The workers stood frozen, eyes wide, gazing at the hall that stretched endlessly before them. Every flickering chandelier, polished surface, and embroidered carpet seemed to pull them further into disbelief. Even the children clung tightly to their parents, mouths slightly open, as though the room itself was too magnificent to speak within.
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Then, a sharp voice cut through the hum of murmurs, slicing cleanly through the air.
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"Silence!"
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All heads snapped toward the front. Standing tall, shoulders squared, was their chief examiner, a man whose presence alone commanded attention. His dark coat was perfectly pressed, boots polished, and his eyes glimmered with an intensity that made even the most confident workers straighten involuntarily.
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He scanned the crowd, his gaze sharp but not unkind.
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"Congratulations," he said, his tone crisp and deliberate. "You have all passed the selection. Each of you has demonstrated the skills, composure, and aptitude required to work in a noble establishment."
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The words sent a ripple of relief and pride through the group. Some whispered quietly among themselves, smiling, clutching hands, or exchanging glances of disbelief.
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"You will be provided with dormitories," the examiner continued. "Keys have been prepared for each of you. Before leaving, make sure to take yours."
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He paused, letting the information sink in. Some of the workers glanced at each other, imagining rooms of their own for the first time in years.
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"If you wish, you may stay with your family in your room," he said, "but hygiene must be maintained at all times. Each room is equipped with its own plates, cutlery, and cookware. A communal kitchen is provided for meal preparation. Treat these resources with respect."
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A young chef murmured under her breath, "…Cookware… in our rooms?" Her eyes sparkled with excitement and nervous anticipation.
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"Yes," the examiner said, as if reading her thoughts. "Your workspace begins with your dormitory. Your conduct there reflects your professionalism here. Take pride, maintain cleanliness, and remember that your work is a reflection not only of yourself, but of the entire establishment."
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Some of the widows exchanged looks, quietly discussing the communal kitchen arrangements.
"…We can cook our own meals now…" one whispered, voice trembling. "…For the first time in years…"
"…And the kids can eat together," another replied softly, wiping a tear she hadn't realized she'd shed.
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The examiner's gaze swept across the room again.
"Your dormitories are ready. Keys are at the reception desk at the end of this hall. Take them before you leave tonight."
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He paused, then added sharply, almost as an afterthought:
"And remember — etiquette is just as important outside the hall as inside. You are now representatives of this establishment."
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A few workers muttered small affirmatives, nodding seriously, while others exchanged nervous glances.
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The group began to stir. Whispered conversations spread like a gentle tide, a mix of awe, anxiety, and excitement:
"…I've never had a room of my own."
"…Do you think we'll have enough cookware for all of us?"
"…I hope my child doesn't break anything…"
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Liora Vandren stood near the front, hands folded neatly in front of her. She scanned the crowd, noting the whispered exchanges, the subtle fidgeting, the cautious pride in their expressions.
"…They're all so nervous," she murmured softly to herself. "…But they're going to shine."
⠀
Some of the other characters began to show small, baseless quirks — little touches that made them feel real:
A young waiter nervously polishing his shoes again, muttering, "They'll see I'm clean… they'll see…"
One widow quietly tying ribbons into her child's hair, hands trembling slightly from excitement and fear.
A cleaner adjusting her worn dress, glancing at her neighbors, whispering, "…It's our chance…"
A young chef peeked under a table, imagining the kitchen in the dorms, already planning what she might cook first.
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The examiner's final gaze swept over them once more.
"Keys first. Respect second. Excellence always. Dismissed."
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As the crowd began to move toward the reception desk, nervous chatter filled the hall. Hearts were still pounding, but a sense of belonging began to settle in.
They were no longer just applicants.
They were part of something larger.
Something alive.
Something that, if they worked carefully and diligently, could become a home for their skills, their families, and their hopes.
Once the workers had collected their dormitory keys and murmured quietly among themselves, the examiner's sharp voice cut through the chatter again.
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"Now," he said, "proceed to the desk at the front. One by one. The contracts await your signatures."
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At the front of the hall sat an old man, hunched slightly over a desk that looked far too large for his frame. His face was a map of scowls, wrinkles carved deep into his forehead, eyes narrowed as if daring anyone to disturb him.
