Vaan hadn’t left the room all day.

  The inn, tucked into the deeper fold of the Adventurer’s Guild district, was unusually quiet. He’d grabbed a bite from the common hall tavern earlier, something stew-adjacent, and came straight back up. Since then, the silence had settled in, thick as dust. No clamor from the training yard. No boisterous clanking from the forge, or bardic singalongs leaking from the common hall. Just the soft groan of old pipes and the faint hum of mana-infused wood warming the floor. Probably noise-cancelling runes.

  Elijah had once bragged to Risa about "acoustic warding," trying to impress her. He’d claimed they were standard in upper-tier lodgings. Vaan hadn’t believed him then. Maybe he should’ve.

  He sat sunk low in the stone tub, set snugly in an alcove beside the window. The water, once hot, had gone lukewarm, steam still clinging faintly to the ceiling before dispersing through mildew-warding runes. The air smelled faintly of sulfur and lavender.

  Vaan stared at the bath sponge the guild had thoughtfully provided, if "thoughtful" meant "vaguely sinister." It was the color of burnt molasses and oddly squishy. The guild had provided it along with a stack of oddly specific bath items, each tagged with handwritten warnings like they’d seen things. A little tag dangled from one edge of the sponge:

  Molasses Sponge – Class C

  For bruised initiates & overworked mercs. Not edible.

  The "Not edible" part had been scrawled in panicked red ink like someone had tested that firsthand.

  Vaan eyed it suspiciously. Class C? So cryptic, that it might as well have said "Sponge: Yes." Please don’t let this be… reused.

  He activated [Inspect].

  Item: Bath Sponge (Molasses)

  Status: Fresh. Issued today. Never used.

  A small wave of relief hit him. His [Inspect] skill couldn’t detect traps or curses yet, but it could confirm whether a bath sponge had been chewed on by strangers. That had to count for something.

  Satisfied—and only mildly grossed out—he finally started scrubbing.

  The sponge clung to his skin with an oddly greedy texture, almost alive. But it worked. Layers of dust, blood, and exhaustion dissolved into the water. The sting was mild. The tingle was more intense like his fatigue was being peeled away, layer by layer.

  The last few days had moved too fast.

  A rare class with a rare flair. That boar, giant and brutal, should’ve torn them apart, but he’d struck the killing blow with Ronald and Tal backing him up.

  Then the sword. Duskiron. Bound to him in a way he didn’t understand. And then Garix.

  His father was dead because of it all. Because of him, mostly.

  And Priscilla… her face the moment it happened, etched into his memory. That fury.

  He let his head fall back against the rim of the tub and shut his eyes. His breath rose in a faint, tired fog.

  He had killed her. And he had meant to.

  Not with cold precision—there had been heat in his veins, and fear, and fury—but it had been a choice. A clean strike. The blade hadn’t moved on its own. It had answered him because he’d called it.

  ‘So sword was your only answer?’ Remy’s voice echoed.

  The man had walked off to chat with an Enforcer casually, covering for Vaan. Vaan hadn’t stopped him.

  He could’ve.

  And now, he just hoped Remy’s provisional Rank 4 counted for something.

  The water lapped at his collarbones, lukewarm now.

  He blinked.

  Wait—had he fallen—?

  He jerked forward with a loud splash, sputtering as his chin dipped beneath the surface. The water stung his nose and he coughed. His heart pounded. He’d never fallen asleep in a bath before.

  Unnerved, he sat up and climbed out. Water sloshed down his legs onto the rune-heated tiles, tiles that radiated a constant low warmth, powered by a slow-drip mana conduit humming beneath the floorboards.

  His old tunic lay crumpled, torn at the shoulders, frayed at the cuffs. Out of habit, he scooped it up and gave it a half-hearted rinse in the basin, more out of guilt than utility. The thing was beyond saving.

  Towel slung around his neck, he stepped out of the bath chamber and headed for his room, only to stop short.

