Lord Arven's son arrived quickly,far quicker than etiquette would normally allow. That alone was an answer. In House Halven, children were taught early that if the head of the family summoned you without warning, it wasn't about ceremony or conversation for conversation's sake.
The door opened and a young man stepped into the study with precise, controlled movements. He wore everyday house robes,plain, but impeccably cut,with no jewelry and no needless ornamentation. You didn't wear anything flashy to training or duties, not if it could get in the way or look like vanity.
He stopped a few steps from the desk and dipped his head.
"Father," he said evenly. "You called for me?"
Lord Arven looked up from the reports, nodded, and gestured toward the chair opposite him. His voice and posture made it clear this wouldn't be a long talk,or a gentle one.
"Yes, Caelan," Arven said, using his name in a way that gave the matter weight. "Sit. It's about the dungeon."
Caelan sat without a word, straightening instinctively. The whole city was already talking about the dungeon.
"The first signs were visible before the scouts ever went underground," Arven began, sliding a hand across the desk as if arranging his thoughts. "The temperature in the nearby valleys rose a few degrees. At night it stopped dropping as fast as before. And the morning fog has nearly vanished."
Caelan listened closely.
"Vegetation began yellowing earlier than it should," his father continued. "Not suddenly,not like a catastrophe,but enough that field workers noticed. The soil is drier. Animals avoid the area closer to the road. And the wells nearest the manifestation site draw water warmer than usual."
He paused.
"Small things," he added. "Early things. But exactly the kind that point to a fire-type dungeon before it fully opens."
Caelan nodded. He knew the symptoms from theory and older mages' stories, though he'd never seen them with his own eyes.
"Beast-rank," Arven said calmly, glancing at the report. "Mindless monsters. Harsh conditions. Limited safe time inside. It's not a dungeon we ignore, but it's not something that requires intervention from above."
He lifted his eyes and met his son's gaze directly.
"That's why it's perfect for you."
Caelan didn't answer at once, though his heartbeat quickened.
"You have talent with fire magic," Arven went on, leaving no room for false modesty. "Among the younger mages of the house, you handle high heat, flame control, and spell stabilization in that environment better than anyone."
He leaned back in his chair.
"A Beast-rank dungeon is a good proving ground," he said. "Dangerous enough to teach humility. Not yet so dangerous that one mistake ends the entire expedition."
Caelan felt pride and tension twist together. Praise from his father wasn't praise,it was a statement of fact that came with expectations.
"You won't go alone," Arven added after a moment. "Three more mages from the house will accompany you."
He reached for a note and read the names without hesitation.
"Dorian of the southern line,barriers and terrain stabilization and Lysand of the western faction,utility fire and support. "
Caelan knew those names.
All Halvens,but from different segments of the family, different influence blocs, different political backing. Which meant the expedition wouldn't just test skill. It would test cooperation between people who, day to day, competed more often than they worked together.
"The guild will provide manpower and logistics," Arven finished. "You will focus on the dungeon. On learning. On coming back alive,with experience you can't get in a training hall."
A brief silence settled.
"Do you understand?" Arven asked at last.
Caelan stood and bowed deeper than before.
"Yes, Father," he answered steadily. "I understand."
And though he didn't say it aloud, they both knew this wouldn't be just another house assignment. It was his first real step,one after which he couldn't pretend he was merely a student anymore.
***
Caelan left his father's study with the same measured pace, but his thoughts were already rearranging themselves around what he'd heard. The decision had been made without drama, without raised voices,yet its weight was unmistakable. And the knowledge that he would enter a dungeon for the first time not as an observer or trainee, but as a full-fledged mage of the house, refused to be ignored.
The estate corridors were quiet as always,wide and bright, designed so no one ever had to hurry when passing servants or other family members. And at one of the bends, he saw Corvin.
Corvin walked with easy confidence,slightly too fast for etiquette, but not running. A short distance behind him followed a young maid, about their age, gaze lowered, hands clasped before her. She kept herself in that exact shadow-zone where servants were present but never intrusive.
"Caelan!" Corvin called, brightening the instant he spotted him, grinning in a way that wasn't yet poisoned by house caution or politics. "You're back already?"
"I'm back," Caelan replied, stopping and returning the smile. The age gap wasn't large, but they'd been trained for years to accept that one of them moved sooner into duty, while the other remained in study.
They were brothers,and here, away from council chambers and private offices, it showed more clearly than anywhere else. Corvin spoke without distance. Caelan listened without needing to prove anything.
"How's practice going?" Caelan asked, leaning lightly against the railing as if they had more time than they really did.
"Good," Corvin said immediately, pleased by the question. "We've been doing controlled duels. I beat Lysel three out of five."
There was pride in it, but not empty bragging. Lysel was their age, and everyone knew she was good,especially at energy control.
"Three out of five is solid," Caelan said with a nod. "Especially if you didn't lose control of your spell."
"I didn't," Corvin promised quickly. "Instructor said my stabilization improved."
Caelan's smile widened. That was the kind of answer he wanted,not swagger, but discipline.
The maid stood a few steps behind them, motionless, like part of the architecture. She didn't enter their exchange, didn't change expression. Servants were trained to understand when the best thing they could be was background.
"I'd talk longer," Caelan said at last, straightening, "but Father gave me an assignment."
"What kind?" Corvin asked instantly, curiosity too honest to hide.
"I'm going to the dungeon," Caelan said, without tension or theatrics.
