The Guild Hall. Morning.
The guild had found its rhythm.
Garret arrived first, as he did every morning. His hook gleamed in the early light. He unlocked the doors, lit the lanterns, set the ledgers on the counter. His handwriting was blocky but legible, his numbers neat, his records thorough. He had been a soldier for thirty years. He kept the guild's books like he had once kept his unit's supplies—meticulously, ruthlessly, without wasted motion.
Grace arrived next as usual. Her glasses were new, her ink stains fresh, her hair pinned back. She carried a stack of books under her arm—translations she had been working on, old texts the mages had lent her. She sat at her desk in the corner, spread out her papers, and began to work. She spoke three languages, could read two more, and had a gift for organizing chaos. The guild's records had never been cleaner.
Petra came third. She was still shy, still nervous, still learning. But she was trying. Grace had been teaching her to read and write in the evenings. She could now recognize most letters, form simple words, count the coins in the guild's treasury. She filed papers, ran messages, swept floors. She was grateful for the work.
Sera arrived last, as she did every morning. She wore her sword to work. No one questioned it. She sat behind the front desk, her bad leg propped on a stool, her eyes on the door. Adventurers came and went. She checked their contracts, logged their returns, took their complaints. She had seen it all before—young idiots getting themselves killed, old veterans complaining about their pay, middle-aged fools chasing glory they would never catch.
She handled them all with the same dry efficiency.
"Next."
---
The training yard was busy.
Ren led the morning drills. He was not Grog—no one was Grog—but he was competent, steady, and the recruits respected him. He put them through footwork, blocks, strikes. They stumbled, fell, got up. He corrected them, pushed them, encouraged them.
Olive was in the archery yard, her bow drawn, her eyes on the target. She had become one of the guild's best archers. Not as good as Lira—no one was as good as Lira—but good enough. Her arrows flew straight, true, deadly.
Lira watched from the bench, her bow across her knees. She did not train with the recruits anymore. She was too good for that. She trained alone, in the early mornings, before anyone else arrived. She trained at dusk, when the light was fading and the shadows were long. She practiced shots that no one else would attempt.
She was preparing.
They all were.
---
Grog walked the perimeter.
The guild hall was at the edge of the lower district, close to the city walls. Beyond the walls, the forest stretched for miles. Beyond the forest, the hills. Beyond the hills, the wilderness where the creatures bred and spread.
He walked the walls twice a day—morning and evening. He watched for smoke, for signs of attack, for anything that didn't belong.
His rings were on his belt. All twelve of them. They were warm, pulsing faintly, full of mana stones and monster parts and the lingering trace of the infection that had almost killed him.
He had not used them in days. The adventurers were bringing in enough stones now. The mages were making progress. The guild was thriving.
But Aldric was still missing.
He pushed the thought away. There was work to do.
---
The great hall filled as the morning went on.
Adventurers came to collect contracts, report completions, cash in their bounties. Garret handled the paperwork. Grace organised everything. Sera dealt with the complaints.
Petra ran messages between them, her legs aching, her hands full, her head spinning. She was learning. Slowly. Painfully.
"The mages need more stones," Grace said, looking up from her translation. "For the rings."
Garret made a note. "We have a shipment coming in this afternoon. Ren's party is hunting in the eastern hills."
"The eastern hills are dangerous."
"All the hills are dangerous, girl."
Grace said nothing. She went back to her organizing.
---
Grog returned from his morning walk.
He stood in the doorway of the great hall, watching the adventurers come and go. They were young, mostly. Bright-eyed, eager, hungry for glory. Some of them would die. Some of them would quit. Some of them would become veterans, scarred and hard and cold.
He had seen it before. In the old timeline. On the border. In the war.
He walked to the front desk.
"Sera."
She looked up. "Grog."
"The hunts. How many this week?"
Sera flipped through her ledger. "Fifteen. Three cleared. Four in progress. The rest are scouting."
"The mages need more stones."
"The mages always need more stones."
Grog nodded. "I'll lead a hunt tomorrow."
Sera raised an eyebrow. "You? You haven't led a hunt in weeks."
"I've been busy."
"Doing what?"
Grog didn't answer. He walked away.
---
The afternoon brought a messenger.
He was young, thin, his clothes dusty, his horse lathered. He rode through the gates, dismounted, ran to the palace.
Grog saw him from the window of the guild hall.
"Something's happened," Lira said, appearing beside him.
Grog nodded. "The King."
They waited.
---
The summons came an hour later.
Edward's steward delivered it in person—a sealed letter, pressed with the royal sigil. Grog broke the seal, read the words.
The King requests your presence at the palace. Tomorrow morning. Come alone.
Grog folded the letter. Tucked it into his belt.
Lira watched him. "What does he want?"
Grog shook his head. "I don't know."
"Are you going?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"The letter says alone."
Lira's jaw tightened. "I don't like it."
"Neither do I."
---
That evening, Grog sat alone in his room.
The rings were on the table. Twelve of them, plain silver, warm and pulsing. He had been carrying them for weeks. He had been filling them for weeks. He had been fighting and hunting and storing and waiting.
The King was dying. The nobles were circling. The creatures were spreading. The cult was hiding. Vorlag was still out there. Aldric was still missing.
He picked up one of the rings. Turned it over in his fingers.
"Not much longer," he said. "I hope."
The ring pulsed. Warm. Alive. Waiting.
He slipped it back onto his belt.
Tomorrow, he would see the King.
He did not know what would come after.
But he would be ready.