  Right by the door, nestled as it had always belonged there, sat a rune-marked laundry bag embroidered with the guild’s crest in soft gold thread. A scroll poked out of its mouth:

  Ward-Rinsed Garment Return – One Piece Daily.

  Vaan stared at the scroll.

  He had no idea what "ward-rinsed" meant, but it sounded like the sort of thing that required signing a waiver first. No chance he was tossing his already half-torn tunic in there—he didn’t need it coming back cleaner but cursed. He already had a sheath for that kind of energy.

  He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, wear the thing outside anymore, not unless he was going for more of those "oh, sweet mercy, what is that peasant wearing?" stares, but it made for decent nightwear. Battle-worn. Ventilated. Fashionably tragic.

  He eyed the glowing rune-heater near the window, a gentle dome of copper coils and warm light. Definitely meant to keep the room at "Noble Cozy," not dry laundry. Still, it was warm, vaguely fire-adjacent, and flat. Close enough. Elijah would’ve launched into some rant about airflow sigils and thermal misalignment. Vaan just shrugged and draped the tunic over it. Worst case, he’d invent a new type of steam enchantment.

  Wrapped in a towel, he rummaged through his rucksack and pulled out a spare shirt. Rough cotton. Slightly wrinkled. Serviceable.

  He changed, then caught his reflection in a tall mirror wedged beside the wardrobe, one of those sleek, mana-buffed things that somehow made every room feel like it belonged to someone richer.

  Brenda used to say he was the most handsome lad in Wragford, "just like your father, gods rest him." He hadn’t believed her then. Still didn’t. But after a bath and clean clothes, he looked… better. Less like a half-dead initiate. Not quite one of the polished adventurers downstairs, but not bad either.

  Feeling refreshed already, he glanced out the window. No view of the rune bridge or the city tiers below. The heavy shades blocked most of it, and all he could see were rooftops and faint rune-lamps glowing on the streets below. No sunlight. No moon. Just rune-made artificial lights.

  Time to get moving. He finally looked toward the sword.

  It sat on the table at the far end of the room, wrapped in its grotesque sheath. Dull. Still. Like it was pretending to be harmless.

  But part of him had always been aware of where it was, just as, he felt, it was aware of him, waiting for the moment he’d summon it.

  He took a step toward it and reached out, only to recoil when the sheath greedily tugged at his mana. He hadn’t even touched it properly.

  The sheath must’ve still been hungry. Or maybe it always was.

  He remembered the bath. That strange drowsiness. He hadn’t known mana drain could do that, pull at his awareness like a tide dragging him under. Mana wasn’t supposed to affect the body. Or so he thought. Maybe he was wrong.

  Now, as he stood there, it felt like his mana was nearing full again. He couldn’t measure it exactly, but the sensation was unmistakable. He should be able to use his fighting skills if need be.

  He turned to the cupboard, needing a distraction. Inside were a handful of quest pamphlets. They were copies of the ones posted on the quest boards near the guild hall. Some were old, some may be recent. Escort duties. Monster sightings deep in the wastelands. Rumors of Orcish activity stirred again and Goblins ambushes of merchant caravans along the northern trade routes.

  Nothing about the skirmishes up at the northern border, though. Those were probably handled by the mercenary guilds or kept off the public boards for a reason.

  Vaan glanced at the scattered scrolls, a mix of confusion and mild frustration. He wouldn't be able to take most of these quests—they all seemed to require a party. What would happen if he still completed one? Surely the guild would have to acknowledge that.

  Shrugging, he grabbed a handful and attempted to wrap them around the sword’s sheath, hoping to at least hide its filthy appearance. But the moment the parchment made contact, the sheath slurped like it had just discovered a new favorite snack, greedily sucking in one of the rolled-up pamphlets, leaving it soaked, chewed, and looking distinctly more... loved.

