Hilda had the Manual of the Stone Tactician open on the inn's table. Her index finger slowly traced a complex diagram illustrating how shockwaves propagated through different strata of rock. Her face showed such intense concentration that she seemed to be trying to absorb the knowledge from the pages by sheer force of will, her lips moving silently as she repeated the concepts.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Ghislaine sharpened one of the daggers they had taken from Gideon's knights. The rhythmic sound of steel sliding against the whetstone was a meditation, a constant shhhk, shhhk, shhhk that broke the room's silence. Her one visible eye was fixed on the blade's edge, ensuring it was perfect, lethal.
Paul, lying on the bed with his hands behind his head, finally broke the silence.
"You know, for a team of legendary adventurers in the making, our mornings are terribly academic. One reads about making stones tremble, and the other preps her knives. I, for one, am seriously considering my breakfast strategy. It's a crucial tactical decision, probably the most important of the day."
Hilda didn't look up, completely absorbed.
"The book says a sympathetic vibration can bring down a wall without even touching it, if you find its exact resonant frequency. It's fascinating, Paul. You could demolish a fortress without a single explosive spell."
"I could bring that wall down with one good swing of my katana," Ghislaine grunted, not pausing with the whetstone. "It would be faster and a lot less complicated."
"But not as elegant," Paul interjected, getting out of bed with a yawn. He stretched, arching his back and arms slowly. "And elegance, my dear ladies, is what separates brutes from artists. Besides, it's quieter. Very useful when you don't want the whole castle to know you just knocked down the treasure tower to steal everything down to their underwear."
He walked over to the table and looked over Hilda's shoulder at the complex diagram.
"This is all very nice in theory, but it's useless if we don't put it into practice. And to practice, we need quests. To get the best quests, we need to be an official party. And that, my dear companions, brings me to an important logistical point."
Hilda finally closed the book with an audible sigh, marking the page with her finger.
"What logistical point, Paul?"
He nodded his chin toward Ghislaine, who was still focused on her task.
"Her. 'The Rose and the Sword' sounds very poetic and all, but there are three of us now. We need to update our registration at the Adventurers' Guild. We can't have a monster-level Sword Saint listed as, I don't know, unclaimed baggage. They could fine us or, worse, think we kidnapped her, and we already have a bad enough reputation for that."
Ghislaine stopped sharpening abruptly. Her single eye fixed on Paul with a coldness that cut the conversation short.
"Register me? What for? I don't sign papers. My experience with contracts hasn't been good."
"Exactly," Hilda said, standing up and taking control of the conversation with her natural authority. "And that's why, from now on, I will review every contract and every document before anyone signs anything. But the Guild needs to have a clear record of each party's members. It's for the rewards, the insurance in case of death..."
"And so they know who to blame if we accidentally burn down half the city during a 'training experiment' with rocks," Paul added with an innocent smile, winking at Hilda.
Ghislaine scowled. The idea of putting her name on an official Guild paper again was as appealing as a mud bath in the middle of winter. The humiliation was still fresh.
"It's a formality, Ghislaine," Hilda said, her voice softening to a more persuasive tone. "But a necessary one. It gives us legitimacy. It opens the door to higher-ranked quests, which is where the real money and the challenges you're looking for are. And it protects you. An official contract, verified by the Guild and read by me, means no one will ever trick you with fine print again. It's a guarantee."
The word "protect," said in that context, struck a nerve. Ghislaine didn't need protection in a fight; no one in their right mind would think that. But the wound of betrayal and deception from her previous contract still burned at her pride. She looked at Hilda, and in the young woman's serious gray eyes, she saw not pity, but practical logic and a promise of loyalty. She saw an ally.
"Fine," she finally grunted, returning to her sharpening with a brusque movement, as if the conversation now bored her. "But if the Guild receptionist looks at me wrong, I'm cutting off one of his ears. Just one."
"Deal," Paul said with a clap. "I'll distract him with my irresistible charm while you commit selective mutilation. It's the perfect plan. Now, before we go to the Guild, we have another matter to attend to."
"Ghislaine, that armor of yours has seen better days, and Hilda, you can't go around in that mage's robe if we're going to be crawling into dangerous holes."
Hilda nodded.
"You're right. We need proper equipment"
"Alright, let's go. First to the black market to get rid of this, and then to a decent smith. Destiny, and a considerable amount of gold, await."
****
The smithy they went to next was a completely different world. Clean, orderly, and filled with the scent of quality coal and hot steel. The smith, a tall, muscular man with arms like tree trunks, greeted them with a nod.
They spent the next hour trying on different pieces. For Ghislaine, they chose a suit of hardened black leather, studded with steel plates on the chest, shoulders, and forearms. It was light, flexible, and didn't restrict her movement at all.
