Rowan stood by the wide windows of the Adventurer’s Guild Hall, his arms crossed and his gaze lingering on the city beyond.

  The streets of Litwick were unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the normal bustle that filled the air. Word of this meeting had reached the people of the city, and they knew what it meant.

  The weight of the moment pressed on his shoulders as he waited for the rest of the gathering to arrive, his thoughts shifting between eagerness and anxiety.

  On one hand, Rowan felt ready. Yet as he recalled all the battles he’d fought thus far, he couldn’t remember a single one where he hadn’t felt the same.

  And not all of them went my way, he reminded himself. The shaman almost killed me, and the Wyrmling’s did too.

  But he’d done all he could to prepare. His Fire magic was as good as it would get—on par with any Orange-Core mage—and his Wind magic was progressing smoothly as well.

  Rowan wished he’d had time to master [Soar], but if his guess was correct, that wasn’t likely to happen.

  Quinea doesn't seem like a patient woman. We’re leaving tomorrow. Or the day after that at the latest.

  Behind him, the hall was already filling up. The usual lively chatter replaced by a simmering tension.

  Adventurers of all ranks found their places around the long tables, murmuring quietly among themselves. From the seasoned Silver-ranks to the ambitious Iron-ranked teams.

  Rowan turned, scanning the hall.

  Tremil sat near the front with Huon and Tion by his side. The boy still gave Rowan the occasional side-eye, but there was an undercurrent of respect beneath the usually cocky attitude. Tion, on the other hand, gave him a calm nod, his mind seemingly focused on the upcoming meeting.

  The two hedge mages Rowan didn’t get a chance to meet yet were sitting behind them, and judging by their robes, the first was a Wind and Earth mage, while the other had the Water and Fire affinities.

  Further back, Rowan spotted the newly arrived Adventurers.

  The aid sent from Sheercliff consisted of a dozen Silver-rank’s led by a grizzled-looking man, a large axe strapped to his back. He had a long scar running down the left side of his face, but there was something about him that made Rowan feel at ease.

  Feeling curious, he decided to scan him.

  Would you look at that, he smiled.

  Rowan was pleasantly surprised to see another caster among their number—even if he was pretty sure that the man was a warrior first, and a mage second.

  He glanced at the rest of his team, scanning them in turn. All of them were above Silver III, with two of them being at the peak of the rank. But his gaze was drawn to the four people sitting next to them.

  They were a serious-looking group, with their heads held high and haughty looks on their faces. It was an expression Rowan was familiar with. One that most often appeared on mages stuck at a bottleneck.

  All of them were middle-aged with their Cores on the cusp of advancing to Yellow. A hurdle not every mage managed to overcome.

  They were led by a lithe, sharp-eyed woman that exuded a quiet confidence. And Rowan was pretty sure it wasn’t a bluff.

  Some people dismissed mages who failed to advance as untalented, or worse, weak. But in most cases, that couldn’t be further from the truth. These four had years to hone their affinities, and just because they haven’t managed to combine them yet didn’t mean they were hacks.

  Kai nuzzled against his cheek, trilling softly.

  Rowan scratched his beak. “You don’t have to be here,” he said, an amused smile on his face. “The meeting probably isn’t going to take that long. You can go hunting if you want to.”

  His familiar settled on his shoulder.

  Rowan chuckled, shaking his head and moving to where the Grove sat.

  He pulled up a chair next to Nemir, eyeing the burly swordsman with a curious expression.

  Nemir glanced at him, arching an eyebrow. “Is there something on my face?”

  Omi snorted. “Besides that god's awful mustache?”

  “I forget to shave once, and I don’t hear the end of it,” he muttered sullenly.

  “I think it suits you,” Zoe said, her eyes flickering towards Rowan. Or more accurately, his shoulder. “Mustaches were considered fashionable a few decades ago.”

  “That’s not the compliment you think it is, Zo,” Silvia added, scarfing down a bowl of stew like her life depended on it. “And please don’t encourage him. He’s going to take it to heart and then we’ll be stuck looking at that domesticated caterpillar over his lips for who knows how long.”

  Nemir sighed. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said, rubbing his mustache. “As soon as this meeting is over, I’m chopping it off.”

  Rowan couldn’t keep the smile off his face, the simmering tension slowly leaving his shoulders. “I was going to ask how your Aura training went,” he said, leaning back against his chair. “You’ve been holed up in your room for the last week, and I didn’t manage to catch you yesterday. Have you gotten close?”

  Nemir’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I need one fight against a hobgoblin, and I’ll get it.”

  Rowan wasn’t surprised. Nemir got close to advancing during the goblin quest, and with his improved understanding, it was only a matter of time before he finally managed it.

