The food section was worse.
Not because it was ugly.
Because it was good.
Skewers of grilled squid hissed over flame. Shellfish steamed in iron pots. A vendor cracked crab legs with a wooden mallet like he was beating secrets out of them. Someone stirred a stew so thick it clung to the ladle, and the scent wrapped around my ribs like hands.
I stopped in front of a menu board.
SEAFOOD BUN — 2 COPPER
FRIED EEL WRAP — 3 COPPER
SHRIMP SKEWER — 2 COPPER
Two copper.
My brain did the conversion automatically, because numbers were easier than feelings.
Two copper was two hundred iron.
I reached into my pocket.
The coins clinked softly—too softly.
I counted without looking.
Forty-nine iron.
Not even half a copper.
My throat tightened, hot and stupid.
The vendor noticed me staring and grinned. "Hungry, kid?"
I watched his hands—greasy fingers, quick movements, a blade scraping scales. "Y-yes," I admitted.
"Two copper for a bun," he said, like he was offering mercy. "Big one. Keeps you warm."
I swallowed.
"I… I'm just looking."
His grin didn't vanish, but it softened. "Looking is free. Smelling costs extra."
A laugh escaped me—small, embarrassed.
The vendor winked and turned back to his grill like that was the end of the conversation.
I stepped aside, heart thumping for the wrong reasons.
Two copper.
Orla's errand pay was fifty iron.
Hard work. Sore hands.
And it still didn't buy a bun.
I pulled one iron coin out and held it in my palm. Dull metal. Nicked edges. It looked like nothing.
But it wasn't nothing.
It was hours of running, carrying, being ordered around like furniture.
If I did two errands like that, I'd have a hundred iron. One copper.
Still not enough.
But closer.
If I kept stacking them—if I didn't waste days hiding, if I didn't quit because I was embarrassed, if I didn't let laughter shrink me—
I could get there.
Not fast.
But steady.
I slipped the coin back into my pouch. "Not today," I muttered.
The vendor didn't hear.
Or he did and didn't care.
I turned away before my stomach could convince me to do something stupid, and started walking back toward the guild.
I'd find Myrina.
She'd laugh at me for almost spending everything on a bun.
She'd call it "character building."
She'd make a joke about eating the vendor instead.
I clung to the thought like it was a rope.
***
The guild hall was quieter than it had been in the morning.
Not calm.
Just… hollowed out.
Like someone scooped out the center and left only echoes.
Outside, the polished carriages were gone. The soldiers with the Avalonia crest were gone.
Only a few adventurers lingered—those who hadn't gone, or couldn't.
My stomach dropped.
I stepped inside, and my eyes searched automatically—familiar gloves, familiar scuffed knuckles, Myrina's belt, Myrina's grin.
Nothing.
I moved faster than I usually dared.
"Myrina?" I called, and my voice sounded too small for the space.
No answer.
My throat tightened until swallowing hurt.
At the counter, Nerissa stamped papers like the world hadn't tilted.
Her smile appeared the moment she saw me. "Trey. Back already?"
"W-where's my sister?" I asked, and hated how my voice broke on sister.
Nerissa's stamp paused.
Not long.
Just long enough that the pause felt like a blade laid flat on the table.
She set it down carefully. "They departed."
My chest went cold.
"Departed?" I repeated, because my brain refused to accept single words.
"The first wave left with Commander Garrand," she said gently. "Most of the fighters. Your sister included."
The room swayed a little.
"But… the supply…" I started, stupidly, like logistics could change fate.
Nerissa nodded. "Marcen's group will depart later. After the rest arrives and gets counted."
Counted.
Finn's voice echoed in my head: If you don't track it, you're already robbed.
I swallowed. "S-she didn't—"
"She didn't leave without signing," Nerissa cut in softly. "Myrina did everything proper."
That should've helped.
It didn't.
Nerissa leaned forward, voice lower, like she didn't want the walls to overhear. "I know you're worried. And you're allowed to be. But she left with a crowd, Trey. She's not alone."
My hands clenched so hard my nails bit skin.
"How long?" I asked.
Nerissa exhaled. "Depends on the dungeon and the crown. Could be days. Could be longer."
My chest tightened until it felt like I swallowed a stone.
Her smile returned, careful. "Go home. Eat something. Rest. You'll see her again."
My head tried to nod automatically.
I stopped myself mid-motion like nodding had become a crime.
Nerissa noticed. Her smile almost turned into a laugh. "Good effort," she murmured.
Heat rose in my face despite the cold in my ribs.
I stepped away from the counter toward the door—
—and nearly collided with a man in a clean coat, rings flashing as he pointed and spoke to a porter.
"Stack the sealed crates separate," he said. "If a crate sweats, tell me. If it smells wrong, tell me twice."
The porter nodded fast and fled.
Marcen Halwick turned and spotted me.
His smile came quick—practiced—but his eyes sharpened when he saw my face.
"There you are," he said. "Trey, wasn't it?"