"Maybe we should find you something a little more... revealing," Paul joked as Ghislaine adjusted the straps. "Something to accentuate your... assets."
Ghislaine simply shot him a look that promised swift and efficient pain.
Hilda, for her part, found an incredibly light mithril chainmail shirt, designed to be worn under clothes, complemented by polished steel greaves and bracers. When both were equipped, Paul stepped back to admire them.
"Well, well, well," he let out a long, appreciative whistle. "I don't know about you, but I see the best investment we've ever made. A spectacular view. Hilda, the way that armor accentuates your chest ought to be illegal. And Ghislaine... that ass in black leather is going to cause more casualties than your sword."
Hilda blushed slightly, though she couldn't suppress a small smile. Ghislaine, for her part, just rolled her visible eye.
"Shut up and pay the smith, Paul," she grumbled, though there was a hint of satisfaction in her voice. She felt comfortable, protected, and fast.
With their remaining money and new acquisitions, they finally headed to the Adventurers' Guild, which was bustling with activity at that time of day. The air smelled of polished metal, cured leather, cheap beer, and the ambition of hundreds of men and women who lived and died by steel and coin.
They went straight to the counter, where the same silver-haired elf was still stamping documents with an expression of profound boredom.
"We're back," Paul announced, leaning his hands on the counter smugly.
The elf looked up. Her violet eyes scanned them without emotion, but they lingered a moment longer than usual on the new armor.
"'The Rose and the Sword.' You survived your first week. Congratulations. You've beaten the odds. What do you want?"
"We want to update our registration," Hilda said, stepping forward. She placed their party's form on the counter. "We want to add a member."
The elf took the paper listlessly.
"Name and specialty."
"Ghislaine Dedoldia," Paul said. "Specialty: Sword Saint and, potentially, Artist of Flaming Armageddon. We're still workshopping the official title."
The elf looked directly at Ghislaine. Her eyes, normally devoid of any interest, focused. A professional always recognizes another. She saw the way the beast woman stood, the perfect balance of a predator at rest, the violence contained in every fiber of her muscles.
"Ghislaine Dedoldia," the elf repeated, and for the first time, there was a different nuance in her voice. A hint of recognition. The name was already a legend in certain circles. "A-Rank for individual skill. With her affiliation, the party automatically advances to C+ Rank. Congratulations. More paperwork for me."
She stamped the form with a sharp thud and returned it to Hilda without further ceremony.
"Registered. Try not to die. The paperwork for a C-Rank party is considerably more annoying. Next."
With their new official status, they headed to the enormous quest board.
"C+ Rank," Paul said, whistling softly. "That opens up a whole new menu of gloriously well-paid problems. How about a minor wyvern hunt? Or a caravan escort through Smuggler's Pass?"
"Too flashy," Hilda said, her eyes scanning the notices with an analytical gaze. "We need something that lets us train as a team, not just fight. Something that gives me a chance to experiment with what I've learned, and that lets you, Ghislaine, get used to fighting with us."
Her eyes stopped on a particular notice, written in a neat, academic hand, pinned in the exploration section. It was more of an announcement than a simple quest.
"That one," she said, pointing.
Paul and Ghislaine moved closer to read it over her shoulder.
"Academic expedition to newly discovered ruin. Seeking three adventuring parties of Rank C or higher for an exploration and cartography mission in the Broken Lands. The expedition will be led by Scholar Valerius, a specialist in ancient structures. Cooperation between parties is required. Base reward: five Asuran gold coins per party, plus bonuses for significant discoveries. Report to the east gate at dawn tomorrow."
"The Broken Lands," Paul murmured. "A charming name. Sounds dry, rocky... perfect for you, my earth mage."
"And perfect for me," Ghislaine grunted. "Enclosed spaces. Close-quarters combat. I like it."
"An expedition with more people..." Hilda said thoughtfully. "It could be good. More security. And if this Valerius is an expert, we might learn something. Besides, five gold coins for a walk through some dusty ruins is good pay. It's not a combat mission. It's a paid training session. We'll take it."
They tore the notice from the board, the simple gesture sealing their next destination.
***
At dawn the next day, at the city's east gate, the air was thick with anticipation. Two other adventuring parties, besides their own, were already there. A thin, middle-aged man in a scholar's robe and glasses that constantly slipped down his nose was clearly Valerius. He was surrounded by maps and scrolls.
The other parties were a study in contrasts. One, "The Steel Hammers," was composed of three burly dwarves covered head to toe in heavy plate armor. The second, "The Southern Blade," was a team of loud, boastful-looking mercenaries, led by a handsome man with an overly confident smile.
Ghislaine watched the whole group with a look of profound irritation.
"Too many people," she muttered, her hand near the hilt of her katana. "I don't like it. They smell like trouble."
