The smell changed the moment we stepped inside.
No stew. No sweat.
Dust and ink.
Relief hit my lungs so hard I almost forgot to be afraid.
The room was smaller than the guild hall: desks in neat rows, a chalkboard up front, a shelf full of battered books that looked like they'd survived more wars than the people who read them.
A woman stood at the front with her arms folded.
Her hair was tied back so tight it looked like it could pull thoughts out of her skull. Her posture didn't move. Her eyes flicked over me once—fast, sharp—like she'd measured exactly how much trouble I'd be.
"Nanda," Nerissa called, "I'm dropping off a new one."
"New?" Nanda's voice was calm.
And because it was calm, it felt more dangerous than shouting.
"Myrina's brother."
Something shifted across Nanda's face. Recognition. Maybe annoyance. Maybe both. A flicker—then flat professionalism again.
"Ah."
Nerissa stepped aside and nudged me forward like she was sending me into battle.
"Trey," she said. "This is Nanda. She runs the trainee class."
Nanda looked at me the way a blacksmith looks at metal—figuring out if it was worth shaping or easier to throw away.
"Sit where I tell you," she said. "If you disrupt my room, you'll scrub the guild latrines until you learn regret. Understood?"
My throat closed.
"Understood," I forced out, tight and a little strangled.
Nerissa patted my shoulder. "He's polite. Just… quiet."
"Quiet is fine," Nanda said. "Quiet listens."
Seven kids looked up.
I froze in the doorway.
They weren't adventurers. Not really.
They were kids—like me—but they still felt like a wall I'd have to climb.
A tall boy with a mischievous grin leaned back in his chair like he was daring gravity to do something about it. A coin flashed between his fingers, dancing over his knuckles like it wanted to escape.
A smaller boy with glasses pushed them up his nose, studying me like I was a word in a book he didn't like.
A boy with messy hair and wide eyes stared like I was a hero walking in—breath held, hands clenching and unclenching against his desk.
A tiny girl practically vibrated in her seat, eyes darting around like she was already collecting facts to weaponize later.
A bulky boy sat straight as a carved statue, shoulders wide enough to block a doorway if he chose. His face didn't move.
And then there was the one who felt the most dangerous—not because he looked strong, but because he looked like he knew he was better.
Lean. A little older. Chin lifted. Cleaner clothes. Sharper posture.
Noble blood even without a signet ring.
His eyes swept over me like I was mud on his boot.
Nanda cleared her throat once.
"Listen up. We have a new trainee. Trey Austere."
A murmur ran through the room—quiet, careful. Like they wanted to be heard, but not caught.
Nanda nodded toward the lean boy. "Lyan, stop staring like you're deciding whether to step on him."
"I wasn't," Lyan said, mouth twitching like it offended him to be corrected.
"Mya," Nanda said, and her tone softened a fraction, "you'll sit him beside you."
A girl near the window blinked hard. Her eyes widened like the seat beside her might bite. Then she nodded—small, nervous.
I stepped forward and almost tripped over my own feet.
Heat crawled up my neck.
I hated heat. Heat meant people were noticing.
I slid into the seat beside Mya as quietly as possible.
She didn't look at my face.
She looked at my hands.
"You have… ink," she whispered, pointing at my thumb.
I blinked, looked down.
A smudge.
Of course.
I wiped it on my pants. "I… don't know."
Mya's mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. "That's okay."
Nerissa lingered at the doorway. "Be good," she murmured.
I nodded.
Then she left, and the click of the door sounded too final—like it locked me into a world I wasn't ready for.
Nanda turned to the chalkboard and wrote in thick strokes:
THE GUILD HELPS THOSE WHO WORK.
"Reading," she said. "Simple. Useful. You'll fill forms. You'll read contracts. You'll write your name without making it look like a dying spider."
The tall boy raised a hand, grin sharp. "What if my spider is talented?"
"Then your spider can join the guild," Nanda said, deadpan.
A few kids snorted.
My shoulders loosened by half an inch.
Nanda tapped the chalk against the board.
"Trey. Read it."
My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Every eye turned.
Their attention hit my skin like heat.
I locked onto Nanda's hand holding the chalk instead of her face.
Hands were safe.
Words were… not safe.
But the words were there. On the board. Solid.
My mouth opened.
"The… guild…"
My voice caught.
My tongue felt too big, like it didn't belong.
Lyan's mouth curled—not a full smile. A smirk. Like he'd already won something without lifting a finger.
