Razan and the dwarves joined the long line snaking toward the castle gates, their presence instantly drawing attention from every direction.
It was impossible not to notice them — a cluster of stout, broad-shouldered figures in rough, soot-stained clothing, weapons strapped to their backs, and beards that seemed to have their own personalities.
Compared to the polished armor and elegant robes of those around them, they looked more like miners who had stumbled into a royal parade.
Whispers rippled through the crowd almost immediately.
"So those are dwarves…" a human muttered, his tone a mix of awe and disbelief as he leaned closer to his friend.
"I've read about them in a ton of fantasy books, but seeing them up close—it's unreal!"
"Small statures like that?" another man commented, squinting at Dragkon and his companions.
"How could they even fight? Their weapons look bigger than they are."
A horned being with crimson skin and faint glowing veins—clearly not human—crossed his arms and scoffed.
"Efficient in battle? Please. One swing from my blade and they'd be flattened before they could even blink."
The dwarves ignored the comments completely, too busy arguing among themselves about who would pay for the next round of ale once they got their first contract.
"Bah, I'm tellin' ye, the first coin we earn's goin' to a forge, not to yer belly!" one dwarf grumbled.
"Aye, and what good's a forge on an empty stomach, ya rock-headed fool?" another shot back, making the group erupt into laughter.
Razan, standing among them, didn't say a word.
He kept his gaze fixed forward, his expression calm but unreadable.
Around him, the elves whispered quietly among themselves—some sneering, others watching in silence, their sharp eyes studying the strange group with judgment or curiosity.
One elf woman, her silver hair flowing like silk, muttered softly to the man beside her,
"They reek of smoke and ale… how barbaric."
"Barbaric, maybe," her companion replied in a hushed voice,
"but look at their weapons. Even from here, you can tell those hammers aren't just for show."
The dwarves, of course, paid no mind.
They walked with pride, their boots thudding heavily against the cobblestones, their laughter echoing louder than any insult that came their way.
Razan smirked faintly as he glanced at them.
"Guess it doesn't matter what world we end up in," he muttered to himself.
"People will always find something to stare at."
"Oi, what was that, lad?" Dragkon called out from ahead, half-hearing him.
"Nothing," Razan replied quickly, his tone flat.
"Just thinking how hard it'll be to keep a low profile with you guys around."
"Hah! Low profile?" Dragkon barked out a laugh, slapping his chest proudly.
"The day a dwarf walks quietly is the day this world freezes over!"
Razan sighed quietly but couldn't help the small grin tugging at the corner of his lips as the line continued to move forward.
Moments passed into minutes,
and those minutes slowly bled into a full hour before Razan and the dwarves finally managed to step past the gates and enter the famed Adventurer's Hall.
By then, most of the group had grown impatient—several dwarves grumbling about their aching feet, one even swearing that the line was longer than the mines of Galindor—but all of that irritation vanished the instant they stepped inside.
The interior wasn't the kind of grand or glittering spectacle one might expect from a building of such renown.
There were no gold pillars or jewel-covered chandeliers.
Instead, what greeted them was something deeper,
something that carried weight—
history.
The air was thick with the scent of aged wood, oil, and faint steel polish.
Dim but warm light glowed from lamps along the walls, illuminating a long hallway that stretched far ahead.
The stone beneath their boots felt worn and uneven, like it had carried countless generations of adventurers before them.
Lining both sides of the hall were rows upon rows of portraits—framed paintings and sketches of warriors, mages, and heroes from all races and eras.
Some looked noble and proud, others grim and battle-worn, their eyes painted with stories that only they could tell.
"By the forge…" one of the dwarves whispered under his breath, his tone unusually quiet.
"This place… it feels alive."
Razan's eyes followed the line of portraits as they walked deeper.
Beneath each one was a brass plate etched with names—some human, some not—and short inscriptions that told of their deeds.
Between the frames hung weapons:
swords dulled by time, shields scarred with deep gashes, bows whose strings were long gone but whose presence still carried the weight of legend.
