Joel faced his awkward situation with Ciliren in the most direct and courageous way he could conceive of at that moment: by fleeing.

  He left the shelter before dawn, moving silently from his own room as if he were infiltrating enemy territory. He didn't look back, didn't want to check if she was still asleep or if she had shifted under the blanket he himself had tucked in for her just minutes before.

  He knew that sooner or later he would have to face what had happened. It wasn't a problem that could simply disappear by ignoring it. But at that moment, he didn't feel ready to have a conversation that could become too difficult… or worse, emotional.

  If there was one thing Joel understood well about himself, it was his own weakness. He could murder or execute prisoners without hesitation. He could orchestrate conflicts, manipulate, and make decisions that condemned others for the sake of his own. But when a woman wept before him… when a child looked at him with fear or hope… something inside him cracked. And that crack disarmed him more than any enemy.

  That's why he opted for the simplest solution: to step away for a few days. Nana would keep an eye on the situation, to look after Ciliren if necessary. With a little time, the emotions would subside. Then they could both talk with a clear head, like adults… not like two people who had been swept away by an inexplicable whirlwind.

  Out of the shelter and without a definite plan, Joel simply chose to head west, specifically toward the sea. He didn't know exactly why, but he longed to find a secluded beach and plunge into the icy ocean waters. Perhaps it was an instinctive impulse or an almost symbolic need to cool what still burned within him.

  He traveled at full speed, avoiding roads and well-trodden paths. He crossed dense forests where the light barely touched the ground and cultivated fields that rippled like green blankets in the wind. In just a couple of hours, the air changed. The salty scent arrived first. Then, the deep, steady murmur of the waves.

  A small hill offered him a privileged view of the coastline. From there, he could see several white sand beaches stretching like tongues of light between the cliffs. Fortunately, most were deserted. Farther north, following the coastline, he clearly distinguished the silhouette of a port city, which he quickly identified as Lesmos.

  Joel sat at the top of the hill and, for the first time in days, decided not to think. He conjured up a bottle of whiskey and several sweet and savory snacks. He drank slowly, letting the alcohol warm his chest as his gaze drifted to the horizon. He watched the hypnotic ebb and flow of the sea, the sunlight glinting off the waves, and the slow movement of several fishing boats returning with their nets full.

  Hours passed without him moving from his spot. Only when the sun began to dip from its zenith did Joel descend the slope to the beach. Still clothed and without ceremony, he walked across the warm sand until the cool water enveloped his feet, his legs, his torso. Then he dove in.

  The thermal shock was immediate and invigorating. He surfaced a few meters away and floated on his back, arms outstretched and eyes closed. The current gently rocked him as the endless blue sky stretched above him.

  The oceans of Gaea are home to all kinds of dangerous creatures, the vast majority found in deep waters. Ancient beasts and colossal predators. However, along the coast and in shallower waters, it was rare to find creatures that were too large, but venomous specimens were quite common.

  But Joel felt no fear. He had already confirmed that his ability to attract or repel animals still worked on Gaea, even with marine species. If he so desired, he could become the best fisherman in the world, attracting fish to his hands and catching them effortlessly. The idea crossed his mind, but he dismissed it immediately. He thought that was unethical… and extremely unsportsmanlike.

  He chose to drift with the current, listening to the deep rhythm of the sea, allowing the cold to penetrate his skin and, hopefully, his thoughts as well. The current slowly carried him northward.

  Joel didn't realize it at first. He floated on his back, his eyes half-closed, letting the ebb and flow of the sea rock him like a drifting log. The constant sound of the ocean and the wind lulled his thoughts. Only when the sound of the waves began to mingle with human voices, the clanking of wood, and the creaking of taut strings did he realize he had gone further than he had planned.

  Opening his eyes, he saw the silhouettes of boats against the horizon. He had reached the port. It wasn't part of his plan at all. In fact, he hadn't had a plan. But since he was there, and considering the sun was beginning its slow descent, he decided he could visit the town for a while. He swam calmly to one of the less crowded ends of the pier, got out of the water, and walked into the harbor.

