The guild was quieter in the evening, though it still buzzed with the subdued hum of mercenaries sharing drinks, swapping stories, and occasionally eyeing the job board. Lamps cast a warm glow over the wooden beams, and the faint scent of spilled ale and smoke lingered in the air.
Kaelen sat at a small table near the wall, nursing a half-empty mug. His earlier frustration had dulled into a simmering annoyance, though the encounter with the scarred stranger still lingered in his mind. Who was that man, and what kind of job could possibly need twenty mercenaries? He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Mira was still at her desk, her sharp eyes flicking across the room as she meticulously recorded the day’s contracts. Her pen scratched against parchment in a steady rhythm, the sound blending into the background noise. She looked up occasionally, her gaze sweeping the hall, but she seemed just as baffled as Kaelen had felt earlier.
The door creaked open again, and Kaelen instinctively glanced toward it. This time, his reaction was immediate—a sharp intake of breath, followed by a tightening in his chest.
The stranger had returned.
But he wasn’t alone.
Behind him, Zirkel, the infamous leader of the Mad Dogs, stepped into the guild. His rough, battered appearance was unmistakable—scarred face, disheveled hair, and armor that looked like it had been through one too many battles. Yet what stood out most was the grin splitting his face, wide and almost predatory, as if he had just won a particularly satisfying gamble.
The sight of Zirkel smiling was enough to make Kaelen’s stomach twist. Nothing good ever came of a Mad Dog in high spirits.
The guild hall seemed to collectively freeze, every eye locking onto the pair as they made their way toward Mira’s desk. Even Mira, who rarely showed emotion, straightened in her seat, her brows furrowing as they approached.
“Evening, Mira,” Zirkel drawled, his voice carrying a rough but amused edge. “Hope you’ve got some parchment ready.”
Mira’s eyes flicked between him and the scarred stranger, her expression carefully neutral. “Zirkel. Didn’t expect to see you back here so soon. What’s this about?”
Zirkel slapped a heavy hand on the counter, leaning forward slightly. “This man,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the stranger, “and I have come to an agreement. He’s got himself a job, and the Mad Dogs are ready to take it.”
The murmurs started almost immediately, whispers rippling through the gathered mercenaries. Kaelen could barely believe what he was hearing. Zirkel? Accepting terms from anyone? The Mad Dogs weren’t exactly known for being cooperative, let alone working under someone else’s conditions.
Mira leaned back in her chair, her sharp gaze narrowing. “Is that so? And what’s changed since this morning? Last I heard, this guy didn’t have nearly enough to pay for twenty mercenaries.”
Zirkel’s grin widened, his teeth glinting in the lamplight. “Let’s just say he made a compelling argument.”
The scarred stranger remained silent, standing a step behind Zirkel with his usual calm composure. His pitch-black eyes surveyed the room, unbothered by the attention or the whispers. Kaelen couldn’t shake the feeling that the man had orchestrated this entire situation—that every step, from the initial conversation with Mira to this moment, had gone exactly as he intended.
Mira’s gaze shifted to the stranger. “You’re the one making all these bold requests. Mind explaining how you convinced him?”
The stranger met her eyes evenly. “I provided him with the details he required. The terms are acceptable to both parties.”
“Terms?” Mira echoed, her tone skeptical. “You expect me to believe Zirkel agreed to follow someone else’s terms?”
Zirkel let out a low chuckle, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, Mira. Even the Mad Dogs know a good deal when we see one. And this guy? He’s got guts, brains, and a job that’s just the right kind of challenge.”
Mira exhaled sharply, her irritation evident. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” She reached for a fresh piece of parchment, her pen poised. “Name?”
The stranger stepped forward, his voice steady. “You can refer to me as Lucavion.”
Kaelen’s ears perked up at the name, though it meant nothing to him. Still, it felt significant, as if it held weight beyond the simplicity of its sound.
Or was that the case really?”
Mira’s pen scratched against the parchment with deliberate precision, her expression a mask of focus as she worked. The murmurs in the guild hall had quieted somewhat, though the tension was still palpable. Every so often, Mira’s sharp gaze flicked up toward Zirkel and Lucavion, as if confirming they were real and not some bizarre figment of her imagination.
Kaelen, still seated at his table, crossed his arms and scowled into his mug. ‘Finally. Maybe this will mean less chaos around here.’ He couldn’t help but steal glances at the pair. Zirkel’s grin hadn’t faltered, while Lucavion stood calm and detached, his dark eyes taking in everything and giving nothing in return.
Mira, meanwhile, sighed as she wrote the last few words on the parchment and set her pen down with a quiet clink. She slid the document across the counter toward Zirkel. “All right, it’s done. Standard guild terms apply. You’re responsible for your own casualties, and any disputes are to be handled through the guild’s arbitration system.”
Zirkel snorted, the sound rough but amused. “Casualties? Mira, you wound me. We’re professionals.”
