The guild hall hummed around Caspian, a living tapestry of clinking tankards, barked orders, and the low thrum of camaraderie. He sat by the cavernous hearth, its flames painting dancing shadows on faces both familiar and foreign. Evarins with their tapered ears shared ales with Veldraen tribes folk whose eyes gleamed with the wild feral glint of untamed beasts. Their claws tapped rhythms on oak tabletops, furred tails flicking in conversations.
Above the din, the hall's bones stood stark, twin staircases ribbed the eastern and western walls like stone guardians. The reception desk sprawled like a command post, clerks shuffling scrolls stamped with the comet sigil, doors yawned into shadowed corridors promising smithies, libraries, and infirmaries.
"Apologies..." Matthew's approach cut through the noise, his boots scuffing sawdust-strewn planks. He ruffled his chestnut hair, already wild as a thicket. "Approved." He announced, grinning like a boy who'd outwitted fate. "Master's seal is set. Your training begins at dawn, two days hence."
Matthew's hand landed on Caspian's shoulder, solid and warm. "Tour first. Promises etched here are sacred." He swept Caspian through the guild's arched gateway and into Sylvaren's beating heart.
Beyond the threshold, a town breathed, stitched from timber, stubbornness, and generations of resilience.
Cobblestones, worn smooth by a decade of purpose-driven tread, echoed beneath their boots as Matthew steered Caspian down the settlement's vibrant artery. Timber-framed shops leaned companionably against sturdy brick-and-clay structures, their facades a patchwork of time.
Humble stalls flaunted open shutters, neighbors to grander establishments boasting glazed windows that snared the afternoon sun like captured jewels. The air itself hummed, a symphony of commerce and kinship, laced with the yeasty promise of baking bread, the acrid kiss of forge-smoke, and the bright, piercing laughter of children darting like minnows through the legs of market-goers.
"Ten winters past..." Matthew began, his voice weaving through the market's clamor. "The Master stood alone on this ground. Just one man, one vow. To forge a harbor for the shattered..." He gestured to a group of women exchanging baskets of sun-ripened fruit, their faces relaxed, eyes free of the hunted look Caspian knew too well.
"He took in exiles, orphans, those ground beneath empire's heels. Gave them trades, roofs, roots. Their families followed. Weavers, Blacksmiths, Scribes, all sheltered under the Comet's banner..."
A Veldraen matron waved from a flower cart, her lynx-ears twitching. Beside her, an Evarin girl braided flora into crowns. Caspian watched a scarred warrior, his arm ending in a polished wooden prosthetic, help a small girl retrieve her dropped doll. The man's laughter boomed, warm and unburdened.
'Family...' Caspian realized. Not by blood, but by choice. The guild's pulse wasn't just in its fighters or healers, It lived in the clatter of looms, the scent of baking rye bread, the shrieks of playing children.
Matthew paused near a towering hall where the rhythmic clang of steel rang like a heartbeat. "We serve through seven pillars..." He said, pride edging his tone. "Each division a vital organ in the guild's body. Defense...." His hand rested briefly on the Greatsword on his back. "...Mine to command. Yours will be Healing..."
Caspian's gaze swept the settlement again. The baker pulling loaves from an oven, the scribe bent over parchment in a vine-draped window, the distant ring of anvils from the smithy. Seven divisions, seven strengths interlocking like gears.
"What of the others?" Caspian asked, curiosity sparking like flint.
Matthew's smile deepened, secrets glinting in his crimson eyes. "Their names are written in the work they do. You'll learn them… You'll meet them soon enough."
"Then the towers..?" Caspian asked.
Matthew's laughter unfurled like a banner in the sun-warmed air. "The towers..." He said, gesturing toward the distant spires that pierced Sylvaren's canopy like ivory spears. "You saw them crowning the valley, silent sentinels. They're not ornaments, Caspian. They're the bones of the guild."
Caspian followed his gaze. Up close, their scale was staggering each tower distinct in stone and sigil, radiating quiet authority. "I thought them fortresses..." He admitted.
"Fortresses of purpose..." Matthew corrected, pride threading his voice. "Each tower anchors one of the Seven Divisions. But not for war alone. Each tower houses a division's heart. Workshops, archives, strategy chambers. Where we hone crafts that keep this sanctuary alive."
He pointed back to the manor, its arched windows glittering like watchful eyes. "The central mansion? That's the guild's beating heart. Where missions are forged, alliances sealed, and the Master's will becomes action."
As they wound through lanes fragrant with rosemary and forge-smoke, Matthew's tone softened. "The training will unveil the rest, the oaths, the chain of command, the weight each division bears."
