The armored figures were everywhere, their presence as confusing as it was ubiquitous. At first I thought them mercenaries—they carried weapons with casual familiarity, their armor scarred from use—but their behavior defied categorization. One woman, her face hidden behind a visor shaped like a snarling hound, was enthusiastically describing how she'd beheaded a "gloomstalker" to a captive audience of horrified townsfolk. A man with twin axes strapped to his back argued loudly with a scribe over what appeared to be a receipt for "one (1) disenchanted ghoul arm."
I pointed at a group laughing over tankards. "Soldiers?"
Mia shook her head. "Ad-ven-tur," she sounded out carefully. When I frowned, she pantomimed fighting, then held out an imaginary bag of coins, then pointed at a notice board papered with cryptic sigils.
Seres, overhearing, intervened with a correction. She tapped her herb satchel, then mimed exchanging it for coins. "Work," she said in my language—one of the few words she'd learned. Then she pointed at the adventurers and made a series of gestures: fighting, gathering, returning. "Same. But danger."
Ethan, ever helpful, pretended to die dramatically, complete with choking sounds and a theatrical collapse against a nearby crate.
Understanding dawned. These were no army—they were contractors. Hunters of monsters and treasures, paid per task. The realization made their flamboyant armor and louder-than-necessary voices make sudden sense. Reputation was currency.
The Weight of Watching Eyes
Every interaction left me off-balance. The way townsfolk dipped their heads to a passing figure in embroidered robes—a noble? A priest?—without breaking stride. How merchants' voices climbed octaves when addressing adventurers but turned syrup-sweet for well-dressed shoppers. The children navigated it effortlessly: Ethan's sharp eyes catching when a vendor tried to short-change us, Mia's cheerful chatter disarming suspicious glances.
By midday, my head throbbed from concentration. Seres took pity and steered us toward a quiet corner where a baker sold fist-sized meat pies. As she counted out copper pennies, the baker's gaze kept flicking to me. "He asks if you're from the Sun District," Mia translated around a mouthful of pie.
"I don't even know what that is," I muttered.
Mia relayed this with gestures and broken words. The baker looked disappointed.
As we ate, Kai materialized with his hands full of "borrowed" trinkets—a fact Seres noticed immediately. One sharp gesture later, he was trudging back to return them, his expression the very picture of wounded innocence.
The pies were greasy, delicious, and cost four copper pennies each. I made a mental note of the coin Seres used—a bronze van with a distinctive chip near the hole. Progress.
The thought settled in Ardyn's chest like a stone: I don't belong here.
Not just in this town, with its cacophony of voices and clattering carts, but in this world. Every interaction, every exchange, every glance thrown his way made him feel like a wanderer dropped into a story already mid-chapter. The others moved with an easy familiarity, as if the rules of this place had been written into their bones. But for him? Nothing. No flicker of recognition, no buried instinct guiding his steps. Just silence where there should have been memory.
How much have I forgotten?
The question gnawed at him. Was there ever a time when haggling felt natural? When he knew the weight of coins by touch alone? When the sight of glowing herbs or armored adventurers didn't make his pulse quicken with something between wonder and unease?
He flexed his fingers, half-expecting to recall the grip of a sword, the weight of a purse, something—but there was nothing. Just the lingering scent of roasted nuts and the dull ache of his healing ribs.
The Clergy's Hall
Seres led them away from the market's chaos, down a side street lined with squat, ivy-choked buildings. At the end stood a structure of weathered stone, its arched windows fitted with stained glass that cast fractured light across the cobbles. The symbol above the door—a blooming flower cradled in a pair of hands—marked it as the clergy's hall.
The moment they stepped inside, the noise of the town fell away, replaced by the hush of whispered prayers and the faint, sweet sting of incense. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, their mingled scents thick enough to taste. Sunlight streamed through the colored glass, painting the floor in patches of emerald and gold.
At the far end of the hall, a priest bent over a ledger, his quill scratching softly against parchment. He looked up as they approached—and froze.
His eyes locked onto Ardyn.
Then, without a word, the priest bowed. Deeply. The kind of bow reserved for someone of standing.
Ardyn stiffened. Not again.
The priest straightened, his gaze flickering between Ardyn and Seres, as if waiting for an introduction. When none came, he cleared his throat and gestured to the herbs Seres carried. "Sylvain," he said, his voice carefully neutral now.
Seres nodded and laid the bundled flowers on the counter. The priest inspected them, his movements reverent, but his attention kept drifting back to Ardyn.
Mia, ever observant, tugged on Ardyn's sleeve. "He thinks you're important," she whispered.
"I noticed," Ardyn muttered.
Ethan smirked. "Should've worn your crown."
The priest's ears pricked at the exchange, his brow furrowing. He said something to Seres, slow and deliberate, his tone laced with something like caution.
Seres shook her head, her reply curt. Whatever she said made the priest's shoulders relax slightly, but his gaze still lingered on Ardyn with uneasy curiosity.
Ardyn exhaled through his nose. This is ridiculous.