“I’m not the one you need to convince,” she replied dryly, nodding toward Lucavion.
Zirkel didn’t bother hiding his amusement as he scrawled his signature across the parchment, the bold, jagged letters a perfect match for his larger-than-life persona. With a flourish, he slid the contract back across the counter.
“All set,” Zirkel said, turning to Lucavion with a grin that could’ve belonged to a wolf. “See you at dawn, boss.”
Lucavion gave the faintest of nods. “Be ready.”
Without another word, the scarred man turned and strode toward the door, his dark cloak swirling behind him. Zirkel followed with his usual swagger, his presence like a storm leaving the room. The other mercenaries parted instinctively, no one willing to risk even a brush against the infamous leader of the Mad Dogs.
Kaelen watched them go, his shoulders relaxing slightly as the door creaked shut behind them. The tension in the guild hall seemed to ease instantly, conversations resuming in low tones as people tried to make sense of what had just happened.
“Finally,” Kaelen muttered under his breath. He glanced toward the job board, his earlier frustration replaced by a flicker of hope. With Zirkel and the Mad Dogs off chasing Lucavion’s mysterious job, maybe he’d have a chance at reclaiming the posting that had been snatched from him this morning. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work—and far safer than anything involving the Mad Dogs.
Kaelen drained the last of his drink and pushed himself to his feet. The board was less crowded now, with most mercenaries having already settled in for the evening. He scanned the remaining notices, his eyes searching for the familiar posting about the caravan escort to Valford.
And there it was.
A wide grin spread across his face. The notice was still pinned to the board, untouched since the burly Mad Dog had claimed it earlier. Kaelen reached for it, the thought of finally having a chance to prove himself.
‘I am really lucky…..The fact that I was able to get this without losing anything….’
********
The city of Thornridge sprawled across the base of the Greyed Cliffs, its stone walls weathered by centuries of cold northern winds. For a city governed by a mere baron, its bustling streets and well-paved avenues spoke of prosperity uncommon for settlements this close to the Arcanis Empire’s border. Thornridge thrived, not due to fertile lands or trade routes, but because of the two sects that had dominated the surrounding region for decades—though that balance had recently shifted.
Now, only one sect cast its shadow over Thornridge: the Crimson Serpent Sect.
The sharp tang of incense lingered in the air as Manco Drast walked through the crowded market square. The city was alive with a mix of apprehension and curiosity, a palpable tension humming beneath the surface of daily life. Hawkers shouted their wares, though their voices lacked conviction. Even the town guards, clad in their Baron’s blue-and-silver livery, stood straighter than usual, their hands resting anxiously on sword hilts.
His gaze drifted toward the towering stone pagoda that loomed over the city’s northern quarter, its crimson banners snapping sharply in the breeze. The Azure Blossom Sect’s monastery, once a bastion of serenity, now bore the unmistakable scars of battle. Its walls were cracked, its gates torn asunder. Crimson flags draped over its parapets, signifying its conquest.
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The Crimson Serpent Sect’s sigil—a coiled serpent with ruby scales—seemed to sneer at the city below, a silent declaration of victory.
Manco Drast veered off the bustling main street, slipping into a shadowy alley where the sounds of the market faded into a muffled hum. The air here was damp and cold, the scent of wet stone mingling with decay. He adjusted the cloak over his shoulders, keeping his face obscured as he moved deeper into the alley.
At the end of the narrow passage, a young woman waited, her hood pulled low over her face. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her tense posture betraying the caution and weariness of someone constantly on edge. When Manco approached, she straightened, her sharp eyes scanning the alley behind him before settling on his face.
“You weren’t followed, were you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Manco shook his head. “I made sure. They’re too busy showing off their crimson flags to pay attention to the shadows.”
She relaxed slightly but didn’t let her guard down entirely. Her fingers twitched at her side, brushing the hilt of a dagger hidden beneath her cloak. Her voice turned bitter as she spoke again. “I saw Elder Jayan today. That bitch…” She spat the word, venom dripping from her tone. “She was wearing the robes of those crimson bastards without feeling any remorse.”
Manco’s jaw tightened. “Jayan?” he repeated, disbelief and anger mingling in his voice. “She swore an oath to protect the Azure Blossom Sect. She’s the one who taught us the weight of loyalty.”
“And now she wears the serpent like it’s a badge of honor,” the woman snapped, her fists clenching at her sides. “Loyalty meant nothing to her. She was probably just waiting for the right moment to sell us out.”
Manco stepped closer, his voice low and steady. “Did she see you?”
The woman hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I kept to the crowd. She didn’t even glance my way.” Her expression darkened. “Not that she’d recognize me now. I doubt she remembers the faces of the people she betrayed.”
“Good,” Manco said, his tone firm. “The last thing we need is her sniffing around.”
“Are we really going to do it?”
“We have to. Before they force the young lady, we need to save her.”
The life was grim for the two.