  “Ugh, you disgusting—” he muttered, yanking the rest away. "Great. Now it’s got a taste for paperwork." He considered what would happen if he unleashed it on Elijah’s precious book collection. That stash was practically the only library in Wragford, and no one else had a scroll or book to their name. Elijah hoarded it all in Vincent’s old place, now his home, while Vincent himself split his time between Wragford and the Roost's scriptorium.

  Vaan's lips twitched as he imagined Elijah’s pitiful attempts to impress Risa, desperately waving around some so-called "ancient tome"—which was really just a crumbling, dime-store fantasy novel from a traveling merchant, complete with a ridiculous cover and a plot that wouldn’t fool a tavern rat. He almost snorted, quickly stifling it. Maybe the sheath could do Wragford a favor and make sure no one else had to suffer through that collection.

  He sighed. If only life were simple. The sundial on the wall said it was already evening. Too long. He'd spent too long in here.

  He had to find Remy. Get himself some quests. He didn't know how long he could afford this lodging. He needed to start earning, and fast. He also had to track down Vincent Ferrell. Not a noble like Veldrane, but a greasy scribe with influence, favors, and all sorts of contacts. Vincent should be somewhere in the librarium. Probably.

  After that, Vaan didn't know. He wasn't even sure if Vincent would be inclined to help. But the man could at least provide Brenda and Marianne with hidden lodging away from the forge for the time being. Maybe he'd help for Elijah's sake. Or maybe he'd help and call in a favor later. Vaan wasn't sure. He barely remembered Vincent beyond the disappointed glances the man used to throw when he came to collect Elijah. Those had stopped as Vaan and Elijah grew older. Vincent had always favored his son, who was probably cut from the same cloth. That much Vaan knew. He had no special affection for Vaan, though. But fondness wasn't the point.

  Vaan slung the rucksack over his shoulder and reached for the sheath. He didn't want to touch it. Not really. But he couldn't leave his sword behind, either. He wrapped the strap tightly, careful not to let the sheath brush against his skin.

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  The guild hall was still bustling, just as it had been that morning.

  Boots scraped against stone, steel clinked in rhythm, and bursts of laughter echoed from the tavern beyond. But the faces had changed. The adventurers loitering near the quest boards or gathered around tables were a different crowd than before. New armor, new egos, same noise.

  Off to the side, the training hall still rang with the familiar sounds of exertion. Grunts, the thud of bodies, the zip of steel. A different healer now presided over the corner, robes pristine, hands glowing faintly with green-tinted magic. Fewer were training with spears, but their levels all hovered above six, a few as high as sixteen.

  Vaan didn't bother socializing.

  He made straight for the quest boards.

  The quest boards to the left pulsed with fresh postings, their runes shifting in real-time as contracts were updated or claimed. Parchment fluttered on scarred oak, the air thick with the scent of oil, leather, and sweat. An ever-present reminder of the guild's bustling nature.

  Vaan scanned the notices quickly, filtering out the ones marked with the familiar iron-rank markers. Most quests were group-oriented, with tags like Recommended party size: 3 to 5 and Suggested level: 8+. Some had even stricter notes: Minimum two ranged attackers, one tank.

  But there were a few solo quests buried among the others. Rare, but there nonetheless. One offered a modest reward for clearing a nest of Dire Rats beneath a bakery cellar. Another requested a wilderness survey near the riverbend for a noble's expansion project. Low risk, but the travel time was considerable. There was also a bounty for dealing with a troublesome raccoon spirit haunting a lakeside community, though it had a peculiar specialization requirement: Mage, Priest, or adjacent classes with exorcism-type magic preferred.

  Vaan folded his arms and frowned as his eyes skimmed over the fine print. Most of the quests had a subtle suggestion tucked away in smaller text: Recommended party: At least 4. Technically, it wasn't a strict requirement. But it was implied.

  Frowning, Vaan turned toward the guild desks.

  Of the three reception counters, two were unmanned.

  At the third desk, an older woman sat behind a broad wooden counter, hunched slightly over a thick leather-bound ledger. Her gray hair was tied into a tight bun, and small spectacles clung precariously to the bridge of her nose. Scrolls and vials of ink were neatly arranged at her side, and ink-stained fingers fluttered over the pages she was immersed in.