  The sky changed color with each passing minute. The deep blue turned violet, then a fiery orange on the horizon. For most of the city's inhabitants, this marked the end of the day. Fishermen unloaded their catches; shopkeepers closed their shutters; families returned home.

  Joel, however, wandered aimlessly. His clothes were still wet, clinging to his body, and his hair, still flecked with salt, fell haphazardly over his forehead. He didn't seem to care. He moved slowly along the cobblestone streets, observing each passerby with an intensity that bordered on the unsettling. His eyes scanned faces, gestures, movements… as if he were searching for something he couldn't even define himself.

  Or perhaps he did know, but didn't want to admit it. Without realizing it, his steps led him to an area where the bustle took on a different texture. Laughter grew louder, music filled the air, and lights—lanterns tinged with red and gold—illuminated facades adorned with balconies and heavy curtains. He had arrived at the port's red-light district.

  Bars stood wide open, tables occupied by sailors toasting noisily, women leaning against doorframes, smiling with a mixture of invitation and calculation. Further on, more refined establishments displayed entrances decorated with marble and crystal chandeliers, clearly intended for prosperous merchants, captains, and officials with deep pockets.

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  Joel stopped in front of one of the most popular establishments in this upper category. The main entrance was flanked by two women of carefully cultivated beauty. They wore fine fabrics that revealed more than they concealed, and their voices were soft, modulated to seduce without vulgarity. They laughed gracefully, their arms brushed against each other, their faces tilted at studied angles.

  Joel watched them for a long time. Many of the women passing by were, objectively, attractive. Harmonious bodies, suggestive glances, smiles practiced to promise pleasure and companionship. Yet none of them provoked the slightest reaction in him.

  As he took a few more steps toward the entrance, he inhaled discreetly. Perfume, alcohol, and sweat disguised as floral scents. Nothing even remotely resembling that sweet, natural fragrance that still seemed to cling to his memory. The comparison was unavoidable.

  None of the women noticed him. His appearance didn't help: damp clothes, boots spattered with mud, and hair tousled by sea salt. He projected neither wealth nor authority at that moment. He looked more like a disheveled traveler or a sailor who had spent too much time on deck. He was invisible.

  Joel stood there for a few minutes, watching the steady stream of men coming and going amid laughter and promises.

  Then, he visited each of the brothels in the district. He went into the humblest ones, where the air was thick with smoke and raucous laughter, and also into the most refined, where the music was soft and velvet curtains muffled any inappropriate sounds. He observed faces, listened to voices, allowed some women close enough to brush against him with their perfumed hands. But nothing happened.

  He was looking for a visceral reaction, an inner tremor, that instinctive jolt he'd felt with Ciliren. That irrational force that had disarmed him without warning. He hoped that whatever it was that had driven him that night would respond again. But it didn't.

  The lack of response was, in itself, confirmation. There was something special about the elf woman. A mystery still unanswered.

  For the next three days, Joel extended his search beyond Lesmos. He visited several coastal cities and surrounding villages. He walked through busy squares, noisy markets, and crowded taverns. He deliberately approached women of all kinds: human, demihuman, and even some elves he managed to spot in certain slave markets.

  He allowed himself to observe them closely, to stay by their side long enough to analyze any change in them. But nothing. Not a trace of that sweet fragrance that seemed to have been etched into his memory. Not the slightest irrational impulse.

  Not even when he found himself in the presence of other elves, with delicate features and deep gazes, did he feel anything remotely resembling what he had experienced with Ciliren.

  By the fourth day, the conclusion was undeniable. It wasn't simply about race, physical attractiveness, or proximity. It was her, period. The certainty left him more unsettled than he would have liked to admit.

  He also realized he'd been away from the shelter for too long. He hadn't given explanations to anyone except Nana, and although his authority was rarely questioned, disappearing without warning could create unnecessary uncertainty. So he decided to return.

  The journey was quick, and upon arriving, he opted for the shelter's secondary entrance, allowing him to avoid awkward encounters. He slipped through the corridors with the same discretion with which he'd left days before, went straight to his room, and closed the door behind him.

