[ Boren POV ]
Boren Stonehelm had always imagined the Adventurer Guild would reek of blood. Not actual blood, mind you, though he wouldn't have been shocked, but rather the scents of iron, sweat, rust, and that sharp, masculine aroma clinging to warriors who wielded steel daily.
That was the image etched in his mind, shaped by tales spun in noble halls and exaggerated by drunken mercenaries boasting in taverns.
Instead, every morning welcomed him with polished marble floors, warm wooden accents, and the faintly comforting fragrances of ink, parchment, and freshly cleaned stone.
It still felt surreal. Boren stood behind the imposing receptionist desk, hands neatly folded in front of him, his posture straightened in a way that felt foreign.
The desk itself was enormous, far too grand for someone like him if he were honest. Its dark surface reflected light softly; when he leaned forward just a bit, he could see his own round face staring back at him.
