Silverford smelled of iron, sweat, and mana. To Arin, it felt alive. The Adventurer's Guild rose at the center of the city like a fortress of stone and banners, its walls scarred by age and countless stories. Warriors came and went through its wide doors—some laughing loudly, others limping, bloodied, or silent. Every face carried either anticipation or exhaustion. Sometimes both.
Arin stood just outside the entrance, looking up.
"So this is where adventurers are made," he murmured.
Lia crossed her arms, watching him with a mixture of amusement and concern.
"This is where adventurers are broken too. Don't romanticize it."
Arin turned to her and smiled—soft, bright, unguarded. "I want to become strong. I want to defeat monsters… and explore this world."
Lia froze for half a heartbeat. "That's exactly why you shouldn't," she said firmly. "Adventuring is dangerous. People die all the time. Especially those who aren't strong."
Arin tilted his head, then smirked—just a little. "If you're there," he said lightly, "then I don't fear any risk."
The words landed harder than he intended.
Lia's face heated instantly. Her mind went blank, then filled with impossible thoughts. Confidence. Trust. Dependence. All of it aimed at her.
"I—" She cleared her throat. "Don't say things like that so casually."
But she was smiling.
And her heart was already somewhere in the clouds.
Registration was… an experience.
Lia breezed through her paperwork, her identity already in the guild's system as a former royal guard, ranked A-class for her combat proficiency and proven record. The clerks treated her with brisk respect.
Arin was directed to a separate examination room for new registrants. A young clerk, a girl with twin braids and a friendly smile who couldn't be much older than he looked, guided him inside. The room was small and sterile, dominated by a pedestal holding a milky-white crystal orb—a mana core tester.
"Alright, Arin, right?" the girl said cheerfully.
"Just place your hand flat on the crystal and try to channel a bit of your mana into it. Don't force it, just let it flow."
Arin nodded, placing his small hand on the cool surface. He thought of the warm pool inside him, the golden light of healing. But for this, he consciously drew on the faintest, most superficial trickle he could manage, picturing it as a wisp of smoke, not a river of light. He was not here to impress. He was here to hide.
The crystal glowed. A dull, pale green light pulsed from its core, weak and unsteady.
The cheerful clerk's smile became fixed. She noted the reading on a slate.
"Okay… thank you." Her tone had lost some of its warmth.
She led him back to the main counter where a senior clerk, a woman with a pinched face and spectacles, took the slate.
The woman glanced at it, then at Arin, her expression one of profound boredom. She announced the result to the room in a flat, carrying voice.
"Applicant: Arin. Magical Core Evaluation: Grade D. Mana Output: Low. Latent, non-combative affinity. Minimal combat potential."
A few snickers rippled from a nearby group of seasoned adventurers lounging by a bulletin board.
"Grade D? Might as well register as a pack mule," one woman chuckled to her companion.
"Another kid dreaming of glory with a sparkler's worth of mana," another muttered, not bothering to lower her voice. "She'll be worm food before the first goblin shrieks."
"Probably here to find a rich patron, not monsters," a third added with a sneer.
The words were meant to be heard. They were a rite of passage, a brutal welcome to the bottom rung. Arin kept his face carefully neutral, a polite mask, but his hands clenched into small fists behind his back.
If only they knew he thought, a strange fire mixing with the shame. If this 'sparkler' is what a boy can show… what does that make your 'torches,' you loud-mouthed…
He bowed slightly to the pinched-face clerk. "Thank you."
---
Outside, Lia was waiting impatiently, her foot tapping.
She saw him emerge and hurried over. "Well? What did you get?"
Arin exhaled, the dejection in his posture not entirely feigned. "Grade D," he mumbled, looking at the cobblestones.
"Low output. Minimal combat potential." He repeated the clerk's cold verdict.
To his surprise, Lia's face lit up. Her eyes widened, and a brilliant, genuine smile broke across her features. "Grade D? Arin, that's… that's *wonderful*!"
He looked up, confused. "Wonderful? They were laughing."
"They're idiots," Lia said fiercely, then lowered her voice, leaning in.
"Don't you see? For a girl, a Grade D is weak. But you're not a girl. Arin, a Grade D rating for a boy is… it's like a Grade A for us. It's exceptional! Most boys have no measurable combat affinity at all. The fact that you registered any active mana output, enough to light the crystal to a stable color, is incredible!" Her excitement was palpable.
"It means your disguise is perfect. It explains any tiny bit of magic you might accidentally use. And it means… you really do have potential, even by their skewed standards."
The weight of the humiliation lifted, replaced by a dawning understanding. He was hiding in plain sight, and the very thing that marked him as weak in their eyes was, in truth, a testament to his strange power.
He looked at Lia's excited, proud face, her eyes shining as she celebrated his failure.
A soft, real smile touched his lips. "Thank you, Lia," he said quietly.
The smile, the eye contact, the gratitude—it was like a key turning in a lock deep inside her. The burning warmth she'd felt earlier flared anew, but purer now, mixed with a fierce, protective pride. He wasn't just a boy she needed to guard. He was a boy with a hidden glimmer of power, who trusted her with the truth, and who looked at her like she'd just given him the sun.
It was a dangerous, beautiful feeling, and it settled in her chest, bright and warm, as they turned together to face the guild hall and the dangerous path ahead. This was only the starting line.
The first day is nothing but tedium.
Arin and Lia gather moonbell herbs under the gray sky (Arin's hands seem to know the plants before his eyes do, a flicker of someone else's memory).
They clear a cellar of prismatic moths (Arin shrieks; Lia laughs and scoops them into jars with easy grace). It is safe, dull work.