  "Nana," he called softly.

  The metal statue appeared shortly after, suspended with its usual unnatural serenity.

  Joel wasted no time. "What happened while I was gone?"

  To his surprise, nothing significant had actually happened. Days earlier, when Ciliren woke up in her bed and didn't find him beside her, she simply sat up. She observed the room for a few seconds, according to Nana's report, and then dressed without showing any obvious signs of distress or anger. And she left the room with the same calm with which she would have left her own room any other morning.

  In the following days, she acted completely normally. She completed her chores, chatted with the others, and attended classes. There was no sign whatsoever of having experienced anything traumatic.

  There was only one detail that Nana considered worth mentioning: at times, Ciliren seemed to slip into brief, contemplative states. In the dining room, her gaze would discreetly scan the space. In the main hall, when everyone was gathered, her eyes would search for something… or someone.

  Joel felt an immediate sense of relief. During his absence, he had imagined countless scenarios: emotional confrontations, tears, resentment, uncontrolled rumors within the shelter. But none of that had happened.

  However, the relief didn't erase the responsibility. He knew he couldn't put it off any longer.

  He straightened his back and looked at Nana. "Call her," he finally said. "Tell her to come to my room."

  A few minutes later, Ciliren arrived, and by then Joel had already rehearsed every word he planned to say to her.

  He had prepared a rational and mature explanation of what had happened between them. He planned to talk about affinities, magical influences, shared responsibilities. He was going to propose clear boundaries and a conversation that would allow them to understand what had happened between them without being swept away by impulses.

  He was ready. Or so he thought. Because the instant she crossed the threshold and their eyes met, his carefully crafted speech crumbled like sand through his fingers.

  Joel took a step toward her out of sheer courtesy… and then he felt it. A warmth surged in his chest, spreading rapidly through his torso, like a flame finding fuel. His pulse quickened, and the air seemed to thicken.

  He tried to back away. It was an almost instinctive movement, a desperate reaction to regain distance, to create the space he needed to think.

  But Ciliren responded by taking a step forward. The proximity narrowed to just a few centimeters.

  And then the scent enveloped him. Sweet, natural, and unmistakable. It wasn't perfume or something artificial; it was her.

  The fragrance penetrated his senses like a key turning in an invisible lock. Excitement surged suddenly, intense and unfiltered, overwhelming any attempt at logic.

  Ciliren didn't say a word. There was no need. Her face was slightly flushed, her eyes shining with a mixture of determination and vulnerability. With gentle, almost reverent movements, she placed her hands on Joel's chest and began to unbutton his shirt. The mere touch of her fingers was enough to disorient him.

  Joel remained motionless, caught between bewilderment and desire. Part of him screamed that he should stop, that they needed to talk first. The other part—more primal and honest—watched every gesture with almost hypnotic attention.

  She didn't hesitate. She slipped the fabric off his shoulders and let the garment fall to the floor. Her hands descended calmly, stripping him of every physical barrier that still separated them. When the time came to remove his pants and underwear, her expression showed neither doubt nor regret. Only determination.

  Then it was her turn. Ciliren began to undress with the same deliberate slowness. Each garment that fell seemed to heighten the tension in the air. Joel watched her with a dangerous mix of lust and apprehension, aware that he was losing control second by second.

  In his mind, two forces collided. One demanded that he regain command of the situation, create distance, speak. The other whispered to him to stop fighting something that clearly overwhelmed him.

  When she stood completely naked before him, looking directly into his eyes with an expectation that needed no words, the conflict ended. Instinct took over.

  What followed was not like the first time. For him, there was no confusion or loss of consciousness. Joel was fully aware of every movement, every breath they shared. When he pulled her close and felt her body in his arms, when he sensed the depth of her eyes at such close range and the strange, almost palpable sensation of their energies intertwining like invisible currents, he understood the magnitude of the problem.

  It wasn't just desire. There was something deeper and more enigmatic. And as he held her against his chest, a single thought flashed through his mind with brutal clarity: "I'm screwed."