The city of Kaelthorn rose on the cliffs like a fortress carved into the bones of the world. Arlen had never seen anything so vast—towers bristling with banners, the crash of waves below, and the clang of forges echoing through the streets. This was Drakovia's heart, and for the first time in days, the sight made him feel small.
The Hunters' Guild was even louder.
Shouts rang from the great hall as men and women argued over contracts, compared scars, and boasted of their kills. Heads of monsters—scaled, fanged, horned—were mounted on the walls as trophies.
Arlen pushed through the crowd, the dagger hidden under his cloak. Every glance felt heavy. He wasn't a hunter, not yet. Just a boy with ashes in his memory and a weapon that whispered in his sleep.
Behind the counter sat a woman with sharp eyes and sharper tone. Her hair was bound in a braid that gleamed like bronze.
"Name?" she demanded, quill poised.
"Arlen," he managed.
"Family name?"
He hesitated. "…Gone."
Something in her gaze softened, only for a moment. "New blood, then. You want to join?"
Arlen nodded.
The woman's smirk was tired but not unkind. "Then you'll need to bleed first. The Guild doesn't take cowards." She flicked her eyes toward the training yard. "Report there at dawn. Survive, and you'll have a place. Fail…"
Her smirk widened faintly. "…And you'll save us the trouble of burying you later."
Before Arlen could answer, the crowd parted as another figure entered.
A tall man in a long dark coat, carrying a case strapped with bronze clasps. His smile was disarming, his stride unhurried, yet every hunter in the hall made space for him.
The man tipped his hat to the woman at the counter. "Lysander Veyne, passing merchant. Thought I'd test your market. Hunters always need tools, don't they?"
His eyes swept the room, and for the briefest instant, they lingered on Arlen. Something curious sparked there, something Arlen couldn't name.
The merchant's smile sharpened.
And the dagger at Arlen's side pulsed once, faint and cold.