"As I'm sure you know, a few centuries ago, beings from the stars commonly known as azryx came to our beloved planet for whatever reason they had, they terraformed it and killed anyone in sight, this caused significant dropping of the human population and struck at civilization itself, causing a downward spiral back into the middle ages or so the story goes, basically at some point people needed a way to communicate and stuff since technology became a rarity of sorts at least depending on what you're looking for, so basically that's why the messenger's guild was founded," Jarek stopped in front of a stone building near the center of the walls. The sign above the door was crude, but the emblem—a quill crossing a dagger—was unmistakable.
"If you have any questions you can ask them inside," Jarek said, pushing open the door. Inside, the air was cool and dry, a welcome change from the sun-baked streets. A handful of people sat at tables covered in maps, parchments, and strange contraptions that whirred softly. Some were writing, others whispering into small devices that clicked and hummed.
"Meet the officials," Jarek said, nodding toward two figures. One was a tall woman with steel-grey hair tied back in a tight braid, her eyes sharp as a hawk. "That's Maris. She coordinates all messenger routes and keeps track of deliveries. Don't think about cutting corners—she'll know."
Beside her, a man with a calm demeanor and leather-bound satchel slung over his shoulder gave a small nod. "This is Lior," Jarek continued. "He's been running messenger work for longer than you've been alive, probably. He'll train you on the techniques, the routes, and—most importantly—how to stay alive when things go south."
Lior stepped forward, offering his hand. "Faelan, right? I've seen a few kids come through here thinking they're ready for this world. Don't worry—we'll get you started, but you have to keep your head, listen, and move fast."
Faelan shook it, feeling the firmness in the man's grip. "I'll… do my best," he said.
"You'll need more than that," Lior replied with a small smirk. "Come on, I'll show you how it's done."
Lior led Faelan to a small room at the back where a messenger was already preparing for a run. The messenger was lean, wiry, and moved with a fluid confidence that made Faelan feel every ounce of his inexperience. Niri twitched her ears at the newcomer, sensing the familiar sense of readiness.
"This is Kalen," Lior said. "He knows the terrain around here better than anyone, and he's one of the fastest messengers. Watch him, follow his lead, and don't get lost."
Kalen gave Faelan a nod, adjusting the satchel on his back. "Don't worry, kid," he said in a voice calm but edged with experience. "First runs are scary, but you pick it up fast if you pay attention. And trust me… the world out there doesn't care if you're scared."
Faelan swallowed, feeling the weight of what he had just agreed to. The savannah, the forests, the towns, and the whispers of far-off places—this was just the beginning. And now he had a guide in Kalen, officials to report to, and the town itself as his first stepping stone.
Lior handed Faelan a small satchel filled with parchments, each sealed with crude wax stamps. "Today's run is short," he said. "Just a test. Learn the streets, read the signs, don't get cocky. Kalen will show you the ropes."
Faelan adjusted Niri on his shoulder; she mewed softly, curling slightly against him as if sensing his nervous anticipation. Kalen led the way out of the building, moving through the alleys with fluid precision. Every step was calculated; every turn seemed preemptive, as if he already knew what lay ahead.
"Stay close," Kalen instructed. "The streets look calm, but people always notice outsiders. Keep your head down, don't draw attention, and remember the markers I'll point out."
Faelan followed, taking in the town from a perspective he hadn't had before. Small markings on walls, scratches in doors, and subtle symbols painted in corners—all guides for messengers like them. It was a secret language woven into the fabric of the town.
"Why do you need these?" Faelan asked quietly, adjusting his grip on the satchel.
"Trust me," Kalen replied without looking back. "You'll get used to reading the world in ways most people never do. One wrong move, one misread sign, and your message—or your life—goes missing."
The run itself was short but instructive. They wove through narrow alleys, darted past bustling market stalls, and even slipped past a group of guards making their rounds on the walls. Kalen showed Faelan how to use shadows, how to move with purpose but blend in.
By the time they returned to the messenger hub, Faelan was exhausted but exhilarated. His heart raced, sweat dripped down his face, and every muscle ached—but he felt alive in a way he hadn't in months.
"You did fine for your first run," Lior said, examining the parchments Faelan had delivered. "Mistakes, yes—but no disaster. You'll learn. The town, the terrain, the people… it'll all become part of you if you're paying attention."
Kalen clapped him on the shoulder. "Not bad, kid. You've got a sense for this, more than you realize. Next time, we push further. You'll see the roads outside the walls, and the world beyond… it's not as safe as this town."
"Thanks but I don't get it, why do we run?" Faelan asked regaining his breath.
"We don't have to, it's just a preference, the easiest way to avoid danger is to not be in a place of danger," Kalen replied then added."But that's not possible so instead we leave the dangerous areas as quickly as possible."
Faelan listened to Kalen's words, he understood that in a world like this the line between cowardice and survival is thin.
The days passed in a blur of running drills, obstacle courses, and timed deliveries through the winding streets of the town. Faelan's legs ached constantly, his lungs burned, and his hands were rough from climbing fences and balancing along rooftops. Kalen was relentless but patient, showing him how to read the terrain, how to sprint without wasting energy, and how to twist, duck, and dive to avoid obstacles or hostile townsfolk.
"You're slower than I like," Kalen said one morning, timing Faelan as he ran a zigzag course between barrels and crates.
Faelan wiped sweat from his brow, Niri perched on a nearby ledge, tails flicking as if critiquing his form. "I'm trying," he muttered, voice hoarse. "It's… a lot."
Kalen grinned. "You think this is a lot? Out there—beyond the walls, beyond the town—the world doesn't wait for you to catch your breath. If you're slow, you die... At least in most cases".
Self defense drills were even harder, he was thought how to dodge and block attacks. "Your posture is... Different but it works, have you done this before?" Kalen inquired,then threw a punch.
"My dad used to have barehanded brawls back was younger," Faelan replied, then blocked with his forearm.
"Was he good?" Kalen asked, after that, he kicked the back of Faelan's knee. Faelan stumbled and snapped back with a jab, but Kalen caught his arm before it could land. "He was the best," Faelan replied as his expression falterd for a moment.
"That's all for today," Kalen said as he released Faelan's arm".
By the end of the week, Faelan's stamina had improved noticeably. His legs pumped with more power, his balance was sharper, and his reflexes were quicker. He still struggled with speed, especially carrying Niri so he would usually leave her at the messenger's guild on longer runs, but he was beginning to understand something akin to culture of messengers.
Lior approached him one evening as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the training ground. "Good progress," he said. "Tomorrow, we start your first real delivery outside the town walls. Short distance, nothing dangerous… yet. But it'll give you a taste of the road, the people, and the creatures that make this world… interesting."
Faelan adjusted the satchel, feeling the weight of the parchments and the responsibility that came with them.