A few days later, Paul and Klein stood before the headquarters of the Trade Guild's Dungeon Faction, and the building alone made one thing immediately clear,this wasn't a simple meeting hall or just another office. This was a place where decisions had been made for decades, decisions that shaped the entire kingdom… and were rarely spoken aloud beyond these walls.
The structure rose from the stone square with a heavy, unshakable presence, built from dark,almost black,stone. Its surface was smooth, yet marked by age: fine cracks, worn edges, traces where old crests and symbols had once been carved, later replaced by the Guild's more neutral emblems. The façade was wide and austere, free of needless ornamentation, supported by massive columns that held up an overhanging roof. Beneath it, arriving merchants, logisticians, and intermediaries tied to the dungeon market gathered in steady streams.
Above the main entrance hung the Faction's mark,a stylized image of split rock and a core, set into a metal plate that didn't gleam so much as swallow light, as if it wasn't meant to impress but to remind anyone passing through what this faction truly dealt with.
The stairs leading up were broad and shallow, made for the traffic of people hauling heavy crates, documents, and product samples,not ceremonial processions. And yet the place ran on order. Everyone knew where they belonged and why they were here. With every minute, more people arrived,some in plain merchant cloaks, others in finer clothing that hinted at larger ventures. Many of them nodded to Paul when they recognized him. His name still circulated in these circles, even if he hadn't sat at the center of things for years.
But when their gazes slid past Paul and landed on Klein, the reactions changed,sharper, more cautious. Older guild members slowed without thinking, some straightening instinctively as if their bodies remembered before their minds caught up. They nodded to Klein with unmistakable respect,something far beyond simple politeness. To the younger ones, he was a name from stories. To the older, he was someone whose decisions had once shaped their lives.
"Well, well. Paul," one of two older men said as they approached from the side, grinning like he was picking a fight for fun. "I thought you'd come back here again and pretend you know everything best, like the old days."
The other chuckled softly, clearly waiting for Paul to flare up the way he always did,but then both men noticed Klein standing beside him, and their expressions shifted almost instantly. Their smiles froze. Their eyes widened a fraction. Even their tone dropped into a different register.
"By the gods…" one of them said more quietly. "Klein."
"It's really you," the other added, bowing his head slightly. "It's been a long time."
Klein answered with a calm smile,the same one he'd used for years to disarm people without raising his voice or leaning on his status.
"It has," he admitted. "But I see you're still standing."
"Do you remember those nights we sat here over maps of the northern dungeons," Hadrin said, shaking his head with a tired, almost fond smile, like he'd stepped ten years back in his own mind. "Reports didn't match, no one wanted to sign off on the call. And you,you took it all onto yourself. 'If it collapses, let it fall on me,' you'd say. And the rest of us just watched to see if you'd miscalculate this time."
"Because someone had to," Klein replied evenly, adjusting the cane in his hand. No pride. No boasting. "There wasn't time for debates back then. Every dungeon was overloading the trade routes, people were dying, and the guild was under a spotlight. Either someone took responsibility… or someone else took it for us."
Molvar snorted.
"And that's why it still pisses me off that you ended up down south, in some little town where the biggest problem is whether a grain caravan arrives on time," he said more roughly, though not with hostility. "You had everything here,clout, access, a seat at the decisions. You could've sat on the council until the day you died. And you just stood up and said you were done."
"Because I was," Klein answered, giving a small shrug. "At some point, the numbers in the ledgers stop mattering more than who's sitting at the table in your home. I didn't want to wake up one day and realize all I had left were contract signatures and empty rooms."
"Easy to say now," Hadrin muttered, studying him. "Back then, a lot of people thought you ran. That you left us holding the mess. Even if you know exactly how it really was."
"I do," Klein said without hesitation. "And maybe some of them weren't wrong. But if I was going to break, I'd rather do it somewhere no one expected anything from me anymore."
Molvar let out a heavy breath, planting his hands on his hips.
"And still,damn it,if it hadn't been you, Raviel, and Tormek, the Dungeon Faction wouldn't have survived," he said, looking Klein straight in the eyes. "The rest of the guild would've pretended it wasn't their problem. You can say you don't regret anything, but we remember who pulled us out of the shit."
Klein's smile returned,quiet, worn, the smile of someone who had long since made peace with his choices.
"Just remember one thing," he added after a brief pause. "What happened back then made sense then. But if we start living only in the past, the next ten years will slip through our fingers faster than we expect."
Paul cut through it with a short hand gesture, the kind that made it clear the reminiscing could wait. They hadn't come here to trade smiles over old memories. He moved first toward the entrance.
"Alright, save the nostalgia for later," he tossed over his shoulder, light on the surface,yet carrying that tone of his that sounded like an order even when he pretended it wasn't. "Let's go in. If we keep standing under the door, someone might start thinking we're scared."
Klein didn't comment. He simply nodded and walked beside him. Hadrin and Molvar joined a moment later as they passed through the massive doors,heavy not for show, but for function, built to seal the inside from street noise and curious eyes.