"Relax, furious kitten," Paul whispered to her. "Just stick close to us. Let them be the bait for the traps."
Hilda, as always, was the face of diplomacy. She approached Valerius and introduced herself. As they spoke, the leader of "The Southern Blade" walked up to her, completely ignoring Paul and Ghislaine.
"Well, well. I didn't expect to find such a delicate flower on an expedition like this," the man said, his smile showing off pearly white teeth. "I'm Renard. If things get ugly in there, don't hesitate to seek my protection. A beautiful lady like you shouldn't have to get her hands dirty."
Hilda looked at him with a coldness that could have frozen fire.
"I appreciate your offer," she replied, her voice cutting. "But it won't be necessary. I already have all the protection I need. I'm married."
She gestured with her head toward Paul, who was watching the scene with a raised eyebrow and an amused smile.
Renard's smile faltered. He looked Paul up and down with obvious disdain, then back at Hilda.
"With him? You must be joking."
"I'm not joking at all," Hilda retorted, her tone final and sharp. "Now, if you'll excuse me, we have an expedition to prepare for."
She turned away, leaving Renard standing there with an expression of surprise and disbelief. Paul came up behind Hilda and gave her a playful squeeze on the rear.
"That's my girl!" he whispered in her ear, loud enough for Renard to hear. "It fills me with pride to see you put those peacocks in their place."
He gave her a quick, loud kiss on the cheek, making Hilda blush, but this time with a mix of embarrassment and pleasure.
****
The journey to the Broken Lands took two days on horseback, with a cart for their gear, through a landscape that grew increasingly desolate. The entrance to the ruins was a crack in the side of a hill, hidden by overgrowth and time.
"Well, here we are," Valerius announced, rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm. "What an architectural specimen! Parties, prepare yourselves!"
They entered. The sunlight was swallowed by darkness. It was a dense, heavy silence. Hilda closed her eyes. She wasn't trying to see; she was trying to feel.
"Wait," she whispered.
The other parties stopped, some impatiently. She knelt and placed a hand on the stone floor.
"The floor... is vibrating," she said softly. "It's a constant, very faint vibration. There's something beneath us. Like a gear. A trap."
"Mage nonsense!" Renard scoffed. "It's just the wind. Let's go!"
Ignoring the warning, one of Renard's men took a bold step forward. In that instant, a section of the floor gave way, and a shower of darts shot out from the opposite wall. The man shouted and stumbled back, several darts sticking out of his arm and leg.
The silence that followed was tense. All eyes turned to Hilda. Valerius looked fascinated.
"Incredible... She has an innate geological perception. Miss, you lead the way!"
From that moment on, no one questioned her orders. They followed Hilda through a series of corridors and chambers.
****
Hundreds of leagues away, in an opulent room in the Boreas Greyrat mansion, the atmosphere was anything but victorious.
Lord Boreas, a portly man whose flushed face betrayed a life of excess and a barely contained fury, slammed his fist on the table. The wine goblets trembled.
"Incompetent?!" he roared. "The word is a caress to describe your failure, Captain Fleurmont!"
Gideon Fleurmont stood in the center of the room, his back straight, his face a mask of cold composure. He wore new armor, but it felt like a costume of shame.
"My lord, the situation was... more complex than anticipated," he said, his voice flat and emotionless.
"Complex!" Lord Boreas sneered. "You were entrusted with escorting my future daughter-in-law! A simple task! And not only do you lose her, but news returns that she has been kidnapped and dishonored by a renegade of our own blood! A Notos! The humiliation is intolerable!"
"Paul Greyrat is a swordsman of considerable skill, my lord," Gideon explained, choosing his words like a man walking through a minefield. "And he was not alone."
"Excuses!" the noble spat. "And what do we do now? The marriage contract is broken. My house's honor, stained. What do you propose, Captain? How do you intend to clean up this mess?"
Gideon looked up. His eyes, which had seemed empty, now burned with a cold, predatory light.
"My lord, honor can only be cleansed with blood," he said, each word a chip of ice. "I failed in my duty to deliver the bride. I will not fail in my duty to deliver justice."
He paused, letting the weight of his promise fill the room.
"Grant me the resources. An elite team. Not soldiers, but hunters. And I swear to you on the honor of my house, on my very life, that I will find Paul Greyrat. And when I do, I will bring you his head on a pike. As for Lady Hilda... I will bring her back to her father, so he may decide the punishment deserved by a daughter who has brought such shame to her lineage."
Lord Boreas studied him, his anger giving way to a cold assessment. He saw in the captain's eyes not the apology of a failure, but the promise of an executioner. A slow, cruel smile spread across his lips.
"Very well, Captain Fleurmont. You have your resources. You have my blessing. Go and clean up this mess. Bring me blood. And make sure the Greyrat bastard suffers. Slowly."