"Yes," I said, staring at his hands because my brain didn't know what else to do.
His gaze flicked toward the hall like he already knew why I'd come back. "You missed her."
My throat tightened.
Marcen's tone softened a notch. "She left with the first wave. That's a good sign."
"How is that a good sign?" The words came out sharper than I meant.
Marcen didn't take offense. He shrugged lightly. "Because the first wave is for the reliable. The crown doesn't like surprises. They put people they trust in front."
My stomach twisted. "That means it's dangerous."
Marcen's smile turned thin. "Yes."
He didn't lie.
Then he leaned closer, voice dropping. "But your sister is very hard to kill."
"I've seen her pull my wagons out of a bog while three grown men cried about it," he continued like he was describing weather. "I've seen her walk into a bandit camp with nothing but a grin and come out with their leader tied up like a holiday gift."
"That's not comforting," I muttered.
"It's not meant to be comforting," Marcen said. "It's meant to be true."
My throat tightened again.
"Worry if you must," he added, steady. "But don't insult her by thinking she's fragile."
"I don't," I said, and meant it.
Marcen nodded once, satisfied. He tapped the list in his hand. "I have fish to count and rope to defend from thieves. Go home, Trey. And if you see Finn, tell him he's banned from heroics until he grows a beard."
A small laugh slipped out of me.
Marcen's smile widened. "There it is. The living boy."
My face warmed.
"I… I'll tell him," I said.
He waved me off like I was already dismissed. "Off you go."
I stepped out of the guild—past the place where my sister should've been—and back into the city.
***
The walk home felt longer when I wasn't following someone.
The streets were still the same. Vendors still shouted. Kids still ran. Someone still argued with a donkey like the donkey owed him money.
But without Myrina, the world had gaps in it. Spaces where her voice should've been.
When I reached our door, the house greeted me with silence.
Not hostile.
Just empty.
I set my satchel down and stood there, listening.
Nothing.
I'd heard this silence before. Myrina took quests that lasted days.
I'd learned how to exist in it.
But today it felt heavier—like it had teeth.
If I stopped moving, my brain would chew worry until it bled.
So I moved.
I lit the stove and set a pot on it. Chopped cheap root vegetables. The knife felt too big, but it did what it was told.
While the water warmed, I filled a basin and dragged my dirty clothes into it.
Scrub.
Rinse.
Wring.
My hands stung.
Good.
Pain was simple. Worry wasn't.
The stew began to simmer. I swept the floor. The broom scraped boards, catching dust Myrina always claimed "didn't exist."
"Funny," I muttered to the empty room. "It exists when you're not here."
Silence answered.
I moved to Myrina's room. The door creaked when I pushed it open.
The smell hit first—leather, sweat, and the faint sharpness of cheap perfume she wore sometimes just to annoy people.
Her bed was a disaster. Blanket half off. Pillow on the floor. One boot sitting on the chair like it had rights.
I stared at it. "Myrina," I said to the empty room, "how do you sleep like you're fighting the mattress?"
No answer.
I stripped the bed, folded the blanket, shook out the sheets—
Something small fell off the pillow and clicked against the floor.
A rock.
Small. Gray. Completely ordinary.
I stared at it like it had spoken.
A laugh slipped out—thin, surprised.
Of course.
Of course she'd already prepared her dumb joke.
I picked it up. It was just a stone. No glow. No magic. Nothing special.
And my chest still squeezed like it mattered.
"You already had a dungeon rock ready," I muttered. "You're… ridiculous."
I turned it in my palm.
A smudge of charcoal marked one side—like she started to write something and got bored halfway through.
I shook my head, smiling despite myself. "Bring me a real one," I told the empty room. "With better handwriting."
I set the rock carefully on her bedside table like it was a promise that could hold weight.
Then I finished cleaning.
Smoothed her blanket.
Lined her boots by the wall.
Hung her belt properly.
"I'm not your maid," I muttered, then sighed. "I am, actually."
The stew was ready when I returned to the kitchen.
I ate alone at the table. Warm food. Simple food. It filled my stomach, but it didn't fill the space across from me.
After, I counted my coins again.
Forty-nine iron.
I ran my thumb over one coin's edge, feeling the nicks. Not enough for a bun. Not yet.
I set them back in the pouch and stared at my hands.
Still just hands.
But they'd carried things. They'd scrubbed and swept and chopped and counted.
They could stack iron.
They could become copper.
And when Myrina came back—
When.
—I'd have something to show her.
Maybe not noble money.
Maybe not a platinum.
But something real.
I checked the door lock once.
Then checked it again.
"Don't laugh," I muttered, like she could hear me from forty-three floors down. "I'm being responsible."
The silence didn't laugh.
So I did—just a little—before I blew out the lamp and let the night take the house.
And in the dark, under my shirt, the guild emblem pressed against my chest—cold iron, steady weight—
…until, for one heartbeat, it warmed.
Like it was listening.
Like it was answering.