The guild housing district unfolded in orderly rows. Identical oak and stone cottages with slate roofs, their symmetry broken only by potted herbs on windowsills or cloaks hung to dry. Guild members in black tunics moved with purposeful ease, their Affinity Stones glinting like subdued stars against leather chest plates.
Matthew halted before a two-story house where late sunlight gilded its timber frame. Four windows watched like quiet eyes, two gazing from the lower floor, two from above, anchored by a cobblestone foundation and a sturdy wooden staircase.
On the bottom step sat a stranger.
He sprang up, dirt-blond hair catching the light like spun wheat, hazel eyes crinkling with unfiltered joy. Before Matthew could speak, the young man bounded forward, hand already outstretched.
"You're the one!" His voice rang out, clear and bright as a bell struck true at the forge. "My new housemate, right? Stars above, took you long enough!"
Caspian froze. The boy's effortless ease the open palm, the loose shoulders, the smile untouched by shadow felt like a foreign dialect. Confidence radiated from him, warm and uncomplicated as heat from a sun-baked stone, a stark, almost blinding contrast to the chill uncertainty coiled within Caspian's own chest.
This ease… it was everything Caspian could never grasp, a language spoken fluently by a world that had always locked him out.
"You seem in remarkably bright spirits, Pitch..." Matthew chuckled, crimson eyes crinkling as he watched Caspian stiffen like a startled hare. Pitch had seized Caspian's hand between both of his own, pumping it with unrestrained enthusiasm. "Rein in the tempest, brother. Give the poor boy room to breathe. He looks moments from dissolving into pure panic."
"Oh! Stars, I apologize!" Pitch instantly released Caspian's hand as if it had burned him, his bright expression clouding with genuine concern and guilt. The sudden shift was jarring, like sunlight vanishing behind a swift cloud. "I truly didn't mean to overwhelm you! It's just... well, I've been rattling around this big house alone, and the thought of finally sharing it? Properly living with someone? It makes my heart feel like it might burst!" His hands fluttered expressively near his chest.
"It's... it's al-alright..." Caspian managed, the words scraping his throat raw. He drew a shuddering breath, deep and deliberate, pressing a trembling hand flat against his ribcage where his heart hammered like a frantic bird against its cage. "Merely startled... I confess, such... vigorous greetings are... unfamiliar territory."
His attempt at composure faltered as Pitch's hazel gaze fixed on him again. Not dismissively, but with an unnerving intensity, as if the cheerful young man could peel back layers of skin and bone to peer directly at the knot of secrets and fears Caspian kept buried deep. The scrutiny felt like ice water trickling down his spine. "Um...Can I...h-help you?" Caspian stammered, taking an involuntary half-step back towards Matthew's solid presence.
The tense, searching aura vanished as swiftly as it came. Pitch's smile bloomed anew, wider than before, carving deep crinkles beside his eyes that spoke of a lifetime spent laughing freely under open skies. "...You!" he declared, the single word ringing with sudden, startling conviction. "You're... good. Deep down. I can feel it! Like... like clean water after a long trek." He rubbed the back of his neck, a touch sheepish now. "My apologies, that sounded odd, didn't it? Late introductions, I'm Pitch!"
"Caspian..." The name felt fragile on his lips. He offered a small, faltering curtsy, an ingrained habit from a life spent minimizing his presence, still struggling to anchor himself in the wake of Pitch's sudden, radiant energy. If Pitch spoke true, this vibrant force of nature was to be his constant shadow within these walls. "I... I hope you'll find patience for my... shortcomings..." he murmured, the plea barely audible above the distant hum of the settlement. Adapting to such unbridled light felt like learning to walk on shattered glass.
Pitch nodded, the motion eager enough to stir the air. His friendliness radiated like a forge's open door, an overwhelming blast of heat that left Caspian feeling faintly dizzy, adrift. It was too much, too bright, a stark contrast to Matthew's steady, grounding brotherly warmth like comparing the blinding noon sun to the deep, comforting embers of dusk.
Eventually, Matthew spoke, grounding the moment. His task complete, Caspian delivered to this threshold of potential belonging. "My duty calls elsewhere..." He announced, a shadow of weariness crossing his features.
"Reports penned in ink await, a mountain grown taller during my... convalescence." He cringed, a subtle tightening around his eyes. The Master's benevolence was vast, but certain debts like vanished time and unfinished tasks couldn't simply vanish with the mist.
"Safe paths, Captain!" Pitch called out, his hand raised in a vigorous wave as the muscled figure retreated, broad shoulders soon swallowed by the gathering twilight. The moment Matthew vanished, Pitch pivoted, his sunbeam smile undimmed. Before Caspian could muster a protest, warm, calloused fingers closed around his wrist with surprising strength.