  His friend would become a Silver-rank during this battle, Rowan was sure of it.

  Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors at the end of the hall opened, and Quinea strode in.

  Silence fell.

  The Guildmistress moved with purpose, her hand casually resting on the pommel of her sword. There was an air of seriousness about her, like a lead blanket falling over the room.

  Rowan looked around, seeing the various Silver-rank’s quieting down.

  Quinea strode to the center of the room and her gaze swept over the assembled Adventurers, with everyone it landed on straightening in their seats. She didn’t waste any time.

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  “Two days,” she began, her voice breaking the silence. “That’s how long we have until we march out. We’re not waiting for the goblins to amass a larger force. We’re going to hit them first, and we’re going to hit them hard.”

  A murmur spread through the hall at her blunt proclamation. Two days wasn’t a lot of time, but it was still better than the one Rowan had expected.

  Quinea raised a hand. “If we wait, we’ll face an enemy too large and too organized to handle.” Her words silenced the crowd. “Right now, only their strongest members are there. With the rest of their number journeying through the Wilds to join them. We give them time, and their Warchief will have rallied every goblin in the region.”

  Before anyone could interject, she continued. “We’ll march and strike them before they can organize. This is going to be dangerous. We’ll be outnumbered and fighting against an enemy in a possibly fortified position, but we’ll have the element of surprise on our side.”

  Rowan knew that last part was only to stem the rising panic of the assembled Iron-ranks, but he didn’t begrudge the Guildmistress's white lies.

  The goblins would know there was an attack coming. Their scouts would see a group this large approaching from miles out. They wouldn’t have days to prepare, but even a few minutes negated the advantage of a surprise attack.

  This would be a hard fight, yet the other option was to wait for their opponents to drown the city in bodies. While the walls of Litwick weren’t weak, they were never meant to repel a threat of this size.

  She glanced around the room. “Sheercliff has sent us sixteen of their finest to aid in the battle,” her eyes landing on the reinforcements. “Laith Dewhorn leads their warriors, and Mage Velora their casters.”

  The two Adventurers inclined their heads in greeting.

  “It will be an honor to fight besides you all,” the tall, weathered-looking man said. “With our combined forces, those goblins won’t know what hit them.”

  Quinea’s gaze moved across the room. “Our goal is simple,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmur of the assembled crowd. “We’ll be focusing our firepower on taking out their leadership. Without the head to guide them, the goblins will scatter.”

  She pointed at herself, “I’ll be fighting the Warchief, while Mage Tremil focuses on the Warlock,” her eyes landed on Rowan. “And Mage Jamis will deal with the apprentice.”

  Rowan forced his expression to stay relaxed as every adventurer in the room turned to look at him.

  He could see the confused looks the mages from Sheercliff sent him, likely wondering why he’d been chosen. A moment later, Mage Velora spoke up, “Him?” she asked incredulously. “He’s barely a man grown,” she pointed out. “That task should fall to someone capable of completing it.”

  Rowan wanted to speak up, but he knew that’d be the wrong move. His word carried little weight to them, and whatever he said would be seen as nursing his wounded pride.

  And it wasn’t like he faulted her for the question. She knew nothing about him besides the fact he wasn’t a peak Orange-Core mage. Something that at his age was either a mark of laziness, or of negligence. Both of which were traits you didn’t want in the person tasked with taking out the third strongest member of the goblin tribe you were set on fighting.

  Thankfully, there were people whose words did carry weight that answered her question for him.

  Quinea’s gaze settled on the mage, her eyes sharp. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Mage Jamis has proven his skill, and in my humble opinion, he’s the best person for the job.”

  The woman bristled at that, but Tremil spoke before he could say anything. “I agree,” he said, his voice calm. “I’ve seen him fight, and besides myself, I would say he has the greatest chance of victory against this foe.”

  The adventurers that had watched his duel against Killian all nodded, and Rowan felt pride bubble up in his chest.

  It was deeply gratifying to see his strength acknowledged. These people were trusting him with their lives. Trusting him to take out his opponent before it could threaten the rest of the raiding party. It was the same trust they put in Quinea, and the same trust they put in Tremil.

  Rowan’s determination grew. He had no plans of letting them down.

  Before the conversation could be derailed further, Quinea continued, her attention settling on the Silver-ranked adventurers. “The rest of you will be dealing with the hobgoblins. There are around two hundred of them, and only five dozen of you, so don’t underestimate them,” she said firmly. “They’ll be using pack tactics—fighting in groups, overwhelming anyone they can isolate. You’ll need to work together.”

  Rowan scanned their faces. They looked unfazed, but there was an edge of tension behind each and every one of their eyes. These men and women spent their entire lives fighting against everything the Wilds could throw at them. This wasn’t their first life or death battle, and it wouldn’t be the last. They knew the odds, but they also knew the stakes.