"The guild h-helps those who…" I stumbled over the last word. "W-work."
The tall boy hummed like he was judging a performance.
The messy-haired boy looked like he wanted to clap and didn't know if he was allowed.
The tiny girl tilted her head, disappointed.
"That's it?" she whispered, loud enough to hurt. "That's the sentence?"
Lyan exhaled softly through his nose. "Impressive."
It wasn't a compliment.
My chest tightened until it hurt.
Mya's hand moved—small, quick—and she slid her finger under the words, guiding my eyes. She didn't do it loudly. She didn't save me with pity.
She just gave me something to hold onto.
"You did it," she whispered, barely audible.
Nanda didn't look impressed, but she didn't look angry either. "Again. Clearer."
I swallowed. Forced air into my lungs. Forced my tongue to obey.
"The guild helps those who work," I said.
This time without the stutter.
Nanda nodded once. "Better."
Lyan's smirk faded by a fraction, and that earned him a few side glances.
"All right," Nanda said. "Everyone copy it."
Pens scratched.
Mya's handwriting was neat and careful.
Mine looked like I fought the ink and barely won.
Halfway through, the messy-haired boy leaned across the aisle, eyes shining. "Do you know the story of Sir Halden the Bronze? He joined the guild at—"
"Milo," Nanda snapped.
Milo shrank. "Sorry."
The tall boy leaned toward Milo and whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear, "Save it for the walk home. Recite it to pigeons. They love heroes."
The tiny girl giggled into her sleeve.
The boy with glasses glanced at me again, head slightly tilted.
"Austere," he said. "Are you… living with your sister?"
I tensed.
That felt like a trap.
Mya glanced at him, nervous.
I watched his hands.
Clean, but ink-stained at the fingertips.
Scholar hands.
"Yes," I said carefully.
He nodded like he'd confirmed something. "Interesting."
Lyan scoffed. "He's here because of Myrina."
The words punched harder than Barrek's joke, because they were true—
and truth hurt worse than mockery.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Nanda's chalk snapped against the board.
"Lyan."
Lyan lifted his chin. "What? Everyone knows it."
Nanda's eyes narrowed. "Everyone knows you're here because your father bought you a better sword than your arms deserve. Sit down."
The tall boy choked on a laugh.
Lyan's face went red. "My father—"
"Sit," Nanda repeated, calm as a guillotine.
Lyan sat.
The bulky boy had the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—almost approval.
My heart hammered.
But beneath the shame, something else stirred.
Relief.
Someone had cut it off. Someone had said no.
It wasn't just me drowning in everyone's opinions.
When class finally ended, Nanda clapped once.
"Dismissed. Next class is Monday."
The tall boy groaned. "Only twice a week? Cruel."
"Twice a week is plenty," Nanda said. "The rest of your week is for errands— or for behaving in a way that doesn't embarrass the guild."
We filed into the hallway.
Myrina wasn't there.
Of course she wasn't.
She was off doing real work.
I lingered near the doorway like my feet hadn't decided where they belonged.
Mya drifted closer, slow, like she didn't want to spook me.
"Do you… want to walk home together?" she asked.
The question hit harder than the reading—not because it was scary.
Because it was unexpected.
Unexpected kindness was dangerous.
It made you want things.
I glanced down at her hands. She fidgeted with her satchel strap until her knuckles went pink.
"I—" I almost said no out of habit.
Out of safety.
Then I remembered the coins clinking on the counter.
Ten silver.
Don't waste it.
"Okay," I said.
Mya's shoulders dropped, relieved.
Lyan strode past us like we were furniture. "You're slow," he said without looking back. "Try not to get lost."
The tall boy—Finn—called after him, "I'm going the other way. Don't die, noblesse."
Lyan didn't respond.
A bulky shadow fell behind us as we stepped outside.
The big boy from class followed at a distance, hands in his pockets, steps heavy but even.
He wasn't trailing us like a threat—more like a cart on the same road.
The tiny girl waved at Mya and sprinted toward the market, already talking to herself about slimes like they were dear friends.
Arlo adjusted his glasses and headed toward the upper district, Milo trailing after him like a loyal shadow.
Soon it was just us four: stone buildings, laundry lines, and the smell of baked bread drifting from somewhere that felt too far away.
Mya walked beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost brushed, but she didn't crowd me. She left space like she understood I needed it.
Lyan marched ahead like he was leading an army that hadn't agreed to follow.
Bruen—because I'd heard someone say his name in class—trailed behind like a hired guard who hadn't been paid yet.