"Come on, Caspian!" Pitch urged, already tugging him towards the sturdy oak door. "The grand tour awaits! You absolutely must see your new nest!"
"Ah, y-yes...!" Caspian stammered, stumbling slightly as Pitch's enthusiasm propelled him forward. His free hand clawing desperately at the worn strap of his travel bag, his anchor, his meager shield against this whirlwind. The trunk containing his threadbare life seemed suddenly vulnerable outside. "W-wait! The footing... I might-!"
But Pitch was already hauling him across the threshold. Inside, the space unfolded. Compact, intimate, built for two souls. A stone hearth dominated the central wall, flames crackling with a low, rhythmic murmur, casting dancing amber light over worn but clean floorboards. Its warmth washed over Caspian instantly, a physical embrace after the crisp evening air. Directly to the right, a sturdy wooden staircase ascended into shadow. Opposite the hearth, a simple door hinted at further rooms. And there, squarely in the center of the main room, stood a small, sturdy table.
Caspian froze. His breath hitched.
Upon the table sat an array of pastries. Not just a few, but a cornucopia. Golden-brown rolls dusted with sugar like captured starlight. Flaky twists glistening with amber glaze. Plump buns studded with jewel-like dried fruits. They were arranged with earnest care, flanked by two waiting chairs. It was a tableau of impossible, bewildering welcome.
He stood rooted, stunned into silence. Seeing his expression, the wide, serpentine pupils, the parted lips, the stunned stillness etched on Caspian's pale features, Pitch's usual exuberance softened into something warmer, quieter. A gentle smile touched his lips.
"Well..." He began, his voice hushed now, mirroring the sudden reverence of the moment. "When the Master told that I'd finally have a housemate… I might have baked the kitchen into submission."
He gestured towards the pastry-laden table, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. "Did not know your tastes, so… I made a bit of everything. I do hope sweet pastries find favor? They're like little bites of sunlight, I always think." A gentle smile touched his lips, genuine and unassuming.
Caspian's fingers hovered for a heartbeat before selecting a small, golden-brown cookie, its center glistening with jewel-like fruit jam. He took a tentative bite under the weight of Pitch's eager, unwavering stare. The crisp shell yielded, then dissolved into buttery warmth on his tongue, followed by the vibrant, sun-sweet burst of berries. His golden eyes widened, pupils dilating slightly in genuine astonishment. "It's... exquisite..." He breathed, the words escaping on a soft exhale.
'The finest thing my lips have ever touched...'
Truth resonated in the silent thought. Caspian possessed competence in the kitchen, a necessity carved from solitude. His cottage days were marked by functional soups thick with nourishing, bitter herbs. Sustenance, not celebration. Food was fuel, a means to quiet the belly's demands while his mind charted the forest's secrets.
However, This simple pastry was an alchemy of warmth. It tasted like the fire crackling in the hearth. Like the deliberate welcome radiating from the table, the chairs, the very air. For the first flickering moment, the icy mantle of outsider slipped from his shoulders. He wasn't merely tolerated, he was anticipated.
A sanctuary. A true home...
His fragile reverie shattered at the sound of Pitch's voice, laced now with palpable anxiety. "Oh... Does it... not suit your taste?" The cheerful energy had vanished, replaced by crestfallen worry, as if he feared his offering had somehow wounded his new housemate.
It was only then Caspian registered the damp heat. Liquid warmth tracing paths down his cheeks, gathering at his chin like a sudden summer downburst. He lifted a trembling hand, fingertips brushing the unexpected wetness. He hadn't felt the tears begin, hadn't heard the choked sob building in his chest until it was too late. The dam had broken silently.
"Ahhhhh....! Water...!" Pitch's panicked cry ripped through the cozy first floor. He became a whirlwind of frantic motion, scrambling past the table, yanking open a trunk to seize a smooth wooden cup, then bursting through the interior door that led deeper into the cottage. The sounds of frantic splashing echoed, the clatter of a bamboo ladle against the cool clay sides of the water storage pot. He reappeared moments later, thrusting the brimming cup towards Caspian, his hazel eyes wide with distress. "Here... Drink, please! Before you... before you parch away!"
"Ah... thank you..." Caspian managed, his voice thick. He accepted the cup, his fingers brushing Pitch's in the exchange. He drank deeply, the cool water a counterpoint to the salt on his lips, washing down the lingering sweetness and the tightness in his throat. Gulp by steadying gulp, the hiccups subsided, leaving only a fragile calm. He lowered the empty cup, avoiding Pitch's concerned gaze.