  When he looked at her, the familiar blue glimmer of the Inspect skill flared across his vision.

  ??? Clerk. Lvl ???

  She looked up from her ledger and smiled warmly. "Hello, dear."

  For the first time since entering the guild, Vaan felt a small sense of comfort. He took a hesitant step forward, clearing his throat as he began, "Hello, I was hoping you could help me with something." He paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "I wanted to ask about the quests. If someone were to take one meant for a party, say for five people, and managed to complete it alone, what would happen? Would the guild still pay out?"

  The woman blinked behind her glasses, her gaze softening as she considered his question. Her smile faded, replaced by a more concerned, grandmotherly frown.

  "Young man," she said, her tone firm, "those quests are marked that way for a reason. They're dangerous alone. You need a party."

  She paused, her gaze unwavering, still sharp behind the round glasses. But as she tilted her head, the corners of her lips softened just slightly, and the sharpness in her eyes gave way to something warmer. "Where are you from, dear?"

  "Wragford," Vaan replied. "I just signed up today."

  The woman's brow furrowed slightly. "Wragford? That's quite a distance from here, isn't it? A whole day's ride to the northwest."

  Vaan nodded. "Yeah, it's a bit of a trek."

  She frowned thoughtfully. "That's quite a journey for someone just starting out. You're far from home."

  Vaan stifled a groan, eager to get back to the point. "It's the closest adventure guild outpost to home. I'm not... I just wanted to know what would happen if I took up a quest th—"

  "Listen, dear," she interrupted, her tone softening, "Adventuring’s not a solitary path, child. Not if you want to keep breathing." She smiled gently, her sternness easing. "Would you like help? We sometimes post party-forming notices, and if you're looking for someone specific, I could point you in the right direction."

  Vaan hesitated, then spoke up. "Remy said he'd help me join one. He mentioned it before."

  The woman's face brightened with recognition. "Ah, Remy? He's dependable, when he wants to be, despite what others might say."

  Vaan hesitated. "Has he returned yet? He left this morning after dropping me off." He didn't mention the enforcers summoning him.

  She chuckled under her breath. "You'll find him tonight in the tavern. He always comes back after sundown. Can't resist flirting with the serving girls. Not that it gets him far."

  Vaan gave a faint smile, then asked, "Do you know where I could find the librarium?"

  She looked up from her ledger, curious. "Which one?"

  "There's more than one?"

  "Oh, plenty," she said, waving a hand. "Librariums, scriptoriums, temple archives... but the Imperial Scriptorium's the largest. Hard to miss, once you get across the rune bridge, through the mercenary quarter, and past a few market rows."

  Unlike a standard librarium, which simply housed collections of tomes and scrolls, a scriptorium was a living institution. Larger, more complex, staffed by scribes, runesmiths, and researchers dedicated to the creation and study of manuscripts, magical texts, and experimental rune works. Given the presence of rune bridges and its infrastructure, Vaan wasn't surprised Darven's Roost had a scriptorium rather than a simple librarium.

  She rummaged briefly in a drawer, then pulled out a rolled parchment. "Here. This map should help."

  Vaan accepted it with a grateful nod. "Thanks."

  "If you need anything else," she said, returning to her ledger, "you know where to find me."

  With that, Vaan nodded and turned, exiting the guild.

  With the clerk's map tucked safely under his arm, Vaan stepped out of the Adventurer's Guild and into the gilded light of early evening. The sun hung low, its golden rays fading as the moons had yet to rise. The rune-lit cobblestones beneath his boots hummed faintly, pulsing in slow rhythm like a heartbeat, alive and almost aware. Above him, the Imperial Tower loomed like a towering monolith, its ivory spires piercing the sky, dominating the skyline. It was a masterwork in stone, its sheer scale impossible to ignore, even from a distance.