He wasn't a noble. He wasn't anything. Just a stranger with no past and a face that, for reasons he didn't understand, made people bow.
The priest handed Seres a small pouch of coins—more than she'd gotten for the other herbs, Ardyn noted—and inclined his head once more, this time to all of them. A dismissal.
As they turned to leave, Ardyn caught his reflection in a polished silver censer. Golden hair, golden eyes, features too sharp for this rough world.
A face that didn't feel like his own.
Who were you? he asked the stranger in the metal.
The reflection had no answers.
Their final stop was the guild hall—a sprawling, ramshackle building that looked like it had been cobbled together from the remains of a dozen different structures. Thick wooden beams, blackened by years of hearth smoke, supported a roof patched with everything from clay tiles to rusted metal sheets. The walls were a chaotic tapestry of monster skulls, faded banners, and countless notices nailed haphazardly over one another. The scent hit Ardyn first—sweat, ale, oiled steel, and something faintly metallic beneath it all. Blood, maybe. Or just the tang of restless ambition.
Seres strode in without hesitation, the children trailing behind her like ducklings. Ardyn followed, his senses immediately overwhelmed by the noise. A dozen conversations clashed in the air—boasts of kills, curses over lost pay, the clatter of dice, the occasional burst of raucous laughter.
Then, as if someone had yanked a lever, the clamor dulled.
Dozens of eyes flicked toward their group—no, toward him. Ardyn felt the weight of their stares like a physical touch. A scarred woman with an axe strapped to her back leaned over to her companion and muttered something that made him snort. A wiry man with a broken nose smirked and raised his tankard in mock salute.
Mia, ever helpful, whispered, "They call you 'flower face.'"
Ardyn blinked. "What?"
Ethan, stone-faced as ever, added, "Also 'pretty boy.' And 'lost noble.'"
Ardyn sighed. Of course they did.
The best part? He didn't even understand the insults. The language barrier was a blessing in disguise—their words were just noise, their jabs meaningless. So he simply… ignored them. Walked right past as if they didn't exist.
Which, ironically, unsettled them more than any retort could have.
A burly adventurer with a beard like a thornbush scowled as Ardyn passed, clearly expecting a reaction. When none came, he shifted uncomfortably and muttered to his companions, "What's his deal?"
Mia, grinning, didn't translate that one.
Seres made straight for the reception desk—a massive slab of oak polished smooth by countless impatient hands. Behind it sat a clerk, a harried-looking man with ink-stained fingers and a monocle perched on his nose. His expression brightened when he saw her.
"Seres! Sylvain in stock today?"
She nodded, unloading her satchel with practiced efficiency. The clerk inspected the herbs, nodding approvingly before scribbling in a ledger. Ardyn watched, fascinated, as Seres' eyes flicked over the notices pinned behind the desk—lists of herbs in demand, prices fluctuating based on some system he couldn't decipher.
Wait.
She was reading them.
That shouldn't have been surprising, but after seeing the sheer number of adventurers who squinted at notices like confused dogs, it was. Seres, it seemed, was literate. And judging by the way the clerk spoke to her—respectful, almost deferential—she wasn't just some backwoods herb gatherer.
Mia noticed his surprise. "Seres knows letters," she said proudly. "Taught herself. The guild pays more if you read the bulletins."
Ethan crossed his arms. "Also stops them cheating you."
The Guild's Unspoken Rules
As Seres conducted her business, Ardyn took in the rest of the hall. It was a microcosm of chaos:
A group of rookies huddled around a table, nervously reviewing a contract for what looked like "giant rat extermination." One of them was sweating so much his helmet kept slipping.
A veteran adventurer—judging by the sheer number of daggers strapped to her person—was loudly arguing with a blacksmith over the cost of repairing a sword that looked like it had been chewed by a bear.
Near the hearth, an elderly man with a lute was singing a ballad about a dragon slayer, though the lyrics kept devolving into increasingly improbable feats ("And then he punched the moon!").
And then there were the stares. Still lingering. Still waiting for him to do something.
Ardyn, thoroughly unimpressed, yawned.
This seemed to deeply offend a particularly flashy adventurer across the room, who made a show of rolling his eyes and turning away.
Mia giggled. "They don't know what to do with you."
Good. Let them stew.
The Walk Home
With the herbs sold and a pouch of coins secured, Seres led them back into the fading daylight. The guild's noise faded behind them, replaced by the familiar sounds of the town winding down for the evening.
Ardyn exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing.
Mia skipped ahead, swinging her arms. "Next time, you should glare more. Scare them."
Ethan nodded sagely. "Nobles are good at that."
Ardyn shot him a dry look. "I'm not a noble."
Seres, walking beside him, made a quiet sound—almost a laugh. When he glanced at her, her expression was as unreadable as ever. But there was something in her eyes. Amusement? Approval?
He'd take it.
As they passed through the town gates, the forest ahead darkening with twilight, Ardyn realized something.
He still didn't understand this world.
But he was starting to learn how to move through it.
And for now, that was enough.