The guildhall announced itself long before Sawyer crossed its threshold.
Noise spilled through the open doors in uneven waves—laughter rising and falling without rhythm, mugs clattering against wood, boots scraping stone. It was the sound of people who had survived yesterday and were eager to prove they would survive today as well.
Sawyer slowed as they approached.
Up close, the building loomed larger than it had from the street. Its stone facade bore the scars of decades of renovation rather than destruction—patchwork repairs layered atop older stone. The insignia above the entrance depicted a wolf pierced cleanly through by a spear, its edges worn smooth by countless hands brushing against it for luck, for habit, or simply because it was there.
Agnes glanced sideways at him. "You alright?"
Sawyer nodded once. "Lost in thought."
She hesitated, studying his face for something she couldn't quite name, then smiled faintly. "That was a fast answer."
Behind them, Bran rolled his shoulders, the leather of his armor creaking softly. "If this goes bad," he muttered, "we walk. No heroics."
Faust gave a lazy shrug. "Speak for yourself. I'm always heroic."
Aluna didn't speak. Her eyes were already on the open doors.
The Song brushed against them as they stepped inside.
It flowed thickly here—denser than in the streets—shaped by years of habit and expectation. It guided foot traffic naturally, nudged bodies aside before collisions could happen, softened voices that grew too loud. Resonance threaded through the space like a living thing, responsive and self-correcting.
Sawyer felt it press against him.
Then slide off.
The effect was immediate.
Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just… noticeable.
A conversation near the bar stuttered. Someone missed a step and frowned, adjusting their balance as if the floor had subtly shifted. A man mid-sentence blinked, rubbed his temple, and looked around as though trying to remember what he'd been saying.
Sawyer took another step forward.
The guildhall responded.
Eyes turned—not all at once, but in clusters. A corner table fell quiet. A pair of veterans near the quest board straightened unconsciously. A serving girl slowed, her tray wobbling before she corrected it with a sharp breath.
Agnes felt it too. Her grip tightened briefly on her unstrung bow before she forced her posture to relax.
So this is how it is, Sawyer thought.
Not hostile.
Alert.
Judgmental.
A man leaning against the quest board stared openly now. He was broad even by adventurer standards, arms corded with muscle and old scar tissue. His guild badge was ancient—edges worn smooth, engraving dulled by time.
His gaze dragged over Sawyer slowly. Height. Build. Sword. Arm.
He snorted.
"Well I'll be damned," the man said, voice carrying easily. "Look who it is."
Nearby heads turned, interest sharpening. The man pushed himself off the board and began walking closer—not rushed, not cautious. Confident.
Sawyer stopped.
Agnes cleared her throat. "We're here to—"
"Not you," the man cut in, eyes never leaving Sawyer. "Him."
Sawyer met his gaze. Calm. Empty. Measuring.
That earned a short laugh—not friendly, not cruel. Testing.
"Lost?" the man asked. "Or just quiet?"
Sawyer's hand settled on his hilt. Relaxed. Ready.
A ripple moved through the hall.
"Balls on this one…" someone muttered near the bar.
The man's eyes dropped to Sawyer's hand.
"Careful," he said mildly. "Animals bare teeth before they bite."
A few restrained chuckles followed.
Agnes stepped forward, smile tight. "We received a summons from the Guildmaster."
Heads turned—not in support, but appraisal.
"That him?"
"The one from yesterday."
Interest sharpened.
"Killing intent," someone whispered. "Nearly dropped my drink."
"Didn't even commit," another added. "Felt like staring down a cliff."
Sawyer felt it shift then—curiosity curdling into pressure.
Agnes forced her smile wider. "Rumors grow legs fast in this place."
The scarred man glanced at her badge, then Bran's, then Aluna's. Recognition flickered.
"Didn't peg you lot for babysitters," he said.
Bran bristled. Faust's grin thinned.
Sawyer spoke before either could escalate. "If there's an issue," he said evenly, "we can resolve it."
Silence bit down hard.