  The walkway before him was a marvel, broad and arched, suspended impossibly in the air without ropes or supports. The floating stones shifted slightly as he approached, reshaping the path with a gentle hum. Each rune carved into the surface flared briefly beneath his step, activating momentarily to support his weight. The bridge curved gently downward as he continued, the hum of the runes beneath his boots shifting in pitch.

  As he moved forward, the district's atmosphere began to change. Vaan crossed the next rune bridge, its surface realigning beneath his boots. The change in the air was palpable. Here, it was as though every stone and rune had been hardened by years of conflict, simmering with tension.

  The bright blue hues of the Adventurers' side faded, replaced by the eerie, blood-orange glow of lantern-wasps that now lit the path ahead. Their flickering, reddish glow cast long shadows, bathing the entire Mercenary District in a foreboding, almost oppressive atmosphere. Unlike the Adventurers' District, there were no banners here, no vibrant crests, just the stark light of the lanterns and the grim silhouette of the district's buildings.

  Keen eyes tracked his every step. Men in cloaks leaned against rune pillars, some half-armored, some sharpening blades from stations nearby, without looking up. Their faces were unreadable, their stances giving nothing away, but there was no mistaking the sense that he was an outsider here. He didn't belong. And they knew it. Vaan didn't dare use his [Inspect] skill, keeping his focus straight ahead, as if the path itself could shield him.

  The buildings here were stark and utilitarian, etched with barely-glowing sigils that pulsed with ancient wards. The area lacked the signs of life he'd seen in the Adventurers' District. No enclosed shops or open markets, just thick stone walls and closed doors, hiding whatever secrets they held.

  Vaan didn't slow. He wasn't here to linger.

  As he passed through the district, his gaze flicked down to a set of sleek tram lines that curved away below, running between districts with effortless speed. He could see the trams gliding by, swift and efficient, probably meant for the nobility or higher-ranking officials. The lines not only stretched across the lower tiers but also ascended toward the Imperial Tower, connecting the city's sprawling districts with ease.

  A large elevator platform stood nearby, its glowing runes humming softly. The elevator, he assumed, led to the tram station below, a convenient way to reach the transport system. But Vaan didn't stop. He had no idea how much it would cost, nor whether it was even meant for someone like him. It wasn't for him to find out. He continued on foot, walking past the tense silence of the Mercenary District. Soon, the lantern-wasps thinned, giving way to soft lamplight and more orderly stonework.

  Two paths branched ahead. One led toward a temple etched with silver symbols, its dome adorned with the sigil of a woman crowned in iron. The Temple of Saira, the Metal Saint, as per the map. Vaan made a mental note to return for a silent prayer when things settled down.

  He took the other path, toward the Imperial scriptorium.

  The library's entrance loomed high above, though not as impressive as the Adventurer's Guild. Pillars flanked the arched gateway, each engraved with the names of vanished kingdoms and scholars long turned to dust. Above them, rune-script flickered faintly, wards of silence, preservation, and fire resistance. Vaan knew that because he had memorized the basic runes before his flair ritual.

  Vaan stepped into a vast antechamber where lanterns cast golden light across shelves that stretched to the vaulted ceiling. Rows upon rows of scrolls and tomes filled the space, each aisle marked by banners of parchment-yellow and obsidian ink. Multi-tiered walkways looped around columns, with scribes and scholars flitting between them like moths chasing knowledge.

  A man at the nearest desk looked up, robed in parchment-brown, his quill still scratching as he regarded Vaan through thick lenses.

  Scribe – Lv. 11

  "Do you have a membership?" he asked.

  Vaan held out the iron badge he'd received from the Adventurer's Guild.

  The man frowned. "This is an Adventurer's license. It's not, well." He shook his head and sighed. "You can get a new membership with that, I suppose, through the side desk. There's a form. Or three."

  "I just want to see someone," Vaan said.

  The scribe's eyes narrowed. "This isn't a dating house. We don't do candlelit readings."

  "It's not like that. I'm looking for a scribe. Vincent."