The lobby struck Otto with organization at once,cold, clean, methodical. In Valemar, even a greeting had to be part of procedure, not improvisation. Two attendants stood there in dark, uniform clothing, discreet faction marks stitched into their collars. One stepped forward, holding a small board with a list.
Her gaze moved across them without nervousness, as if she knew their faces by memory. Then she spoke calmly, reading names one after another, as evenly as checking attendance.
"Paul," she said, meeting his eyes.
"Klein."
"Hadrin."
"Molvar."
Paul grunted confirmation. Hadrin nodded. Molvar did the same. Klein gave a brief dip of his head,no more was needed in a place like this.
"Please follow me," the attendant said, turning and leading them deeper into the building.
The farther they went, the more the space changed. The first corridors were practical,doors to offices, small meeting rooms, archives. Then they entered the section meant strictly for councils and briefings. The walls rose higher, the stonework grew finer, and long rugs appeared beneath their feet,not for comfort, but to deaden footsteps, so that voices didn't carry any farther than they should.
At last they passed through another set of doors,wide, double,and stepped into the Dungeon Faction's council chamber. It was so large that for the first few seconds, the eye instinctively measured it, trying to find where it ended.
The room stretched like a warehouse hall, only cleaner and better lit. A high ceiling rested on rows of pillars that divided the space into three main lanes: a central aisle for movement, and two side sections lined with seats for attendees. At the far end, opposite the entrance, stood a raised platform with a simple lectern and a long table behind it, where the faction's highest-ranking members would sit. Looming above all of it hung the Dungeon Faction's insignia,metal, heavy, as if it existed to remind everyone that this was not a place for people afraid of responsibility.
There were already many inside,well over a hundred, maybe closer to a hundred and fifty. Not everyone arrived at once. Some still lingered near the entrance, others talked quietly by their assigned seats. But the air made it clear this wasn't a casual trade gathering. This was a council where even a small word could later cost,or earn,a fortune.
The seating arrangement wasn't accidental. Anyone who'd belonged to the faction longer than a year understood it at a glance. In the guild, status rarely needed to be announced. You simply placed someone in the right seat.
Closest to the platform, in the first two rows, sat the faction's biggest stakeholders,the people who controlled purchases of beast remains, core contracts, expedition insurance, equipment supply, and the logistics of materials coming out of dungeons. Their places were marked by metal plaques bearing names or merchant-house titles. Behind them sat the division managers,paperwork people, negotiators, warehouse controllers. Farther back were the smaller investors: money enough to matter, but not yet a voice strong enough to break a faction decision.
The attendant led them down the central aisle. Heads turned. People nodded to Paul,some even stood for a moment. Paul was the kind of man you didn't have to like, but you respected, because his work had actually pushed the faction forward. And besides,he wasn't here as just another attendee.
They reached the first row, almost directly beneath the platform, where the seats of the most influential were placed. The attendant stopped.
"Your seats are here," she said.
The first thing that stood out was Paul's chair,almost at the center of the front row. Not near the wall. Not off to the side. Right where someone sat when they were meant to be seen,someone whose presence mattered to the whole chamber. A simple plaque sat beside it with his name, clear and unadorned. In this place, important things didn't need decoration.
Hadrin and Molvar had seats on the sides,still in the front row, but nearer the edges. Important, yes, but no longer the faction's center of gravity the way they once had been. Their eyes shifted, almost despite themselves, to the seat prepared for Klein.
That seat was different.
Not because the chair was finer or the plaque more ornate,no one staged theater here,but because it sat directly beside Paul, positioned the way you placed chairs for people you didn't summon to a council, but invited, even if officially they no longer held office.
The plaque before it held only one word.
Klein.
And to his right, two more chairs stood waiting,empty, prepared,with plaques that tightened something in the stomachs of those who remembered the old days.
Raviel.
Tormek.
No titles and no explanations. Just names that, to some in the room, carried more weight than the surnames of most seated farther back. And that was why, even before anyone sat down, the space around the three of them grew quieter. Everyone could see it wasn't coincidence or sentiment. It was a signal.
Paul sat first, heavily, like a man accustomed to council chairs rather than soft armchairs. Hadrin and Molvar took their places. Klein sat calmly, setting his cane aside so it wouldn't be in the way, then swept his gaze across the chamber with that old habit,counting people, reading the mood, seeing more than most saw at first glance.
As more and more seats filled, the murmur of conversation began to dim, like someone slowly turning a valve. Eyes drifted toward the platform, the lectern, the long table where the faction leader would soon appear. And the fewer empty chairs remained, the heavier the silence became,thick, uncomfortable, packed with expectation.
When everyone was seated,each in their place, according to rank, money, and favors accumulated over years,the hall looked like a living map of the faction: a clear center in the front row, influence spreading outward in widening circles. And every gaze,richest to newest climbers,aimed at a single point.
The raised platform, where someone would soon step out and finally say what this was all for.