Corvin's reaction hit like lightning.
"Seriously?!" He practically bounced in place. "A real dungeon? With an expedition?"
"Yes," Caelan confirmed. "A Beast-rank dungeon."
"Gods, I'm jealous," Corvin blurted before he could stop himself. "I want to go too, but Father keeps saying not yet."
Caelan let out a soft sigh. He knew it too well.
Noble houses invested too much in their children to risk them early. Making a mage wasn't just talent,it was years of control, stabilization, training, protection. And dungeons, even "lower" ones, were places where a single mistake could erase everything.
No sensible family sent their children into dungeons before adulthood,often not even then. Caelan was twenty, and only now was he being allowed his first true expedition.
"You'll go someday," he said, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "And you'd better be truly ready by then."
Corvin nodded hard.
"I will," he vowed. "I'll train. And I'll listen."
"Good," Caelan added, a faint smile returning. "Because when you finally go in, I want someone I can rely on."
That made Corvin straighten as if he'd just received something far more important than praise.
"I promise," he said, suddenly serious.
Caelan withdrew his hand, nodded, and continued down the corridor. Corvin watched him for a few more seconds before the maid discreetly signaled that they should move on.
It had been a short conversation, but it left behind something rare in noble houses,something precious.
A brief moment of ordinary, familial normalcy, before duty split them back onto separate paths.
***
Evening at the shop brought no relief,only the kind of exhaustion that didn't settle in your legs, but in your skull. All day it had been the same questions, the same explanations: we don't have it, we won't have it tomorrow, we can't "arrange it." Then the complaints, as if the clerks themselves had cleared the shelves and hidden the goods for their own use.
The door opened again. The bell over the frame chimed once.
Edgar, before he even saw the man's face, spoke louder than he needed to. He was done.
"We don't have any fire cores," he snapped, not even lifting his eyes from the counter. "No, we can't get them fast, no, we don't have some 'in the back,' and no, I'm not interested in hearing that someone else supposedly does."
The man who'd stepped inside froze mid-step,like someone expecting a price negotiation and instead catching a full blast of someone else's frustration.
"I…" he began cautiously, then cleared his throat and looked at Edgar with mild surprise. "I'm not here for fire cores."
Only then did Edgar look up. His face went tight for a moment as it hit him: he'd just barked at a man who hadn't even opened his mouth.
"In that case, how can I help you," Edgar said, calmer now,though the shift from anger to professionalism was awkwardly obvious.
The man came closer and braced his hands on the counter. He spoke plainly, no blind haggling,like someone who knew exactly what he needed.
"I need a chest insert and gloves," he explained. "Not for fire,for acid. I've got work in the canals, old drains. It's not even monsters,it's what they leave behind. You lean on it once and you're peeling skin off your fingers."
Roland's eyes flicked to his notebook out of reflex. Requests like that weren't daily, but they were normal. That kind of work existed in cities no matter what people were panicking about.
Edgar rubbed a hand over his face,not because he was dirty, but like a man forcing himself back into shape.
"Acid," he repeated, fully focused now. "That's more about material than core. Do you want it light, or are you wearing it all day?"
"All day," the man said. "And preferably not one-use. I'm not planning to leave my pay here every week."
Edgar nodded and reached under the counter, pulling out two items Roland recognized. They'd described them to customers before,just not often. There was never the same demand as for fire gear or cold resistance.
"Insert made from bile-lizard scale," Edgar said, setting down a dark, flexible plate that looked like hardened leather but gave slightly under the fingers. "Not some great beast,more like wet-dungeon vermin. But it has one advantage: its plating doesn't let corrosives through. Otherwise it would've died in its own environment."
The man examined it carefully.
"And the gloves?"
Edgar produced a thick, rough pair with lining threaded through with fine strands,something that looked like sinew fiber.
"Gut-worm reinforcement," he explained. "Stinks during processing, but it works. Good for canals and acid,doesn't soak as easily, doesn't fail on first contact."
Roland wrote it all down immediately. Mr. Klein insisted that for items like this, it had to be clear what they were made from, what they were for, and who bought them,even if the goods weren't "noble" or prestigious.
The man glanced at the price Edgar named, frowned, but didn't argue. He just sighed.
"I'll take them," he said at last. "If I go home with burned hands, I lose more anyway."
Edgar nodded, visibly steadier now. Finally,something normal. A normal purchase. No panic. No shouting. No desperation.
As Roland recorded the sale, he shot Edgar a quick look and couldn't stop a short smile. The situation was too obvious not to notice.
Edgar caught it and made a face.
"Don't start," he muttered under his breath,more embarrassed than angry.
Roland shrugged.
"After a day like this, it's easy to get it wrong," he said quietly, returning to the ledger. He didn't have the energy to pretend everything was perfectly under control either.
When the man pocketed the goods, paid, and left, the bell rang once more. Edgar stared at the doorframe for a moment, as if checking whether the next person would burst in asking about fire again.
"A little longer and I'll start yelling at people before they even walk in," he said eventually, more to himself than anyone.
Roland closed his notebook.
"You already did," he replied calmly, his voice caught somewhere between amusement and the fatigue he knew too well.
And it was a small thing,a simple transaction at the end of a brutal day,but moments like that were reminders.
The world wasn't made only of dungeons and panic.
It was made of people who still had to live, work, and buy canal gloves,even while everyone around them talked about Beasts and fire.