Martus wasn't part of the plan.

Sébastien had this mental checklist of who he wanted in his team. Qualities. Balance. Synergy. But Martus? He just... showed up.

That night, they were supposed to just grab a drink. Blow off steam. Xander came late, dragging along a broad-shouldered man with a half-sarcastic smile and the kind of presence that filled the space before he even said a word.

"I bumped into him outside," Xander said casually, already waving at the bartender. "Used to do some raids together. Name's Martus."

Sébastien studied him for half a second. It was all he needed.

He was taller than both Xander and Sébastien, probably a little over 190 cm. Pablo looked like a kid next to him. At first glance, Martus looked like someone who'd swing an axe or carry a tower shield. Solid frame, thick arms, the kind of build you didn't expect from someone who relied on finesse. But then Sébastien caught the bow slung over his shoulder—worn, but cared for. The string looked freshly replaced, and the way Martus moved made one thing clear: he wasn't carrying it for show.

Martus gave a nod. "Heard you pulled Xander in."

His voice was calm, rough-edged, with the kind of tone that sounded like it had seen too many late nights and too many close calls. There was no judgment in it—just quiet curiosity, like he was already piecing something together in his head.

Sébastien didn't flinch. "Yeah. He was the first."

Martus chuckled. "Didn't think he was the 'team player' type."

"He isn't," Sébastien said simply. "But he said yes."

Martus tilted his head. "And now you're trying to collect the rest?"

"I'm not collecting," Sébastien said. "I'm building. There's a difference."

Martus leaned back in his chair, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Oh, I know the difference," he said, his voice low and steady. "Collecting's for people who think they can put a team together like it's a damn trophy shelf. But building? That takes time, patience... and a little bit of trust." He met Sébastien's gaze, the glint in his eyes sharp. "Sounds like you're in for more than just a few casual raids, kid. I respect that."

Sébastien didn't respond right away. It seemed Martus wasn't expecting an answer, either. He was already deep in conversation with Xander. Sébastien just kept watching as Martus talked with Xander, ordered his drink, laughed like someone who'd seen enough shit to know not to take life too seriously.

Sébastien saw past the lazy grin, the worn-out gear, the way he leaned too comfortably into his chair. There was something in Martus's eyes—like a coiled spring hiding under the guise of a man who didn't seem to care. But Sébastien knew better. He felt it, the same gut instinct that led him to Pablo and Xander—this guy was a fighter.

"You in shape?" Sébastien asked suddenly, cutting through the banter.

Martus turned, brow raised. "Excuse me?"

"If you're gonna be in my team, I need to know you're in shape."

Martus stared at him. Then laughed. "You don't even know me."

"I don't need to. I've already decided."

Xander blinked. "Just like that?"

Sébastien shrugged. "He's the fourth."

Pablo, who had been nursing a quiet drink at the edge of the table, finally looked up. His brow lifted slightly, but his voice was calm. "You're trusting your gut again."

Sébastien nodded. "Worked with you, didn't it?"

Pablo let out a low breath, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fair enough."

Martus gave a low whistle. "You're one confident bastard."

"My gut's rarely wrong," Sébastien replied, his tone steady. "And it's telling me you're the one."

That shut the table up for a second. Then Martus smirked. "Well, shit. Guess I can't say no to that kind of offer."

Just like that, Martus became part of the team. Not planned. Not calculated.

But Sébastien never once regretted it.

***

Sébastien sat in his room, back straight despite the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. The lamplight flickered softly over a messy table scattered with raid maps, weapon catalogs, and mission reports. His sword rested nearby—his only sword. One-handed, light, and fast, just the way he liked it.

He'd built a solid foundation.

There was himself, of course—swift and sharp, built for precision strikes, not brute force.

Then Xander, the bruiser-mage. Raw power laced with elemental control, chaos in motion.

Pablo, wielding his axe like it was an extension of his own will. Heavy, relentless, strategic.

And there was Martus, the bow user—sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, deadly from a distance, the team's recon and pressure point.

Four of them now. But it still wasn't enough. Not yet.

Sébastien leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes fixed on the half-finished formation chart. Four pieces in place. But there were pieces were still missing. Not just any pieces. These had to be his anchors.

He needed a defense line.

Not just shields-for-hire. He needed someone who could take a hit and not break—someone with presence, with instinct, with absolute control of the battlefield. A tank, yes. And a healer—someone to keep them all alive.

He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to push through the exhaustion gnawing at him. His mind kept returning to the same thought—the last pieces of the puzzle were the hardest to find. But they were out there. He knew it.

Two more. That was all.

He could already feel the shape of the team when it was whole. Not just bodies in formation, but a rhythm—each person moving like a note in a song only they could play together.

And once he found them—those last two pieces—maybe then, it wouldn't just feel like a plan.

Maybe then, it would feel like a home.