The bells tolled the seventh hour, low and heavy, rattling through the cracked beams of the tanner's shop.
But Kairon had been awake long before they rang.
The night had been endless—each hour stretching longer than the one before. He lay on the cot, staring at the rotting ceiling, watching mold trace green-black veins across the wood like it was alive. The smell of damp leather clung to his skin, sour and sharp. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Mira's face in that window again—too pale, too tired, watching him leave.
He tried to sleep. He really did. But his body wouldn't let him. His mind gnawed on itself, chewing through doubts and what-ifs until he was sick of turning over the same questions: What if he never came back? What if Mira died waiting? What if Orario wasn't the answer?
At some point he sat up and laid out his belongings again, arranging them carefully on the floorboards like a ritual. Rope. Bread. Waterskin. Candle stub. The chipped dagger. As if order alone could protect him. As if neat rows could keep fear at bay.
He whispered to himself in the dark, the same words over and over. A promise. A curse.
"Just survive."
The rats in the walls didn't argue.
By dawn, his nerves had frayed raw. He forced down a crust of bread, washed it with a swallow of stale water, and dressed. His legs felt hollow as he stepped into the morning air, but his heart beat fast, like it already knew the Dungeon was waiting.
The Guild's marble facade looked less grand in the light of morning. Still too clean, too polished, dropped into this part of the city like it didn't belong. Adventurers crowded its steps—fresh recruits laughing too loud, veterans limping with their armor dented and eyes gone distant.
Inside, the storm of sound was just as bad as yesterday: shouting, arguments, clerks raising their voices over the din. The smell of sweat and blood clung to the air.
But Kairon wasn't here to get lost in the chaos.
Eina had told him where to go. Far side of the hall, near the quest boards, a party was waiting. His party.
He found them easily. Four of them, gathered in a loose circle, checking their gear.
The captain was impossible to miss—Lars, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, with a scar running from cheek to jawline like someone had tried to split him open and almost succeeded. His armor was plain but solid, dented from use, his greatsword resting against the wall beside him. Kairon felt the weight of that stare before Lars even spoke: a man who measured people in usefulness, nothing more.
Beside him stood a woman tightening the straps on her breastplate, muttering under her breath. Her hair was cropped short, her arms corded with muscle. She looked practical, efficient, like she'd rather be fighting than waiting. Kairon thought she carried herself like someone who knew she'd survived fights others hadn't.
A wiry man leaned against the wall, flipping a dagger over his knuckles. He had a sharp grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, and the way he watched the room felt like a wolf sniffing for weakness. Kairon's stomach tightened. He'd seen that kind of smile before—back home, on the faces of boys who stole what little food remained because they could.
The last was a tall, lanky man with a bow slung across his back. He looked half-asleep, yawning as he checked his quiver, but his hands moved with lazy precision, like this was routine. Something about him unsettled Kairon more than the wolfish grin—his casual calm, as if death itself was boring to him.
Kairon froze a few paces away, clutching the parchment Eina had given him. He must have stood there too long, because Lars finally looked up.
"You the porter?" His voice was gravel dragged across wood.
Kairon nodded quickly. "Yes. Kairon."
Lars gave him one slow glance—thin frame, no armor, only a satchel and a chipped dagger—and grunted. "You'll do. Don't fall behind. Don't touch what isn't yours. Don't speak unless spoken to. You run if I say run. You stay if I say stay. You keep up, or you die. Understood?"
Kairon swallowed hard and nodded.
The wiry man laughed, low and sharp. "Gods above, he looks like he'll piss himself before we even reach the stairs. Sure he won't bolt, Lars?"
The woman rolled her eyes. "Shut it, Bren. We need someone to carry drops unless you want to haul double again."
"Fair," Bren said with a smirk, twirling his dagger before sliding it back into its sheath. Kairon tried not to shiver.
The lanky one yawned again. "As long as he doesn't slow us down. Name's Corin." He nodded lazily at Kairon, who nodded back, unsure if that counted as acceptance.
The woman straightened her straps and offered a hand, firm and calloused. "Sera. Don't get yourself killed and we won't have a problem."
Kairon shook it quickly, feeling the strength in her grip. At least one of them felt solid. Dependable.
"And you've met Bren," she added dryly.
Bren gave a mocking half-bow. "Pleasure."
Finally, Lars hefted his pack and strapped his greatsword across his back. "Introductions are done. We move. Floor Five."
Just like that, they turned and walked out.
Kairon followed, clutching his satchel tight, his knuckles white. His legs felt heavy, but his chest—lighter. Terrified, yes. But moving. Finally moving.
The Dungeon was waiting.