The Arcane Guild had never known silence.
Even at dawn, when the city still yawned itself awake, the guild's central plaza usually rang with noise—steel on stone, laughter, the low hum of spellwork, healers calling triage numbers, portal rings chiming as sky-dungeon parties returned.
Today, that noise curdled into something sharper.
Alarm sigils burned along the outer spires. Not blaring—controlled, disciplined—but unmistakably urgent. The air smelled of copper and ozone, healing mana layered thick enough to sting the back of the throat.
Blood traced thin lines across the marble where adventurers had stumbled through portals half-conscious, dragged by comrades who refused to let them die.
Healers moved like ghosts in white and indigo, hands glowing, voices steady.
"Pulse stable."
"Spinal integrity restored."
"Next—bring the next one."
The system held.
It always did.
