The Lower District. Morning.
The guild hall was still under construction.
Workers swarmed over the building—hammering, sawing, hauling stone and timber. The walls were up, the roof was on, but the windows were empty holes, the doors were rough planks, the courtyard was a mud pit.
Grog stood at the edge of the site, watching.
Edward stood beside him, his arms crossed, his face calm.
"It's not much yet," Edward said. "But it will be."
Grog nodded. "When?"
"Weeks. Maybe less. The King wants it operational as soon as possible."
Grog looked at the workers. At the stone walls, the wooden beams, the mud and dust and chaos.
"And the recruits?"
Edward gestured to a side yard. "There."
---
The recruits were young.
They stood in a loose formation, their weapons mismatched, their armor patched, their faces uncertain. Some were farmers, some were hunters, some were retired soldiers who had thought their fighting days were over.
They had come because they had heard the stories. The heroes who closed the portal. The barbarian who killed the monster. The scout who never missed.
They had come because they wanted to be part of something.
Grog walked to stand before them.
"My name is Grog," he said. "I'm not a hero. I'm not a leader. I'm a soldier."
The recruits watched him.
"I've fought creatures. I've killed monsters. I've watched friends die." He paused. "If you want to join this guild, you need to understand what that means."
A young man stepped forward. "We understand."
Grog met his eyes. "Do you?"
The young man's jaw tightened. "I watched my village burn. I watched my family die. I watched the creatures tear through everything I loved." His voice was steady. "I understand."
Grog studied him for a moment. Then he nodded.
"What's your name?"
"Ren."
Grog turned to the others. "Anyone else?"
One by one, they stepped forward. A woman with a scar on her cheek. A man with a bow on his back. A girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen, her hands steady on her sword.
They had stories. They had losses. They had reasons.
Grog looked at Edward. Edward nodded.
"Then we have work to do."
---
Lira watched from the edge of the yard.
She had been quiet since they arrived, watching the recruits, watching Grog, watching the workers build the guild hall.
Ken stood beside her, his arms crossed, his hood pulled low.
"They're young," Ken said.
Lira nodded. "They are."
"They're not ready."
"No." Lira watched Grog lead the recruits through basic drills. "But they will be."
Ken was quiet for a moment. "You sound like him."
Lira glanced at him. "Like who?"
"Aldric."
Lira was quiet. Then she nodded slowly. "He taught me to believe."
---
The morning passed.
Grog drilled the recruits—footwork, blocks, strikes. He was hard on them. Harder than he needed to be. But he remembered how he had trained, if they were going to be under his lead then they needed to atleast keep up with him. No mercy. No shortcuts. No excuses.
They stumbled. They fell. They got up.
Lira helped with the archers, teaching them to aim, to breathe, to release. Ken watched from the shadows, offering quiet corrections, demonstrating techniques.
By midday, they were exhausted.
By afternoon, they were frustrated.
By evening, they were something else. Determined.
---
Edward returned as the sun began to set.
He stood at the edge of the yard, watching the recruits drag themselves through the last drill. Grog stood beside him.
"They're not ready," Edward said.
Grog nodded. "They're not."
"But they will be."
Grog looked at the recruits. At Ren, the young man who had watched his village burn. At the woman with the scar on her cheek. At the girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen.
"They will be," Grog said.
Edward was quiet for a moment. "The King wants the guild operational within the month."
Grog looked at him. "That's not enough time."
"It's what we have."
Grog nodded slowly. "Then we use it."
---
The recruits left as the light faded.
They would return tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.
Grog stood alone in the yard, his sword in his hand, his eyes on the guild hall.
Lira walked to stand beside him.
"You're thinking," she said.
"Always."
"What?"
He was quiet for a moment. "About Aldric. About the portal. About whether any of this matters."
Lira looked at the guild hall. At the workers packing up their tools. At the recruits walking home through the darkening streets.
"It matters," she said.
Grog looked at her. "How do you know?"
She met his eyes. "Because we're still here. Because we're still fighting. Because we haven't given up."
Grog was quiet for a moment.
"No," he said. "We haven't."