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He had the air of someone who had far better places to be, far more important matters waiting, yet here he sat, day after day, overseeing contract signings.
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A long, navy-blue robe draped over his shoulders, frayed slightly at the cuffs, and faint streaks of silver ran through his otherwise stark white hair. A thin, crooked beard hung from his chin. His hands, though wrinkled and veined, moved with precise, careful motion, betraying decades of magical practice.
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Whispers spread among the workers.
"…Is that… a magician?"
"…He looks… cranky."
"…Do you think he even wants to be here?"
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One of the waiters muttered under his breath, "…I feel like he's judging my soul."
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Liora Vandren led the group forward, her calmness steadying those behind her. One by one, the workers approached the desk.
The old magician didn't speak. He merely gestured toward the contracts.
A worker would extend a trembling finger, and he would prick it with a thin silver needle. A single drop of blood fell onto the paper, and the magician's finger tapped the inked spot with precision.
"Here," he said, pointing at the exact location for the blood, never looking up from his work.
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Some children peeked curiously from behind their parents' skirts, eyes wide at the strange ritual.
"…It's just blood…" one whispered. "…He doesn't even say anything…"
"…He's from the Magic Tower," a widow whispered back. "…He oversees contracts like this all the time."
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The process was slow but orderly. One by one, finger after finger touched the paper, the magician tapping the drop into place without a word, his expression never softening.
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Even Liora's hand trembled slightly as she approached, but she pressed forward, allowing the old man to prick her finger. She watched carefully as he directed her to the proper spot.
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And then it was done.
Each worker, cleaner, waiter, waitress, and chef had completed the ritual.
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The magician leaned back slightly, folding his hands over each other. Still scowling, he muttered something unintelligible to himself, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.
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At that moment, the sharp voice of the chief examiner boomed again — this time, a slightly different man with a commanding presence, dressed in a dark vest with silver embroidery.
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"Congratulations once more, everyone," he said. "You have officially become part of this establishment. I am Examiner Thalanor Drey, and I will continue to guide you in your duties and responsibilities."
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The group exhaled, relief and pride washing over them in equal measure.
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Then, footsteps echoed across the polished floor. A sturdy-looking knight entered, armor gleaming faintly in the chandelier light, hands resting on the pommel of a longsword. His presence radiated authority and calm.
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"I am Ser Kalen Thorne," he announced, bowing slightly. "I will be overseeing the security and logistics of your work here. You may address me at any time if you require guidance regarding conduct, duties, or safety."
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The murmurs quieted once more, eyes turning toward the massive doors at the far end of the hall.
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Examiner Thalanor Drey raised his hand, voice carrying above the silence:
"And now… you will be formally greeted by the owner herself. Please… give her your full attention."
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A hush fell over the hall.
The workers, chefs, waiters, and cleaners straightened, whispering barely to themselves. Children clung to parents' hands, eyes wide.
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The doors slowly opened. A soft golden light spilled into the room, brighter than even the chandeliers.
And there, framed in the glow, stood Sapphire Rosabelle Astley.
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Her presence filled the hall instantly, and the awe that had settled in the hearts of the workers deepened tenfold.
The doors opened fully, and the golden light spilled across the hall, pooling around her like a halo.
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Sapphire Rosabelle Astley stepped inside.
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She was small, almost delicate in build, but every movement she made commanded attention as if the room itself bent to her presence. Her hair was white as snow, falling in soft waves down her back, catching the chandelier light and seeming almost luminous against her pale, flawless skin.
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Her dress was a masterpiece of elegance — a flowing gown of soft cream and pale gold, embroidered with intricate floral patterns that shimmered with every step. The light seemed to cling to the fabric, accentuating the delicate embroidery and the graceful way it moved with her.
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Her eyes were the first thing anyone noticed: a deep, vibrant shade of sapphire, clear and warm, shining with intelligence and kindness. They scanned the room, not with judgment, but with a quiet awareness that touched each worker, each child, and each parent individually.
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Her smile was gentle, serene, yet confident — the kind that could reassure even the most nervous heart without a single word.
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Every gesture, every tilt of her head, every soft step on the polished floor seemed deliberate, graceful, and perfectly natural. Even the snow-white strands of her hair seemed to move in harmony with her aura, glowing faintly as though reflecting the golden chandeliers.
