood at the far end of the throne room, hands raised, bouncing on his feet.

  I sighed and tossed the jar.

  It arced through the air, catching the light just enough to make the glowing blue orb inside shimmer ominously. Grib jumped, snatching it with both hands before letting out a triumphant cackle. He clutched it to his chest like a prized treasure, then shifted his weight, winding up.

  I braced.

  The jar hurtled back toward me. I caught it one-handed, the glass cool against my bones.

  This had been going on for a while now.

  The jar, as far as I could tell, was harmless. It had been sitting in my inventory for months, listed only as Unidentified Jar. I hadn’t really thought much of it—just another piece of useless loot, another bit of System nonsense. But then, a few days ago, I finally pulled it out, and the label shifted.

  Phylactery.

  Which—great. That was helpful. But what the hell was a phylactery?

  I had no idea. And the System, in all its infinite wisdom, refused to elaborate. So naturally, Grib and I had just been playing catch with it.

  Grib grinned at me. “Boss throw again?”

  I squinted at the jar. Probably fine.

  I wound up—then paused.

  I exhaled, tucking the jar back into my inventory before Grib could protest. “Later.”

  He groaned dramatically, but I was already turning away, my mind shifting back to the problem at hand.

  I needed to do something about the food situation. And I still had Lilith and her chamberpot to deal with. I had to act.

  Food was the most pressing problem. And for that, I needed Isen. The realization was deeply upsetting. Admitting it felt like biting down on tinfoil.

  I didn’t like needing Isen.

  Not because I thought he’d betray me, necessarily. But because Isen waited. He watched. He didn’t react like anyone else. Didn’t give anything away unless he decided it was worth giving. And even when he did speak, it wasn’t out of obligation. Not out of fear. He was just… there. Quiet, patient, unknowable.

  It unnerved me.

  And yet, I was already moving. My feet carried me forward, past the corridors, past the empty halls of my domain, straight to the storeroom that had—until that moment—been Isen’s home.

  I paused at the door.

  Not because I was reconsidering. (That would have been smart.) Not because I wanted to prepare my words. (That would have been responsible.) No, I paused because my brain was doing that stupid thing where it realized I was about to make a decision and immediately started listing all the ways it could go wrong.

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  He could refuse. He could say yes but use it as leverage. He could see me needing him as weakness.

  Or maybe—and this was the worst possible option—he could agree without hesitation. No fight, no bargaining, just fine, in that quiet, unreadable way of his. And then I’d have to sit with the knowledge that I didn’t understand him at all.

  I inhaled out of habit. Then I shoved the door open.

  Isen didn’t startle. He didn’t move except to lift his head slightly, golden eyes flicking to me with all the urgency of a man who had just noticed a mildly interesting cloud formation.

  “I’d meant to say something before we were interrupted.” I pointed at him. “You know the land outside.”

  He blinked. “I—”

  “You do.” I stepped inside, words already spilling out too fast to stop. “You’ve lived out there for centuries. You know the roads. The villages and towns. The best places to hit for food and supplies without bringing the entire guild down on our heads.”

  Isen exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh, but something close. “Yes.”

  “Good. Because I need someone to help me plan raids, and Krix is great at stealing and stabbing, but he doesn’t know much about the outside world.”

  Isen watched me. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t argue. He just let me talk, which was somehow worse.

  I folded my arms. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I just asked you to personally solve the meaning of life.”

  Isen’s expression didn’t change, but I could feel the way he considered me. Like I was an equation he hadn’t fully solved yet.

  “And if I refuse?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Are you refusing?”

  A pause.

  Not a long one. Not even a dramatic one. Just a fraction of a second where Isen could have played this as a negotiation. Could have leveraged it.

  But he didn’t.

  He just exhaled again, something almost amused at the edges of his voice.

  “…Fine. I accept.” Isen leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed in a way that should not have been possible for someone agreeing to work with his captor. “I’ll need details.”

  “You’ll be working with Krix.”

  Isen hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Krix,” he said. “The kobold, I believe?”

  I nodded.

  His fingers drummed absently against his knee. “It will be… interesting.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What will be?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Working alongside one. Planning raids. From my experience, kobolds mostly just hiss and die.”

  Something inside me went cold.

  Isen noticed.

  There was no flinch, no backpedal. Just a brief pause, the faintest shift in his expression—like a man recognizing an old misstep and correcting it on reflex.

  “I meant no insult,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate. “I’ve never killed one. Adventurers use me to sense mana, not fight. But when they find kobolds…” He exhaled, quiet.

  I held his gaze. “Yes,” I said, voice sharp and steady. “I’m familiar with the way adventurers treat kobolds.”

  Isen didn’t argue. He just watched me.

  “You don’t care about the people here,” I said.

  I let the words settle. Isen didn’t react at first, didn’t shift or bristle. But there was a thought turning behind his eyes, something quiet, something measured.

  Then, finally—

  “I’ve never known a monster well enough to care about one,” he said. His voice was even, almost conversational, like we were discussing the weather. “But I’ve known plenty of humans well enough to know I don’t care for most of them.”

  I studied him. There was no anger in his tone. No bitterness. Just fact.

  And somehow, that made it worse.

  I exhaled. “Fair enough. So what do you care about?”

  A flicker. Not hesitation, not doubt. Just something. An old thought turning over, weighing itself, deciding if it was worth putting into words.

  Then it was gone.

  “What sort of forces do you have available?” Isen said instead, neatly sidestepping the question.

  I drummed my fingers against my ribs. “Uh. Well. That depends on how charitable you’re feeling with the word ‘forces.’”

  Isen tilted his head slightly. “That bad?”

  “Let’s put it this way—right now, my best planners are a kleptomaniac lizard and a missing orc warlord. My heavy hitters want to eat my scouts. And my undead workforce is mostly zombies, which means their collective intelligence is somewhere between ‘rotting cabbage’ and ‘unfortunate roadkill.’ And apparently they might try and kill my own people now.”

  Isen hummed thoughtfully. “I see.”

  I sighed. “So if you were hoping for a polished military operation with precision tactics and well-trained forces…” I gestured vaguely at the storeroom. “Congratulations, you’ve just been promoted from ‘mildly uncooperative prisoner’ to ‘one of the only people here who has any idea what they’re doing.’”

  Isen exhaled, something almost like amusement at the corners of his mouth. “A dubious honor.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He nodded once. A flicker of something, maybe the ghost of intrigue, maybe just quiet resignation, passed through his gaze. Then it was gone.

  I pushed off the doorframe. Then I hesitated.

  “I’ll get you a real room, by the way… I mean, it’s a tomb, but I’m sure we can find something a little better than a storeroom.”

  That did get a reaction—just a flicker of surprise before he smoothed it away.

  I gestured vaguely at the storeroom. “You’re not a prisoner anymore. And you might be a massive pain in the ass, but you’re a useful pain in the ass, and I’d rather not have my new strategist sleeping in the supply closet.”

  Isen watched me. Not like he didn’t believe me. More like he was trying to figure out why I believed me.

  Finally, he just nodded. “Reasonable.”

  I sighed. “You’re insufferable, you know?”

  Isen smiled. Small. Almost imperceptible. But it was there.

  And for some reason, that unsettled me more than anything else.