The clinking of silver in Arin's pouch was oddly comforting as the two of them walked down the cobbled streets of Duskhollow. The marketplace buzzed with noise: hawkers shouting about fresh bread, the scent of roasted meat drifting on the evening air, and the chaotic laughter of adventurers who had already spent their coin at the taverns.
For a brief moment, Arin forgot about the blood on his tunic and the throbbing cut on his arm. This—this chaos—felt alive.
Lyra, however, wasn't admiring the sights. She tugged Arin toward a quieter corner where a stall displayed neat rows of coins under a glass cover.
"You need to understand money here," she said firmly, her voice low. "Or else you'll be broke before you reach the Academy."
Arin tilted his head. "Money is money, isn't it?"
She gave him a sharp look, as if he had asked whether fire was hot.
"No. Here in the Great Wilderness, coin is survival. Look." She pointed at the rows.
On the left were small, coppery coins with simple markings—Copper Pennies. Next were brighter, shinier Silver Marks. Then came the gleaming, ornate Gold Crowns, engraved with the face of Zeus himself. At the very top of the display were massive, rectangular pieces of crystal-blue metal: Mythril Plates, rare currency for major trades and noble dealings.
"The system is simple," Lyra explained. "One hundred Coppers make one Silver. One hundred Silvers make one Gold. One hundred Gold makes one Mythril Plate."
Arin frowned, doing the math in his head. "So we only earned… eight Silver Marks? That's like…" He hesitated. "Not much."
Lyra nodded. "Enough to buy food and a place to sleep for a few days. Barely."
Arin's heart sank. "Wait. You're saying if we don't keep taking quests, we'll starve?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
They spent their first coins carefully. A loaf of dark rye bread cost two Copper. A strip of dried meat was five. A small room at a run-down inn—barely big enough for a bed and a bucket—was thirty Copper for one night.
By the time they had eaten a meager dinner of bread and stew, Arin's pouch felt frighteningly light.
"Eight Silver doesn't stretch far," he muttered, staring at the stew bowl as if it had betrayed him.
Lyra shrugged, chewing her bread calmly. "That's why rookies starve or quit. They think adventure is all glory. They don't realize you bleed more coin than you earn until you're strong enough to take real quests."
Arin leaned back against the creaky chair, frustration tightening his chest. He had imagined the life of an adventurer as grand—slaying monsters, earning treasure, rising through the ranks. Instead, he was exhausted, bleeding, and worried about his next meal.
Lyra noticed his silence. Her tone softened. "Hey. Don't get discouraged. Today was just the first step. Everyone starts at the bottom. Even the Rank Ten heroes had nights where they counted pennies for bread."
Arin looked at her, meeting those sharp silver-gray eyes. For the first time, he saw a flicker of warmth behind them.
"Why do you keep helping me?" he asked quietly.
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"You could've let me die out there with those rabbits. You could've just walked away."
She smirked faintly. "And waste all the effort of dragging you around? Don't be stupid."
But Arin caught the small twitch of her lips, the way she avoided his gaze. She wasn't doing this just for convenience.
The next morning, they were back at the guild. This time, Arin didn't hesitate as much when looking at the board. He pulled down a quest slip and handed it to Lyra.
Quest: Eliminate 5 Stone Beetles in the Quarry.Reward: 12 Silver Marks.
"Better pay," he said firmly. "And more dangerous."
Lyra gave him a measuring look. "Stone Beetles have shells harder than iron. But…" She nodded slowly. "Good choice. If you want to grow, you can't hide behind herb-gathering forever."
Arin felt a small spark of pride.
The quarry was a gaping wound in the earth, where jagged stone walls rose like broken teeth. The sound of chittering echoed from within as they approached. Arin's stomach tightened.
This will be worse than the rabbits.
As they climbed down, one of the creatures scuttled into view—a massive beetle the size of a wagon wheel, its body encased in a dull gray shell that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Its mandibles clicked together with a sharp, metallic sound.
Arin raised his sword, but Lyra's hand landed on his arm.
"Wait. You can't just slash wildly. Their shells will blunt your blade. Aim for the gaps—joints, eyes, underbelly. Got it?"
Arin nodded, gripping the hilt tighter.
When the beetle charged, he sidestepped and swung. His sword glanced off the shell with a clang that numbed his arm.
"Damn it—!"
"Focus!" Lyra barked, darting forward. Her blade slipped neatly under the beetle's mandibles, stabbing deep. The beast screeched, legs thrashing, before collapsing.
Arin exhaled, shaking his arm.
Five beetles. That was the quest. Five battles between life and death.
By the time the fifth one fell, Arin was drenched in sweat, his muscles screaming. He had managed to land two finishing blows, though his sword edge was chipped from the strain. His body ached, but his spirit burned.
They dragged the beetle parts back to the guild. The clerk counted out twelve Silver Marks. This time, the pouch felt heavier, though Arin knew it was still nothing compared to what they would one day need.
But when Lyra smirked at him, faint approval in her eyes, Arin felt a surge of pride.
He was no longer just a boy fumbling with a sword. He was an adventurer—bleeding, hungry, broke, but alive.
And for now, that was enough.