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Though small, her presence was monumental. It was as if she were a giant tree, standing firm in the center of a clearing, its shade offering protection and calm to all who gathered beneath it.
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The workers' hearts, which had been racing, pounding with nervousness and self-doubt, began to still. Their breath slowed. Every tense muscle softened.
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In that moment, all their fear and anxiety — the unease about their clothes, their skills, their worthiness — melted away.
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Their hearts became like a serene lake, smooth and calm, reflecting the golden light, the chandeliers, and the quiet majesty of her presence.
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Even the children stopped fidgeting. Some dared to peek around their parents, captivated by the tiny figure whose aura filled the entire hall.
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Liora Vandren, standing near the front, felt her own chest loosen. She straightened, awe giving way to resolve.
"…She's… remarkable," she whispered softly to no one in particular.
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From every corner of the hall, workers, parents, and children alike found themselves rooted to the spot, eyes wide, hearts quiet.
It was impossible not to watch.
It was impossible not to feel… safe, and certain, and seen.
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And in that calm, all of them understood, without words:
This was the woman who had summoned them here.
The one they would work for, learn from, and trust.
The one who, small though she might be, could hold an entire world in her presence.
The moment Saphy entered, the workers from Eddlleguard could not help themselves.
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They sank to their knees, heads bowed, hands folded in a silent, instinctive posture of respect. Their eyes glimmered with tears, hearts pounding with both relief and awe.
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Around them, the knights, the guards, and the priest watched silently, arms folded, standing tall. There were no nobles here, no curious onlookers — only those who had seen Saphy's miracles firsthand, and those who had yet to witness them.
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A soft whisper ran through the kneeling workers.
"…She… she saved me… when I thought my child was gone," one widow murmured, clutching her son's hand tightly. "My little girl… pneumonia… she was dying. No healer could help her… and she… she just… brought her back."
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A murmur of agreement ran through others. Some nodded, others closed their eyes, remembering their own moments of despair that had been lifted by her hands.
"…I saw it too," another whispered, voice trembling. "…A man whose arm was… useless… she… she made it whole again. Just like that."
"…And the healing hall," a cleaner added softly, "…everyone receives help. No one is turned away. It's… it's like she cares for everyone equally."
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Liora Vandren knelt near the front, eyes wide. She felt her chest tighten at the weight of their reverence.
"…She really is… amazing," she whispered to herself, staring at the small figure of Saphy. "…All of it… everything she does…"
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The widow who had brought her child back from the brink of death finally spoke aloud, voice quivering with emotion:
"…Without her, my child… my little boy… he would have been gone. And she… she just… made it right. Like it was nothing."
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Some of the other workers, heads bowed, murmured their own stories quietly:
"…She healed my husband's leg after the accident… he was crippled, and now he walks again."
"…I was weak, and she gave me strength…"
"…Her hands… her presence… it's like… like hope itself."
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Even the guards and knights, though trained to suppress emotion, exchanged glances, understanding the unspoken bond between the healer and her people.
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The priest, standing slightly aside, nodded solemnly.
"…Truly… she is a blessing," he murmured, voice low, carrying weight without arrogance.
⠀
The hall, vast and shimmering with golden light from the chandeliers, seemed to shrink around her small frame. Though Saphy was tiny in stature, her presence enveloped the kneeling workers like a giant tree casting shade — comforting, protective, and unwavering.
⠀
For a moment, time seemed suspended. All fear, all doubt, all worry — every trace of nervousness — faded from the hearts of the workers. Their minds stilled. Their breathing slowed.
Their hearts became like a serene lake, smooth and calm, reflecting the quiet majesty of the woman before them.
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Even the children, some still trembling from anticipation, let go of their parents' hands, eyes wide as they looked up at the snow-white hair, the deep sapphire eyes, and the gentle, confident smile of their savior.
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"…She's… she's everything," whispered one of the widows, tears slipping down her cheeks. "…All the pain, all the fear… gone because of her."
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Liora's own voice was barely audible, yet full of awe:
"…She's small… but she carries the weight of the world in her presence."
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The kneeling workers could feel it in their bones, in their hearts: she was not just a healer, not just their savior — she was their protector, their anchor, and the reason so many had hope to live another day.