After the Norwegian researchers did a swift head count and confirmed no one else was trapped inside, they cordoned off the dig and sent a Patronus straight to Oslo. Ministry boots were already on their way. Cassian and Bathsheda hung back, letting the experts take charge. When the last spell was cast, they turned and trudged toward their tents.

Well, “tents” was generous. From the outside, they looked like storage tents on their third tour of duty. Inside, well, big. Wood-panel floors gleaming as if polished daily, low tables scattered with runes and parchments, even a cosy hearth crackling away despite the chill. It felt less like camping and more like being swallowed by a miniature manor.

Cassian wandered in circles, jaw slack. He counted oak beams. He tapped a window that overlooked the fjord, marvelled at the woven tapestries… one showing a frost giant and a sea serpent locked in battle. None of this was “fieldwork shabby.” This wasn’t camping, it was an aristocrat’s fever dream stuffed into canvas.

“You look like a farm boy seeing his first chandelier,” Bathsheda said, stepping inside with her arms folded.

He paused, “Can’t say as I have.” He glanced at her, she shook her head with a smile. 

“Well,” he added, “Not one that looks like it is waiting for the Dowager Countess to host tea.”

She gave a snort. “Right. ‘Not like this.'” She shrugged off her coat and draped it over a chair. “You’ve been out of the family bubble for too long.”

Cassian’s lips twitched. He was waiting a chance to tease her back, but he bit it off. Instead he walked to a shelf stacked with tomes, ran a finger over the spines. 

“Nice touch with the mini-library,” he said. “I might pinch a volume later.”

Bathsheda raised an eyebrow. “Help yourself. Just don’t wreck the bindings.”

He grinned and dropped one volume carefully into his robe pocket. 

Bathsheda watched him, expression softening. “Settling in?”

Cassian leaned back. “It is odd,” he said. “I half-expected a soggy floor and leaky roof.”

“This is a magic tent. You get spoiled quick.”

“I admit, I am impressed.” He tapped the table. “You?”

“Not off my list of surprises. Ministry always does a posh job when they back it.”

He nodded. “Still, feels strange. Like we were kicked off the fieldwork and ended up in student accommodation.”

Bathsheda snorted. “Student accommodation? You would love a room like this in Hogsmeade.”

He laughed. “I would pay double my salary.”

“That sound I hear is you admitting you would miss civilisation if I push you out into the wild.”

He held up a hand. “Touche. But don’t expect me to give up on a proper desk.”

Bathsheda walked around to sort a few things. “You can borrow mine anytime.”

“Careful there, I may take on that offer.” He yawned, arms stretched wide like he was about to drop  off somewhere for a quick nap, then slumped onto the bed with a satisfied grunt. He tugged his boots off. Just as he tossed the second to the floor…

Bathsheda stepped closer.

Cassian glanced up, raising an eyebrow. 

“You were so brave in there.”

Her tone made him blink. It wasn’t the words. It was the way she said them, like they weren’t alone in a tent that pretended to be a country house, like thed just come back from war and he saved a child from a grenade.

Then her hand found his collar, and before he could make a quip about dramatic compliments, she kissed him. Not just a peck, either. It landed near the corner of his mouth.

Cassian kissed back, but his brain was already taking notes like someone had just handed him a cursed scroll and a deadline. Not that he was protesting… no sir, let the record show he was entirely cooperative in this development, but Bathsheda usually needed a bottle of wine and a lunar eclipse before she would so much as let her hair down.

This? This was new.

Her mouth lingered near the corner of his, too close to brush off as an accident, not quite centred to call a proper kiss.

He pulled back half an inch, eyes narrowing. “Well,” he said, throat dry, “either I suffered a head injury and this is some sort of hallucination, or you just kissed me.”

Bathsheda didn’t move away. “Would you like a repeat, just to confirm?”

He blinked. “You are being oddly forward. Not complaining,” he added, pointing a finger vaguely in the air, “just… making sure you are still you. You weren’t, I don’t know, possessed by a rune goddess back there, right?”

Her smirk was annoyingly hers. “What if I was?”

He sighed through his nose. “Then she got excellent taste.”

She slapped his arm. “Don’t ruin the mood. I am just glad my boyfriend didn’t run off the tunnel alone and actually dragged me with him.”

Cassian caught her hand before she could swat him again. “Dragged you? If I remember right, you were the one who yanked us both through that collapsing death trap while I flailed around like a duffer who can’t even cast Protego.”

Bathsheda leaned into him, cheek pressing against his chest. “That was after I got myself together.”

He snorted. “Right. After nearly getting turned into a pancake.”