  The man blinked. "Vincent who? We have at least two Vincents. Three, if you count the owl."

  "Vincent Ferrell."

  A voice from an aisle behind interrupted, cool, and measured. "You want Vincent?"

  A tall figure stepped into view, older, with white hair and a cloak marked with inkblot sigils. His gaze was sharp.

  "Who are you, exactly?" he asked, suspicion clear in his tone.

  Vaan swallowed his pride. "His stepson."

  There was no point playing coy.

  "Son?" the man asked, arching a brow. "You mean Elijah?"

  Vaan flushed. "No. Stepson. Vaan." He held out his Adventurer's Guild badge again, more for something to do than anything else.

  The man's expression shifted. "Ah. That Vaan." He gave a soft huff of surprise. "He's talked about you. More than once, actually."

  Vaan blinked. That wasn't the reaction he'd expected.

  They walked in silence, passing through a wide hall where runesmiths hunched over glowing plates of stone, the scent of hot iron and old ink thick in the air. Intricate runes pulsed beneath their tools as scribes carefully copied sigils onto parchment, metal, and slate, all under the sharp eye of a master runesmith who barked corrections with the authority of a battlefield captain.

  A rune-powered lift took them down a level, deeper into the scriptorium's bowels.

  In a cramped chamber lit by everlamps, Vaan finally saw him.

  Vincent Ferrell.

  Vincent Ferrell was hunched over a cluttered worktable, ink-streaked fingers trembling as he worked meticulously on the frame. A grizzled runesmith hovered over him, barking, "Faster, gods damn you! I need that frame copied before your lunch break, not your retirement!"

  Vincent muttered an apology, barely audible as the runesmith turned away, grumbling.

  When Vincent finally looked up and saw Vaan, his quill faltered mid-motion. His eyes widened for an instant before they dropped to the table, a flush creeping across his face. He tried to mask it with a stiff smile, but his hands shook slightly as they returned to the work.

  Vaan blinked. This was Vincent Ferrell? The man once respected in Wragford, always immaculate, always composed? Now he sat hunched, his robes blotched with ink, fingers twitching over parchment like a scribe's apprentice. Whatever pride he'd worn back home was gone, left behind in the village or maybe stripped from him here, piece by piece.

  Ben stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Master Runesmith, might Vincent have a break? The boy's here to meet him."

  The runesmith didn't even look at Ben. "No. We're busy."

  Ben hesitated, glancing between Vincent's weary face and Vaan's surprised expression, clearly uncomfortable. "Master Runesmith, this is Vincent's son."

  The runesmith paused, slowly turning to them with a skeptical gaze."Do I look like a wet nurse? Unless the boy’s here to pay for the wasted vellums, piss off."

  Vincent opened his mouth, his voice barely above a whisper. "Master, if you would just allow me a moment."

  The runesmith scowled. "Oh, of course. Take all the time you need. It's not like I'm trying to copy an entire frame before noon or anything." He made a show of stretching, then shot a glare at Vaan. "Fine. Let the boy have your moment." His fingers jabbed at the nearly empty vial on Vincent's desk, thick indigo ink that shimmered like crushed beetle wings. "But this isn't tavern swill and the potency is already waning. You sob into it, you pay for it."

  Vincent didn't respond. He set his quill down with careful precision, then stood slowly, as if every movement had to be measured. His ink-stained robes rustled faintly as he stepped away from the worktable and joined Vaan and Ben just outside the alcove.

  "Thank you," Vincent said quietly, without looking at either of them.

  Ben gave a small, tired smile and shrugged. "Us ink-folk need to look out for one another. The runes don’t thank us." He clapped Vincent gently on the shoulder. "I'll give you two a moment."

  With that, he turned and walked off, leaving them in the flickering lamplight and the faint scratch of quills still at work nearby.

  Vincent straightened, but his gaze stayed low. When he finally looked up at Vaan, his attempt at a smile faltered. "Vaan. You're here."