The tavern was a riot of noise and mingled scents—roasted meat, spilled ale, and damp wool. Logun navigated the crowd with practiced ease, pulling Relik to a corner table.
"Ah, much better," Logun declared, signaling a passing server. "Proper sustenance after a day of… divine bureaucracy."
He ordered two large ales and a bottle of local red without consulting Relik. The man took a long, appreciative gulp of the ale when it arrived, wiping the foam from his low-cut beard with the back of his hand.
Relik sat stiffly, declining the ale. The thought of drinking felt disrespectful to the seismic shift his life had just undergone.
Logun didn't press, simply pouring the red wine. Relik recognized the rich, fruity scent immediately—a Von Vino varietal. A sharp pang of homesickness hit him, quickly followed by annoyance as Logun slurred, leaning back in a picture of relaxed contentment that grated on Relik's nerves.
"Bit of a shock, I imagine?" Logun chuckled. "One minute you're thinking about... well Grapes? Vine-eating insects? Next minute, boom! You're chosen. Destiny calls, and all that."
"Something like that," Relik muttered, picking at a loose thread on his trousers. The lottery comparison from his earlier thoughts resurfaced, bitter and unwelcomed.
Logun poured more wine. "It's a grand calling, though. We are the shield. The first line. Retain the peace the Astras blessed us with." He grinned, nearly sloshing his glass. "Wouldn't want anything happening to the source of this excellent gallery, would we?"
Relik watched the man explain a role of immense responsibility while steadily working his way through the bottle. It felt wrong, undermining.
"It requires sacrifice. Training," Logun admitted, his cheer momentarily dimming. "But the reward… it's knowing you stand for a purpose greater than yourself." He winked. "That and the pay isn't half bad either."
Relik didn't care about sacred duty or purpose. He cared about the bottom line.
He smirked, balancing his elbows on the table. "So, how good is the pay?"
"Enough that you don't have to sell a bottle of wine for about a month," Logun smiled. "And you get your cut every week."
Relik did the math instantly. Half a year's work could buy back the dignity he'd already lost. He was a novice, a liability, but he would cross any ocean to secure a paycheck.
"We also get to travel, see the world, fight terrifying monsters!" Logun drained his wine, then grabbed Relik's untouched ale, punctuating his last point with a flourish that sloshed beer onto the table. "Alright, maybe not always terrifying. Sometimes they're just… annoying."
Relik stared at his recruiter whilst trying, but he knew he was failing, to hide his disgust.
"No offense," Relik began slowly, "but is alcoholism a big part of the guild? And what does your leader think of your activities?"
Logun took a thoughtful sip of wine smacking his lips a few times, "let me ask him. Oh wait, I am him."
Relik's jaw nearly dropped onto the table.
This professional buffoon was a guildmaster?
The Guardians had to be a grand joke.
"How?" Relik struggled to make sense of his reality.
"When you're great at something, nothing can stop you," Logun said, patting a strange, sheathed sword attached to his leather armor by a metal wire.
"This baby right here is Whisper. Together, we've killed more people than you've met. So don't get it twisted. We aren't the most dapper, but we do the things no one else can or could do."
Relik tightened his features. "Look, I know the only reason you accepted me was because I have an almost infinite supply of alcohol. So, don't expect much when it comes to this actual guardian stuff."
Logun set his mug down softly, the quietest he'd been all day and stared at the boy. Relik stared back, his defiance sure.
The man lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, making a sound so sharp it deadened the tavern noise.
Seemingly also deafening the boy.
"Being selected by my guild isn't a holiday," Logun's voice was suddenly hardened.
"From the moment I accepted you, you became an extension of the Burning Tempest. And as with any infected vine, I will not hesitate to cut you out. I know you grew up rich, but if I feel your effort is insufficient, at any time! I will have you roasted and report you as killed in action."
Relik's defiance melted into morbid fear. He swallowed, hiding his balled fist under the table, "Understood."
"Training starts when we get back to Haraan," Logun said, sound returning to the tavern, the threat fading into the background like a bad memory.
"Our trainer, she's mean, but if you show her the effort, she'll spare you a chance to fight back."
He finished his wine, "Don't worry about the 'how' yet, kid. Just know that you're needed. And we'll teach you."