On the second day, the restlessness bites Arin hard. "This isn't real adventuring," he mutters, kicking a pebble.
Lia looks at him, her sharp eyes assessing. "Then we find a real hunt. But we don't do it alone."
That afternoon, they sign on with a party. The leader is Branwen, a woman with a face like old leather and scars. Her team is Mara the archer, Thom the trap-specialist, and a burst of chaotic energy named Lysa Rowan—a girl not much older than Arin, with wild copper hair and a notched training sword, vibrating with the need to prove herself.
Branwen eyes Lia's A-rank badge and Arin's D-rank with open suspicion. "The A-rank stays. The D-rank goes."
"We're a pair," Lia says, her voice a blade of frost. "Both or neither."
A tense moment passes. Branwen shrugs, a gesture of pure practicality.
"Fine. But the D-rank stays at the back. Carries the packs. Makes no sound. You get in the way, you're left behind."
Their quest: clear a riverpath hunting ground of a **Darewolf** pack. Nasty creatures, all muscle, sharp teeth, and pack cunning. Dangerous, but manageable for a seasoned group.
The hunt begins. The party moves in formation: Branwen and Lia at the front, Mara and Thom flanking, Arin and Lysa placed squarely in the protected middle.
They find the first Darewolf by the river. It's over quickly—Branwen's axe and Lia's sword move in practiced sync, Mara's arrow finding its eye. It's clean. Efficient.
Arin watches, fascinated and utterly useless from the rear. Lysa bounces beside him, her grip tight on her sword. "See? We've got this! Next one, I'm going to help!"
But the "next ones" are the same. They encounter small packs—two or three at a time—and the veteran core dismantles them with grim professionalism. Arin is never in danger;
Lia is always a calculated step between him and any threat. He feels less like an adventurer and more like a piece of luggage.
It's Lysa who bridges the gap. During a lull, she falls back to walk with him.
"Boring, right? Just watching?" she says, not unkindly. "Don't worry. My first few hunts were the same. They think we're made of glass."
She puffs out her chest in her ill-fitting armor. "But we'll show them. You stick close to me, okay? I'll watch your back."
She appoints herself his guardian with a fierce, earnest pride. She points out how Branwen angles her shield, mimics Mara's drawing stance with comical seriousness, and tries to explain Thom's trap signs.
Arin just nods, but he finds himself watching her more than the monsters—her energy, her clumsy bravery, her desperate need to belong.
The main pack is in a rocky den by the river bend. The fight is the biggest yet—five Darewolves snarling and lunging. The air fills with the clash of steel, snapping jaws, and Mara's hissed curses as she lines up shots.
A young Darewolf breaks from the fray, circling wide. Its yellow eyes lock onto the easiest targets at the back: Arin and Lysa.
Lysa gasps but plants her feet, shoving Arin behind her.
"Stay back!" she yells, her voice high but firm.
Before it can charge, a throwing knife from Thom thuds into its shoulder. Lia breaks from her own opponent, a blur of motion, and finishes it with a swift, brutal stab.
She shoots a glare that encompasses both of them. "Stay. In. Formation."
The last of the pack falls. The clearing is quiet, save for heavy breathing.
Branwen nods, wiping gore from her axe. "Good. Pack's cleared. Let's gather trophies and—"
A new sound cuts her off.
Not a snarl. A **roar**. It comes from the deep shadows of the den they thought was empty. The earth seems to vibrate.
From the darkness, a creature unfolds itself. It is a Darewolf, but three times the size, its fur streaked with silver like scars, its eyes glowing with primal rage. The King Darewolf.
"OUT! NOW!" Branwen bellows, all protocol gone.
Pure instinct takes over. The party turns and runs, crashing back through the path they cleared. The King gives chase, a torrent of fur and fury, smashing through saplings and shaking the ground.
They are almost to the tree line, safety in sight, when Lysa stumbles on a root. She falls hard with a cry.
Arin skids to a stop beside her. Lia is there in an instant, hauling Lysa up. "Move!"
But the delay is fatal. The King is upon them. Instead of biting, it swings a massive, clawed paw in a sweeping blow meant to crush them all.
Lia does the only thing she can. She shoves Lysa—and Arin by proximity—out of the direct path, putting herself in the way of the force.
The blow doesn't hit Lia clean. It glances, but the impact sends Lysa flying like a ragdoll. She hits a tree trunk with a sickening
**CRACK** and crumples to the forest floor, motionless.
The King Darewolf, momentarily distracted by Thom's last smoke pellet, snarls and retreats back toward its territory, the message sent.
Silence crashes down, worse than the roar.
Then, Branwen's voice, stripped of all its gravelly command, thin with dread: "Lysa."
Mara was already kneeling, her fingers on Lysa's neck. "Pulse is there. Weak. Thready. Head wound's bleeding bad. Arm's bent wrong—broken for sure. Ribs might be cracked from the fall."
Thom was pulling bandages from his pack, his hands steady but his face pale. "We need to stop the bleeding. Now."
Branwen crouched, her battle-worn hands hovering over the young girl, suddenly looking helpless. "The wound's dirty. River mud. It'll fester. And that arm…" She looked up at the others, her eyes holding a bleak, veteran's certainty.
"Even if we stop the bleeding, she's done. A head wound like that… she might not wake up. Or she'll wake up simple. And the arm? Setting it here will leave it weak. She'll never swing a sword properly again."
Arin, who had stood frozen at the periphery, felt the world narrow to the sight of the vibrant, noisy girl now lying broken and silent in the mud.
The blood. The unnatural angle of her arm. The gray tinge to her skin.
She's just a kid like me