"Forgive me... such... such emotional display is... unbecoming." The apology felt like ashes, a reflex from a life where vulnerability was a dangerous currency.
"I think it's the most natural thing in the world..." Pitch countered softly, shaking his head with a certainty that felt like balm on raw nerves. His hands settled gently on Caspian's shoulders, a grounding weight, warm and steady through the thin fabric of the white-haired youth's tunic. "You haven't had kindness cradle you in a long, long while, have you?" His voice held no pity, only a quiet, piercing observation.
Then, the sunbeam smile returned, chasing the shadows his words had briefly conjured. "Well, fret no longer! This place... it gets under your skin, in the best way. You'll bloom here, Caspian. I just know it!"
Caspian found no words to refute him. Denial felt like sacrilege against such earnest warmth. Against his will, a fragile tendril of hope unfurled within his chest, coaxed by Pitch's undeniable, infectious light. Could it be true? Could this sanctuary hold?
Pitch watched him, the cheerful lines of his face now etched with a deeper, more thoughtful concern. The Master had offered vague warnings about his new housemate.
Fragile, skittish, carries shadows...
But the reality was a quiet tempest he hadn't anticipated. This slight figure, trembling like a frost-touched leaf, radiated a silent aura of sorrow so palpable it seemed to cling to the air around him, thick as woodsmoke and just as acrid.
His gaze drifted down, drawn to Caspian's hands where they clenched the empty wooden cup. They weren't just pale, they were a landscape of survival. Fine, silvery lines traced paths across knuckles and the backs of his fingers like faded rivers on a map. Rougher patches of thickened skin, worn smooth in places, told tales of labor, cold, and perhaps... escape.
Each mark felt like a word in a language Pitch couldn't yet read, but whose weight he felt in his bones. "Your hands..." The words escaped him, soft as a sigh.
Caspian flinched as if struck. His golden eyes darted away, a raw insecurity flooding his features. He yanked his sleeves down with a sharp, practiced motion, the rough fabric swallowing the scarred evidence of his past like a shroud. "Do they... repulse you?" His voice was barely a whisper, frayed at the edges. "I... I've always wished to hide them. But solitude offers little cover..."
The air thickened. Pitch didn't need the flicker of anguish in those serpentine eyes or the way Caspian seemed to shrink into himself. The desire to vanish, to retreat from this sudden scrutiny, radiated from him like cold mist. He swallowed, the cheerful reassurances dying on his tongue. Some stories weren't his to pry open. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
"Alright..." Pitch pushed himself up with a burst of energetic resolve. He darted towards a worn rucksack slumped carelessly in the corner, its canvas frayed at the seams. Rummaging inside with focused haste, he gave a soft "Aha!" before spinning back towards Caspian. He slid something across the smooth tabletop towards the white-haired youth, the gesture imbued with sudden, earnest gravity. "Here... Snagged this fresh from the forge yesterday. Felt... well, felt like it belonged with you."
Caspian's breath caught. Nestled on the wood were gloves of a deep, shifting twilight purple. They seemed spun from captured dusk itself, woven from the impossibly soft, luminous silk threads harvested from the wings of the Duskmire Moth. Those giant, nocturnal insects whose velvety wings shimmered with patterns eerily reminiscent of watchful, closed eyes.
His gaze, usually sharp with wariness, softened as he carefully pulled on the twilight gloves. They fit perfectly, encasing his hands in a protective, velvety dusk, hiding the past while embracing the present. "Thank you..." The gratitude was thick in his throat, warming him more than the hearth.
"No trouble at all!" Pitch beamed, the grin transforming his face into pure, sunlit joy, reminiscent of a hound pup basking in its master's affection. "We're sharing this roof, sharing bread... Least I could do is make sure you feel... anchored."
He gestured towards the sturdy staircase hugging the wall. "Speaking of which... Fancy on seeing your quarters? Second floor, right next door to mine. Swept out the cobwebs, aired the linens... Tried to make it feel like it was waiting for you."
A sound escaped Caspian then, soft, melodic, utterly unexpected. A gentle laugh, clear as a wind chime stirred by a summer breeze. It transformed his face, the habitual tension melting away, revealing a fleeting, ethereal beauty, like a prince from an ancient fae ballad stepping into the firelight. His gaze softened as he flexed his fingers within the twilight silk, the fit uncanny, as if woven specifically for the map of scars beneath. "Yes," he murmured, the warmth lingering in his voice.
"I would be... deeply glad to." He met Pitch's eager eyes.
"Lead the way."