"These people…" Razan muttered quietly,
"Are they perhaps famed adventurers of this world?"
"Most likely," Dragkon replied, his usual booming voice soft for once.
"Each name here's a story… a mark that says,
'I lived, I bled, and I didn't fall in vain.'"
He stroked his beard, gazing at one of the weapons with something like reverence.
"Every dwarf worth his hammer dreams of leavin' a mark like this someday."
As they continued, the noise from outside—the bustling city, the chatter, the chaos—seemed to fade away completely.
The hall itself demanded silence, demanded respect.
Even the loudest dwarf among them walked quietly, their boots echoing faintly across the ancient floor.
Finally,
after what felt like ages of walking,
they arrived at the end of the long hallway—where the narrow stone path suddenly expanded into a vast chamber that was bursting with life and noise.
The sound hit them immediately:
the chatter of hundreds of voices, the clinking of armor, the scratching of quills, and the rhythmic stamping of papers being processed.
It was an organized chaos that somehow worked in perfect rhythm, the kind of scene only a place like the Adventurer's Hall could produce.
The wide hall was filled with people from all walks of life—newly arrived Eshari standing uncertainly with wide eyes, and old veteran adventurers who moved with ease, clearly used to this kind of commotion.
They traded stories, exchanged jokes, and haggled over the value of contracts.
Some were boasting about their last hunt, while others quietly studied the board as if their next job meant survival itself.
Around the chamber were several long wooden desks staffed by clerks wearing uniform coats, each desk crowded by adventurers holding worn parchments.
The clerks moved quickly, stamping seals and signing off papers with precision.
Ink pots were scattered everywhere, and the faint smell of parchment and wax filled the air.
The flow of adventurers was constant—some entering with eager faces, others leaving with tired eyes and heavier purses.
But the most dominant sight in the entire room was the enormous board standing in the very center of the chamber.
It towered over everyone, built from thick planks of reinforced oak and covered from top to bottom with hundreds of sheets of parchment—contracts of every type imaginable.
There were small, thin ones pinned near the bottom, probably low-ranked tasks, and thicker, more decorated scrolls pinned higher up, where only a few could reach.
Crowds pressed against it—Eshari mixed with veteran adventurers—all trying to snatch the best ones.
Some shouted and argued, others leapt or used sticks and poles to grab papers hanging too high.
A few clerks stationed near the board even used specially-made hooked rods to pull down contracts for those who couldn't reach.
The whole thing felt like a market—one where the currency wasn't gold, but courage and risk.
"So that must be where we get contracts," Razan said as he looked around, his eyes scanning the scale of the board.
The sight was almost overwhelming—the energy, the movement, the shouting—it was like watching a city within a city.
His gaze followed one of the clerks pulling a sheet from the very top of the board with a hooked stick before handing it to a man wearing a long crimson cloak.
"They're even using tools just to reach the high ones," Razan added.
"What are we waitin' for then!?" one of the dwarves suddenly bellowed, his deep voice cutting through the noise as he slammed his fist into his palm.
"Let's grab ourselves a good contract while they're still there! Sit too long and we'll be left with huntin' rats or cleanin' latrines!"
"Well, he's got a point!" Dragkon burst out laughing, the sound booming like thunder through the hall.
He waved his arm, his gold rings glinting under the dim light as he rallied the others.
"Come on, lads! Let's not stand here like fools starin' at the board! The best work goes to the boldest ones!"
"Hear, hear!" one dwarf shouted, raising his hammer in excitement.
"Aye! Let's move before those long-eared knife-eaters steal all the good ones!" another added, earning laughter from the rest.
Dragkon grinned wide, his thick beard shaking as he laughed along.
"Now that's the spirit! Come on then, lads! To the board!"
And with that, the group of dwarves charged ahead, their short legs moving fast as they pushed through the crowd, their loud voices echoing through the grand hall.
Razan followed right behind them, his lips curling into a faint smirk.
The atmosphere was alive, full of competition, ambition, and energy—
and somehow, he could feel his own heart racing to match its beat.