"Are you certain you wish to join our party?" Krey asked, the question hanging in the guild hall's noisy air.
"Yes. But understand... for today, we take no action." Samuel left no room for argument.
"Why not?" Krey wondered, scratching his head.
As if summoned by the question, a young woman approached. She wore the same uniform as the receptionists but carried an air of quiet authority, a silver ring gleaming on her index finger. She bowed slightly.
"Sir, if you and your party would follow me this way."
She led the four of them—Krey, Samuel, Nixsen, and Alison—up a grand staircase to a higher, quieter level of the guild hall. They stopped before a massive oak door, its surface carved with the symbol of four interlocking lightning bolts forming a circle. She knocked, and a moment of thick silence followed before a voice, cool and measured, granted entry.
"Come in."
The room was a stark contrast to the bustle below. Sunlight streamed through a large arched window behind a broad desk, silhouetting the man seated there. He held a sheet of parchment, but his eyes—a pale, chilling blue that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it—lifted to scan each of them. He set the paper down, the movement precise.
"Well, then. What is it you wish to tell the Rising Tempest?" The man peered with soulless eyes man asked, as he ran his fingers through his hair, pulling them back to move the hair in his beautiful face out of the way. The sunlight reflecting behind the large window behind him on the ring which was worn on his index finger.
Samuel took a step forward. "The Tercet—"
"Kneel."
A barrier forged of mana, shaped like paper then slammed down on Samuel, forcing him violently to one knee with a grunt of effort.
Undeterred, Samuel raised his head, fists clenched at his sides.
"The Tercet. We know when they intend to strike."
The pressure lifted as suddenly as it had come. The guild master—Keith—leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on the desk. His soulless eyes narrowed.
"How do you know of the Tercet? And how is it you possess intelligence on their timing, when even my sources have failed to pinpoint it?"
"They owe a debt," Samuel stated. "I have been tracking their movements since I was a child. Once I learned they had established a base of operations in Graswald, I infiltrated their ranks. Their strike is imminent."
Samuel pulled a small slip of parchment from his tunic and placed it on the desk. A single number, seven, was drawn upon it.
"They operate in cells of three, each member carrying a token like this. They also bear a tattoo—a frog with three legs. Usually on the ankle."
Keith leaned back in his chair with a slow sigh.
"The tokens, the tattoos… this we already know. Now, tell me the when."
"Two moon phases from now."
Keith stood so abruptly his chair scraped the stone floor. Clenching his teeth.
"A coincidence that strains belief. In exactly two moon phases, the royal palace is to hold its grand banquet—a gathering of every noble, merchant, and official of significance in the kingdom."
"It is no coincidence," Samuel pressed. "They have already bought the silence of several nobles. The city knights will be told to look the other way."
"Because of my position," Keith said, his voice dropping, "as Guild Master of the Rising Tempest, I cannot act openly. There have been more royal knights 'patrolling' this district lately. They are not here to keep the peace... they are here to watch me."
He paused, his gaze piercing before continuing.
"Here is what I will do. A quest will be assigned to your party—a simple escort mission to a remote manor. Once you reach the location, one of my most trusted agents will be waiting. You will receive further instructions from him."
His eyes flickered toward the large window behind him, as if sensing a presence beyond the glass. He squinted.
"...It appears we are already under observation. One of you will return tomorrow to formally accept the quest. For now, take your leave. Do not draw attention."
He knocked twice on his desk. The door opened, and the same silent woman guided them back down to the crowded main hall. As they stepped into the afternoon light, the group subtly scanned the area. The guild master was right; the number of uniformed knights casually loitering near the guild hall was unmistakably high.
"Come on, you brats," Alison muttered, ushering them away from prying eyes. "Let's get off the street."
They retreated to the quiet safety of the library, gathering in Alison's private room. She sat on the edge of her bed, arms crossed, one foot tapping an impatient rhythm on the floorboards.
"Alright," she said, her grey eyes sharp. "Someone start talking. What in the world is going on?"
Krey shifted uncomfortably.
"…It might be better if you didn't know."
"I already know it's dangerous," she snapped. "So what? If this is something that could reshape the entire kingdom, then I have to know. Don't treat me like a child."
Reluctantly, Krey and Samuel laid out the truth: the Tercet, their cult-like fanaticism, their infiltration of the nobility, and their planned coup in two months' time. Alison listened, her expression shifting from skepticism to dawning horror, gasping softly at key revelations.
"…I see," she said finally, her shoulders slumping. She stared at the floor. "Then I don't think I can be of much help. I have to stay here. My father needs me."
"You should go, Alison."
They all turned. Her father stood in the doorway, a gentle smile on his round face.