  Quinea’s voice grew sharper as she addressed the Iron-ranks, “As for the Iron teams, you’ll be dealing with the regular goblins. But don’t think for a second that they’re easy to kill. They’ll come at you in waves, and while each one might be weak on its own, a goblin tribe's strength has always been their numbers. Your job is to hold the line, keep them from reinforcing the hobgoblins, and support the Silver-ranks where needed.”

  Rowan felt Annie stiffen next to him, and the rest of the team didn’t look much different.

  With Nemir at the peak of his rank, and with the gear he’d given them on top of that, the Crimson Grove was the strongest Iron–rank team in Litwick. Of that, Rowan was sure. So it was completely understandable that they didn’t want to be stuck fighting normal goblins while there were stronger opponents close by.

  Not to mention we have the only true healer in the whole raid, Rowan thought, glancing at Zoe.

  Priest Aegar was also at the meeting, but there was no way he’d be joining them in the raid. And the same went for the rest of the clergy. Followers of Eldara weren’t fighters. Which didn’t mean they weren’t capable of defending themselves, but going on the offensive wasn’t their forte.

  “The mages will provide support,” Quinea said, turning towards Velora, “Mage Velora will lead you, but you’ll each have your roles,” she addressed the remaining casters. “Most of you will focus on countering the shamans, but keep in mind that the warriors might need your help. Your job isn’t to kill all of them, it’s to keep our people alive.”

  Velora gave a slight nod, her earlier frustration at being overlooked fading away, “It shall be done,” she said, her eyes steely. “Not a single spell shall land on them while we hold the line.”

  Rowan’s gaze moved to the two brothers sitting besides Tremil.

  Tion looked strangely calm, but Huon was a mix of excitement and nervousness. His hands fidgeted like he was aching to cast, and Rowan hoped the boy understood the seriousness of the situation.

  Quinea took a deep breath, straightening up, looking every inch the determined Guildmistress, ”This fight won’t be easy,” her voice boomed out. “Many of you have fought goblins before, but this is different. We’re not dealing with small raiding parties. This is an organized tribe with a Warchief, a Warlock, and a cohort of shamans coordinating the attack. We need to be ready for everything.”

  There was a brief moment of silence before one of the Silver-ranks, a wiry man with a rapier strapped to his hip, spoke up. “What’s the plan if we fail? If the Warchief isn’t killed and we’re forced to retreat?”

  Quinea’s jaw tightened. “If that happens, we will fall back to Litwick and make our last stand here. But,” she said, her voice like adamant, “we don’t plan for failure. Our goal is to strike hard, strike fast, and cripple them before they can react. If we succeed, the tribe will fall into chaos, and we’ll have a chance to finish them off.”

  Rowan's thoughts raced, imagining the battle that awaited them. They would be marching into enemy territory, outnumbered, and with no choice but to win.

  Yet it was hard not to feel excited. This was exactly what he’d been training for—what he’d been working towards ever since he’d Awakened.

  He was a mage of House Athlain. The Duke of Eiselyth. The last member of a bloodline that spanned millenia.

  This fight wouldn’t be his end. He’d make sure of that.

  “And what about supplies?” a voice from the back asked, a younger adventurer who looked barely older than twenty. “Potions, rations, anything we’ll need for a prolonged fight?”

  “The preparations are already under way, and will be finished by the time we’re ready to march,” Quinea replied. “The Guild will provide as many supplies as we can spare. Potions are being brewed by what few alchemists we have, and the blacksmiths are working to repair and reinforce our gear. Anything we can do to increase our chances of victory, we will.”

  “And after two days?” another voice called out. “What happens if we’re not ready?”

  Quinea’s gaze grew steely. “We march. Ready or not, we don’t have the luxury of waiting. Every second we waste is one the goblins are going to use to dig in further and bolster their numbers.”

  Rowan clenched his fists, feeling the weight of her words. The battle was coming, and there was no changing that. They had two days to prepare, two days to gather everything they needed, two days to get ready for a battle that could spell the end of Litwick and all those who called it their home.

  “Use this time wisely,” Quinea said, her tone final. “Train. Prepare your minds and your bodies. Because once we leave, there’s no turning back.”

  The hall was quiet as she finished, the tension in the air thick. But so was the resolve. Each and every person here had faced death before. They knew what was at stake, and they were ready to fight tooth and nail to win against this foe.

  As the meeting began to break up, adventurers talking in low tones as they strategized, Rowan found himself deep in thought.

  He’d done all he could to prepare. He’d outfitted his friends in the best gear he had access to, and mastered what few spells he had time to master.

  Now, the only thing left to do was wait.