The doors of the guildhall loomed before me—tall, heavy oak bound in blackened iron, carved with faded runes that had long since lost their shine. A faint hum of steel on steel drifted through the cracks, accompanied by the low murmur of voices and the smell of oil and sweat.
I stood at the threshold for a moment, my hand resting against the cold wood. The medallion under my shirt felt heavier than ever, as though it could sense what lay beyond.
Arya stood at my side, her eyes scanning the building with sharp caution, though her hands stayed loose at her sides, ready for anything.
"Well," she murmured, glancing at me, "are you going to knock or are we just going to stand here until they come out and gut us for blocking the door?"
I shot her a dry look before raising my fist.
Three solid knocks echoed through the hall.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then came the scrape of a bolt sliding free.
One of the doors groaned inward, just enough for a pair of eyes to peer out—a man with a face like old leather and a scar running down his nose. He studied me in silence before his gaze drifted to the black headband tied across my forehead.
He grunted.
"Come in," he said, and pulled the door open wider.
The air inside was even thicker with the smell of oil and iron. The sound of practice swords clashing rang from deeper within the building, and the wide hall was crowded with men and women in mismatched armor, sharpening blades, binding wounds, swapping stories.
The man who'd opened the door beckoned me forward without another word, leading me past the chaos and into a side room lit by a single brazier.
"Wait here," he said.
Then he disappeared through another door, leaving Arya and me alone.
She glanced around, her lips curving into a faint smirk.
"Cozy," she said.
I didn't reply. I was too busy staring at the sigils painted on the walls—crossed swords, broken shields, the same insignia as the medallion I carried.
This was the place.
The door opened again, and this time it wasn't the scarred doorman who entered.
It was a woman.
She was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair tied back in a tight braid and a longsword strapped to her back. Her eyes were as sharp as her posture, and when she looked at me, it felt as though she could see through the skin and straight to the bone.
"You," she said. "Show me."
For a heartbeat I hesitated. Then I reached under my shirt, pulled out the medallion, and held it up so the faint light glinted on its surface.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded.
"Follow me."
We followed her out another door and down a set of stairs that led into the belly of the hall. The clang of practice faded behind us, replaced by the faint roar of a forge and the hiss of quenched metal.
She led us into a cavernous chamber lined with racks of weapons and armor, each piece gleaming faintly in the dim light. At the far end, a blacksmith worked at an anvil, his hammer ringing out in steady rhythm.
The woman turned to me and crossed her arms.
"You carry his mark," she said. "That means something. But it doesn't mean you're ready."
I straightened my shoulders.
"What do I have to do?" I asked.
Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You'll find out."
She snapped her fingers, and the blacksmith set down his hammer to retrieve something from a chest at his feet. He carried it over to her—a bundle of black cloth wrapped around something solid.
She unwrapped it to reveal a short sword, its blade plain but perfectly balanced, its edge honed to a wicked gleam.
She held it out to me.
"Your first guild blade," she said.
I took it, feeling the weight of it settle into my hand as though it belonged there.
Her eyes bored into mine.
"From here on," she said, "you fight for yourself. You fight for your guild. And you don't stop fighting until you're dead."
I nodded once.
She finally stepped back and jerked her chin toward the racks of gear.
"Suit up," she said. "You've got work waiting."
---
An hour later, I stood in the yard behind the guildhall, clad in simple leather and steel, my new sword strapped at my side.
A bell clanged somewhere above, and a line of men and women formed near the notice board on the wall. Pieces of parchment fluttered in the breeze, each marked with a name, a price, and a task.
I joined the line and scanned the board as I got closer.
Hunt down a rogue mage. Clear a bandit camp. Escort a caravan through wolf territory.
Each one was stamped with the guild seal.
I reached the front of the line and stared at the notices for a long moment before tearing one free:
"Wanted: Bandit leader, dead or alive. Reward: 50 silver."
Arya appeared at my shoulder, glancing at the parchment in my hand.
"Starting small?" she said, her tone amused.
I smirked faintly.
"Starting somewhere," I replied.
She chuckled, then clapped me on the shoulder.
"Fair enough," she said. "Let's go find ourselves some bandits, then."
And for the first time in a long time, as we walked out of the yard and into the gathering dusk, I felt something I hadn't felt since the day they exiled me.
Purpose.
And it felt like steel in my veins.