"There's no way I can do that!" Alison protested, jumping to her feet. "Your health—"
"Hohoho! No need to worry." He boomed, patting his stomach.
"The caretaker said I've taken a turn for the better! I feel full of vitality!" To demonstrate, he grabbed the doorframe and did three surprisingly vigorous pull-ups before dropping back down, slightly winded but beaming.
"See? Young folks like you should be out exploring the world, seeing what's beyond these walls!"
"No," Alison said firmly, though her voice wavered. "My decision stands. Who would look after you?"
Her father stroked his beard thoughtfully, then simply nodded and left the room, his silence more powerful than any argument.
"Anyway," Alison said, turning back to them, forcing resolve into her tone, "I can't go with you. And I have an errand to run today. Nixsen, don't wander off until I get back."
"Yes, ma'am." Nixsen replied with an uncharacteristically crisp salute.
***
Alison gathered a small bag from her room and stepped out into the city. As she navigated the streets, her path was blocked by a small crowd. A group of unusually fervent individuals was handing out pamphlets, their methods more aggressive than persuasive. She scoffed, intending to weave past them, but a tall figure stepped directly into her path.
"Excuse me, young lady." The voice was smooth, melodious. A man with a face of striking, almost ethereal beauty extended a pamphlet toward her. His eyes were a deep, unsettling red, and his long, elegant hair—streaked with dark crimson—flowed around him like a cape, stirred by a faint breeze. He wore layered robes that seemed too fine for street preaching.
"Are you perhaps seeking purpose? We are looking for passionate individuals who desire to thrill their souls. Join our campaign to cleanse the world and build a better future, one step at a time!"
A gust of wind swept his hair back from his face, revealing the full intensity of his smile—a wide, perfect curve that didn't touch his chilling eyes. He loomed over her.
"I-I'm sorry," Alison stammered, taking an involuntary step back, a prickle of fear crawling up her spine. "There's somewhere I have to be…"
The man smoothly moved aside, his gesture oddly graceful.
"My apologies, Alison. I did not mean to waste your precious time."
The sound of her own name from his lips froze her blood for a second. She didn't look back, hastening her pace until his presence was far behind her.
Her destination soon rose before her: the Academy of Graswald, an imposing structure of stone, timber, and gleaming metalwork. She presented her admission letter to a guard at the gate and entered a courtyard centered on a majestic statue of an old scholar holding a staff and a book. The slab read: 'In Memory of Our Founder'.
Young students dotted the gardens, immersed in books.
Inside the grand foyer, an elderly gentleman with a polished monocle approached.
"Hello, young miss. I don't believe I've seen you at our academy before. How may I assist you?"
"Ah, yes. I'm here for the examination for the Stargazer course?"
"I see! Yes, yes. A newly established discipline. It is heartening to meet such an aspiring scholar already!" he said, his tone soft and approving.
He carefully placed a beautifully crafted metallic pen and a handkerchief into his vest pocket.
"If you'll follow me, I shall escort you to the examination hall."
"Thank you so much!" Alison bowed in gratitude.
He led her through hushed, marble-floored corridors to a large, sunlit room. Rows of individual desks were already occupied by dozens of other nervous youths. Alison took a seat. Soon, the same elderly gentleman stepped up to the lecturer's podium at the front of the hall.
"What a magnificent gathering." he announced, his voice echoing.
"My name is Professor Celosia, and I shall have the honor of being your instructor… should you pass. Now, I wish you all the very best of luck!" He lifted a small mallet and struck a singing bowl. A clear, resonant note filled the room, signaling the start.
"He was the professor this whole time!" Alison thought, mortified. "I should have been more formal!"
She looked down at the neatly arranged pencil and the first exam booklet. Part one was multiple choice, covering celestial mechanics and astral history. Part two demanded written explanations for complex theoretical phenomena. The hall filled with the sounds of concentrated anxiety: desperate mutters, the frantic scratching of heads, and whispered prayers.
"Crap, I should've studied the sidereal charts more… My mother will feed me my own boots if I fail!" A young man groaned nearby.
"What in the world does this mean? 'Describe the hypothetical tactile sensation of solar plasma'?" another examinee hissed, chewing on her pencil end.
"Please, just let me pass, let me pass, let me pass." came a desperate chant from the back, followed by a tragic rip as someone tore their paper in a panic.
Alison worked steadily, her focus blocking out the surrounding despair. Finally, she reached the last sheet: a long-form essay on the philosophical implications of celestial observation.
When she set her pencil down at last, a profound exhaustion washed over her. Filing out of the hall with the other examinees, she saw them slump against the walls in the corridor, their faces etched with the aftermath of intellectual ordeal. The shared silence was heavy with spent effort and anxious hope.