The man's grin widened. "Good."
He took another step forward.
The circle tightened.
Boots scraped stone as bodies repositioned. Not a full encirclement—not yet—but close enough. The Song reacted immediately.
Resonance swelled—disciplined, practiced. Backs aligned. Weight settled. Aura unfolded like muscle memory returning home.
Weapons shifted.
A veteran near the bar rolled his shoulders, breath slowing as aura reinforced muscle and tendon. Another drew halfway from their scabbard, steel whispering as Song-coiled energy wrapped the blade. Someone flexed their fingers, the air warping faintly around their knuckles.
The sound followed.
Metal on leather. Buckles tightening. Weapons freed from rest.
Agnes swallowed. She strung her bow, drawing in the Song whether she meant to or not. Aluna exhaled through her nose, resonance radiating as her eyes tracked angles and spacing. Bran planted his feet, shield angling just enough to cover Sawyer's flank.
Faust's staff tapped the stone once.
Not accidental.
A warning.
Kristaphs' gaze flicked across the room, already mapping exits and liabilities.
Sawyer felt none of it settle.
Aura washed over him like wind over glass. It touched. It pressed.
Then slid away.
The scarred man stiffened.
"You feel that?" he asked quietly. "That's the Song deciding how this ends."
Sawyer did not answer.
Steel whispered free of leather.
Sawyer inhaled.
He did not draw.
He raised the whistle.
A few nearby noticed and frowned, uncertain why the motion unsettled them.
The sound that followed was barely audible—a single, low tone. Not sharp. Not loud.
Wrong.
The Song recoiled.
Not violently.
Instinctively.
Pressure snapped inward. Resonance collapsed like breath stolen mid-step. A man raising his shield hesitated, brow creasing as his aura sputtered. Another's blade trembled, suddenly heavy.
"What the—"
The scarred man took a half-step back before he realized he'd done it.
Sawyer lowered the whistle.
"Now," he said, "we resolve it."
The words landed into absence.
The moment teetered.
Then—
Pressure slammed down on the hall.
Not the Song.
Intent.
Sharper. Heavier. Focused.
Aura collapsed flat. Muscles locked. Breath stalled.
Erika stood near the center of the guildhall.
Her killing intent rolled outward in a controlled wave—not wide, not wild. Precise. Enough to remind.
Silence fell—clean and immediate.
A mug slipped from nerveless fingers and shattered loudly against stone.
No one laughed.
Her gaze swept the hall once. Slow. Assessing. Disappointed.
"That's enough," Erika said.
The intent behind it did not fade.
The scarred man swallowed, straightening with visible effort. Sweat beaded along his temple.
"Vice Guildmaster," he said hoarsely.
Erika's eyes cut to him.
"Did I give you permission to escalate?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"No."
Her gaze moved next—to drawn weapons, flared auras, the gathered crowd.
"This is a guildhall," Erika continued. "Not a battlefield. Anyone who forgets that is welcome to test the walls outside."
No one moved.
Her eyes finally settled on Sawyer.
Her intent brushed against him.
And passed through.
Nothing to grip.
Interesting.
"He is a guest," Erika said. "By Guildmaster summons."
A ripple moved through the room.
She raised a hand before objections could form.
"Courtesy will be observed," she added. "Am I understood?"
A chorus followed.
"Yes, Vice Guildmaster."
"Understood."
"No issue."
Erika turned slightly. "The Guildmaster is waiting. Come with me."
Sawyer released his hilt.
The small sound felt louder than any drawn blade.
As he stepped forward, the pressure lifted. Aura cautiously resumed, resonance creeping back like an animal returning after a storm.
Eyes followed him now—not with mockery or challenge.
With unease.
As Sawyer passed the scarred man, their shoulders nearly brushed.
The man did not speak.
Did not smile.
Sawyer did not look back.
Behind them, the guildhall slowly resumed its noise—but thinner now. Measured. Subdued.
Whatever line had existed before—
It had been crossed.
And everyone in the room knew it.