Kaelthorn loomed on the horizon, its walls high and soot-black, banners snapping in the wind. Smoke rose from a dozen forges, filling the air with the scent of hot iron. Caravans lined the gates, traders haggling, guards inspecting every wagon. The city pulsed with restless energy—too many strangers, too many whispers of rifts.
Inside, chaos reigned. Streets clogged with refugees. Beggars with hollow cheeks pulled at sleeves. Posters fluttered on walls—sketches of missing kin, edicts from the crown, a new decree warning of Hollow cults spreading in the south. The Hunter's Guild crest—a silver wolf over crossed blades—hung over the largest hall near the square.
"This is it," Ryn muttered, green eyes wide as they took in the noise and stench. "The Guild."
Arlen's hand drifted to Ignis. The dagger pulsed faintly, feeding on his unease.
Lysander trailed behind, whistling, coat swaying like he owned the street. "Careful, boys. The Guild's not a charity. They'll test you. Break you, if you're weak. But…" He grinned, eyes sharp. "If you pass, you'll have allies. Power. And perhaps even answers about that little toy of yours."
They stepped through the Guild's great doors. The hall inside was vast, stone pillars etched with old hunts—griffins, wyverns, hydras. Dozens of hunters lounged at tables, sharpening blades, drinking, laughing with voices too loud, too bitter. The air stank of sweat, ale, and steel.
A clerk in black leather glanced up from his desk, eyes narrowing on Arlen and Ryn. "Refugees?"
Arlen shook his head. "No. Recruits."
The hall grew quiet. Hunters turned, eyes lingering on Arlen's scar-knuckled fists, Ryn's raw youth, and the dagger hidden beneath Arlen's cloak. The silence felt heavy, oppressive, until a laugh broke it—a tall woman with braided silver hair, armor dented from countless hunts.
"Well then," she said, standing, her grin wolfish. "Let's see if the boys can bleed."
The trial had begun.