“I landed on my feet.”

“You rolled down a slope and kicked me in the face.”

“Still counts.”

She didn’t move, didn’t shift away or add anything clever. Just stayed there, curled into his side like she’d been doing it for years. Cassian blinked up at the ceiling beams and wondered briefly whether Yrsa the ghost-goddess had knocked a few screws loose in both of them.

“Wasn’t expecting today to end with ancient runes, collapsing tunnels, and a cuddle,” he muttered. “I left my planner back at home.”

“Stop talking.” Her voice was muffled against his robes. “You talk too much when you are flustered.”

“I am not flustered,” he said, properly offended.

“You are babbling like a first-year.”

He chuckled. “That is your last name. And I am open to taking it after we tie the knot.”

She glared. “Seriously?”

He shrugged, already peeling a bit of fuzz off the blanket. “Not like I am a fan of Rosier.”

Bathsheda narrowed her eyes. “What, because they are all megalomaniacs with dark cloaks and superiority complexes?”

Cassian raised a finger. “Don’t forget the smug ancestral portraits.”

She smirked. “You would make a dreadful Babbling.”

He stretched out on the bed, one arm tucked behind his head. “Excuse you. I would make a delightful Babbling. Might even start wearing scarves indoors and refusing to answer questions unless they are phrased in iambic pentameter.”

“You already dress like a divorced professor.”

He looked down at his socks. “Divorced, maybe. Professor? Bold of you to assume I haven’t been banned from at least three academic journals.”

She laughed, shaking her head.

Cassian tilted his head. “So,” he said, “do I get a second kiss, or was that a fluke?”

Bathsheda didn’t answer. Not with words. She leaned over and planted a quick one on his forehead.

“Cheeky,” he muttered, rubbing the spot like it burned. “I meant proper verification. For research purposes.”

“Save it for the footnotes, Rosier.”

He was about to fire back when a faint thump echoed outside… distant, barely there, but enough to drag his ears toward the tent flap. He sat up.

Bathsheda was already turning. “Sadly, that wasn’t wind.”

Cassian got up. “Either another rune waking up or some poor sod tripped on a ward line.”

She moved to the door, paused. “Hope it is not Hilde again.”

“Don’t jinx it,” he said, pulling his boots back on with a grimace. “I like my ankles uncollapsed, thanks.”

They stepped outside. The cold hit them like a slap, sharp and spiteful, as though the fjord itself bore a grudge. A few lanterns flickered near the dig site, but most of the tents were quiet, zipped tight. Only a few people were moving between the tents, hunched and muttering.

Cassian spotted Duval by the main tent, arguing with a wiry woman in Ministry robes. She sounded irritated. Cassian couldn’t blame her. Duval had that effect on people.

“We are locking it down. I don’t care if your research window ends in two weeks.”

Duval gestured toward the cliffs, visibly seething. “There is a structure under there. Possibly pre-Neolithic. You can’t expect me to walk away!”

Cassian muttered, “Duval is about three decibels away from popping an artery.”

Bathsheda rubbed her hands together to warm her fingers. “Ministry is shutting it early. That is not a good sign.”

Another rumble rolled through the stone beneath their feet. Cassian shot a look at the cliffs.

“Still think we are dealing with a benign spiritual echo?” he asked.

Bathsheda didn’t reply. She just started walking.

They passed Hilde near the ward line, her hands wrapped around a cup of something steaming. She looked pale again, but she gave them a warm nod.

“Any new whispers?” Cassian asked.

She shook her head. “No. Just… the spiral. Still there. In my dreams.”

“Lovely,” he said. “Sleep well.”

She didn’t smile.

They reached the edge of the wards, where two Ministry officials were stringing fresh spellwire across the rock face. The tape shimmered faintly, pulsing every few seconds with protective enchantments. It was overkill. They both knew it.

Cassian squinted toward the cave entrance. What was left of it, anyway. Two Ministry officials were already striding their way… tall, cloaked, expressions set like they were pulled straight from a bureaucratic sketchbook.

“You were the two that were in the deep, right?” the man asked, squinting against the wind.

Cassian gave a nod. “Depends. Are we in trouble?”

The woman beside him didn’t laugh. She just pointed at a tent pitched off to the far edge, away from the rest of the cluster. “Please come with us.”

Bathsheda didn’t hesitate. Just turned and started walking like she was expecting this since the cave sealed itself shut. Cassian fell in beside her, glancing back toward the cliff, then at the others still milling near the collapsed entrance.

“Right then,” he muttered. “Off to get scolded by the magical equivalent of airport security.”

Spoiler

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep