Aren stepped off the last of the narrow stairs, his boots crunching on damp leaves. The tunnel had led him back outside, deeper into the jungle where the trees grew so close they swallowed the sunlight. Shafts of greenish light slipped between the branches, turning everything into a shifting sea of shadows.
He wiped sweat from his brow and glanced around. "I swear, if this relic turns out to be a shiny spoon, I'm moving to a fishing village," he muttered.
A sudden rustle above made him freeze. Before he could turn, something dropped from the branches, fast and silent as a falling hawk.
Aren barely had time to raise his sword before a figure crashed into him, knocking him onto the forest floor. A sharp blade swung at his face; he blocked it, sparks flying.
He rolled aside and sprang to his feet, grinning despite the sting in his shoulder.
"Whoa! Easy there! You trying to ruin my pretty face?" he said, ducking another slash.
His attacker didn't answer. She moved like a wildcat, quick and precise, each swing meant to end the fight. Aren recognized the fluid dance of someone who had fought for survival more than glory.
He parried, twisted, and in a single sharp move, knocked her blade from her hands. She stumbled, eyes wide, and before she could grab another weapon, Aren had his sword at her throat.
For a moment, the jungle went silent around them.
Then Aren's grin returned. "Wow… you almost had me. Not bad for someone who just fell out of a tree."
She glared at him, breathing hard. Stray locks of dark hair stuck to her flushed face, her eyes sharp enough to cut through armor.
"Who are you?" she spat.
Aren lowered his sword slightly but didn't step back. "Name's Aren. But you might know me as the Laughing Blade. World-class warrior, part-time comedian, and full-time jungle tour guide."
She blinked, a mix of anger and confusion flickering across her face. "You think this is a game?"
"Well… if it was, you'd be losing," he teased, tapping her lightly on the shoulder with his blade.
She swatted it away and stood up, grabbing her bow from the ground. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from holding back something deeper.
"I'm Amira," she said finally. "Tracker. Archer. I know these ruins better than anyone alive."
Aren raised an eyebrow. "Ooh, an expert. You must be fun at parties."
She shot him a sharp look, but her lips twitched like she might actually smile.
"Listen," Amira said, slinging her bow across her back. "If you're after the Core of Muri Khan, you're going to die alone in these ruins. You don't know the traps, the spirits, or the secrets of this place."
Aren shrugged, sliding his sword back into its sheath. "Guess I'm lucky you dropped in to save me, then."
Amira opened her mouth to argue, then paused. A distant howl echoed through the trees, long, low, and full of hunger.
She sighed, her shoulders dropping slightly. "We don't have time for your jokes. Those creatures will be here soon."
Aren tilted his head. "Creatures? You mean the ugly ones that drool and have bad breath?"
"Worse," she muttered.
He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "So… friends now? Or do we keep wrestling in the dirt?"
Amira glared at him for a long moment before letting out a shaky breath. "Fine. We work together. But if you slow me down, I'll leave you behind."
Aren grinned wide, offering his hand. "Deal! You know, this might be the start of a beautiful friendship… or a hilarious tragedy."
Amira ignored his hand, turning to move deeper into the jungle. Aren jogged after her, still chuckling.
Together, they disappeared into the shadows, the first sparks of an unlikely alliance flickering between them. A tracker haunted by secrets and a warrior who laughed at death itself.
And somewhere ahead, the Core of Muri Khan pulsed quietly, waiting for them both.