For a few steps, nobody spoke.
My mind filled the silence with panic anyway.
Say something. If you don't say something, she'll think you're weird. She already knows you're weird.
Mya glanced up—quick, then down again. "You… did good in class."
I stared at her hands twisting the strap. "I… messed up."
"You fixed it," she said, like that mattered more than the mistake.
Lyan's voice cut in from ahead. "He read a sentence. Let's not celebrate like he killed a dragon."
My stomach tightened. Words stacked behind my teeth—heavy, useless.
Mya's fingers clenched. "He's new."
"So?" Lyan snapped. "Everyone's new at something. Doesn't mean you baby them."
Bruen spoke from behind us, voice flat. "You talk a lot for someone who didn't volunteer to read first."
Lyan stopped so suddenly I nearly bumped into Mya.
I caught myself at the last second, cheeks burning.
Lyan turned halfway, eyes sharp. "I didn't need to volunteer. Nanda didn't call on me."
Bruen's pace didn't change.
He walked right past where Lyan stood, forcing him to either move or get left behind.
Bruen didn't even look at him. "Convenient."
Lyan's jaw flexed. He started walking again—faster—like speed could prove something.
Mya exhaled softly. I realized she'd been holding her breath.
"Bruen," she said cautiously, "you didn't have to—"
"He started it," Bruen said.
"That's…" Mya searched for the word. "That's true."
I couldn't stop myself from glancing back at Bruen's hands.
Thick. Calloused. Carpenter hands.
He noticed and raised an eyebrow at me.
"What?" he asked.
I forced my eyes to his shoulder instead. "Nothing."
Bruen grunted. "If you have something to say, say it."
My tongue froze.
Bruen looked forward again. "Or don't. But then people fill in blanks for you." A pause. "Usually wrong."
That landed like a stone in my pocket.
Heavy. Impossible to ignore.
Up ahead, Lyan's head turned slightly. "Trying doesn't make you strong."
Bruen answered before I could choke on words I didn't have. "Neither does talking."
Lyan's shoulders stiffened.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
The street opened into a familiar corner—my neighborhood.
Crooked rooftops patched with whatever people could afford. Walls that leaned but didn't fall. Honest.
Mya slowed and pointed left. "I'm… that way."
I stopped.
The idea of her leaving pricked at me.
Not because I needed her—because I didn't let myself need people—
but because the walk had been easier with her beside me, and that frightened me more than Barrek's laughter ever could.
"Oh," I said, brilliant as always.
Mya's fingers twisted the strap again. "Tomorrow… are you coming back?"
"Class is Monday," I said automatically.
"I know." Her cheeks colored. "I mean… to the guild. For errands."
I felt the emblem under my shirt—iron pressing cold against my skin.
Heavy.
But also—
Finn's grin.
Arlo's sharp questions.
Lina's buzzing curiosity.
Milo's hero-bright eyes.
Bruen's blunt honesty.
Even Lyan's sharp edges.
People.
Not monsters.
Not quests.
People.
"Yeah," I said, and my voice sounded steadier than I felt. "I'm coming back."
Mya's shoulders loosened like she'd been holding something tight inside. "Okay. Then… see you."
"See you," I echoed—and I meant it.
She hurried off, glancing back once before disappearing around the corner.
Lyan didn't wait. He kept walking, already ahead, like goodbyes were a waste.
Bruen paused beside me just long enough to speak.
"You did fine," he said.
My chest tightened again. "I… I didn't."
Bruen shrugged like the world didn't have time for self-pity. "You didn't run. That's fine."
Then he walked on, heavy steps fading down the street.
I stood alone for a moment, fingers brushing the emblem through my shirt.
The guild hall had been loud.
The veteran's mockery had stung.
The ten silver still sat in my gut like a rock.
But when I pictured Monday—walking back into that dusty classroom, seeing Mya by the window, hearing Finn's jokes, Bruen's blunt voice, even Lyan's irritating confidence—my stomach didn't knot.
It lifted.
I pulled the emblem out and let it rest in my palm.
Cold.
Heavy.
The gate-and-sword crest looked simple in daylight—just lines carved into iron.
Then, for a heartbeat, the metal warmed.
Not from my skin.
From inside it.
My breath caught.
The warmth vanished as fast as it came, leaving the emblem cold again—innocent again—like it hadn't done anything at all.
Like it hadn't just answered me.
I stared at it until my eyes hurt.
And for the first time, that weight didn't scare me.
It thrilled me.