Relik reached for his now-empty mug and pushed it towards the bottle. He was going to hate this, but he'd rather be contempt than dead.
Logun nodded, pouring with a heavy hand.
Relik lifted his mug overhead.
Destiny my ass.
________________________________________
Haraan, the capital, was a city that didn't just exist; it declared itself. Its spires clawed at the sky, its markets teemed with a vibrancy that pulsed at the heart of the Astran Empire, and an undeniable aura of power and purpose permeated its very stone.
For the teenagers gathered here for Selection Day, the air was thick with significance. But for Wyva of El Sharaab, standing amidst the nervous throng outside the colossal Temple Hall, the feeling wasn't dread – it was destiny arriving precisely on schedule.
Wyva was an Alven, a fact punctuated by his pointed ears and lengthy frame. This only highlighted further by his bright blue hair a startling splash of color against the more muted tones of the crowd, his eyes the same vivid hue, scanning his surroundings with an easy, almost casual confidence.
He was tall, handsome in the way that drew glances without effort, and he moved with the self-assured grace of someone who had rarely met an obstacle he couldn't charm or navigate around. He saw the trembling hands, the downcast eyes, the forced bravado of the others, and felt a quiet sympathy, but no shared anxiety.
His childhood had been spent among the orderly rows of grapevines in the El Sharaab township.
Raised by the gentle, steady hands of his adopted parents. They had taught him the land's secrets, the patience required for growth, the simple beauty of a life dedicated to nurturing. He loved them for it. But the legacy that resonated deepest within him was that of his blood parent. His mother Keeva, a guardian, charged with protecting his hometown.
A woman that marched against titans, her name spoken with reverence in El Sharaab. Her service and sacrifice a proud, if painful, part of the township's history. Wyva had grown up knowing her path was his inheritance, a future he was not just expected but destined to fulfill.
"Next!" a voice boomed, cutting through the low murmur of the crowd.
Wyva straightened his earring, offered a quick, eager smile to a girl behind him, and floated forward.
The vast auditorium was filled with tiers of silent, expectant figures - the Empire's elite.
Wyva felt the energy crackle as a proctor, draped in regal purple, gestured him toward the center stage.
He reached the raised platform and placed his hand upon the cool, smooth surface of the crystal ball.
A warmth spread up his arm, a tingling sensation of connection.
Time slowed then reversed taking him to earlier that day then a month ago then a decade prior. Finally settling on nothing.
Just as quickly he was lauched forward he surged towards the future, washing his awareness in dynamic light and sensation. Images flooded him: sharp, potent snapshots of action and purpose. He saw himself throwing light from his bow, deflecting threats, standing firm against armies of hybrid creatures.
He saw a persistent symbol, a stylized flame atop a twisted spiral, emblazoned on his forearm.
"My son, your arrows are lightning that will aid in a new era. The path is set. Walk it with honor."
A voice resonated with finality was that the Astras?
He marvelled, they sounded exactly as he'd imagined.
The vision snapped shut.
Wyva's body contracted, but he quickly forced himself still, invigorated and alive with purpose. He met the proctor's gaze, a knowing, confident smile on his face.
"Wyva of the El Sharaab township," the proctor announced, her voice echoing, "selected for the path of Guardianship."
A collective exhale swept through the assembly. Wyva, knew he was a prize. If not for his noble profession then for his lineage. He stood tall, ready for the acclaim.
"May the bid begin."
The bids came in immediately, a rapid-fire succession of respected guild names:
"Black Sands." "Frozen Ash." "Long Cauldron." "The Alven Hand."
Wyva's eyes narrowed slightly. All but one guild had bid. Which faction dared to reject him so publicly?
The proctor scanned the audience. "It seems that you have garnered the attention of all but one guild. Haraan is a mandatory seat for all."
As the proctor searched, a woman's voice sounded from the furthest row back. It was a wonder they could even hear her.
"What's the kid's name again?"
Wyva couldn't help but furrow his brow at the blatant disrespect.
"Uh… Wyva…"
"Of?" the woman asked.
"El Sharaab."
"Oh shit for real," the woman yelled, jumping to her feet and slamming her hands on the desk. She laughed at herself as she drew silent judgment. "Official bid being made by the Burning Tempest."