The orb stays dark.
No light, no whisper, not even a shimmer of recognition.
The receptionist tilts her head, studying the sphere, then me.
"Good," she says quietly, almost to herself. "That's perfect."
Her words confuse me. I blink, lowering my hand. "Perfect? Does that mean… the test is done?"
She doesn't answer right away. Her expression is unreadable, like someone who's just confirmed a suspicion they'd rather not share. Then she straightens and gestures toward the far corridor.
"Follow me," she says. "Now we'll test your swordsmanship."
I follow her through a narrow hall that opens onto a training ground – a wide, sand-covered courtyard enclosed by stone walls.
She waves over a man standing by the racks of wooden swords.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, with short gray hair and a calm, weathered face. He have the eyes of someone who's seen countless fights.
"Raynor," the receptionist calls. "We need you for an evaluation. Swordsmanship."
Raynor glances at me, notices the blade hanging at my side, and nods.
"I'm Raynor," he says as he approaches. "And you are?"
"Izur," I answer. "Izur Ed Loyre."
He smiles faintly. "Good. Let's see what you can do, Izur. Take a wooden sword and come at me."
I pick one from the rack. It's heavier than it looks. I step back, feet steady, and take the stance I used when fighting the wolf.
Raynor lifts his own training sword into an ox stance, blade angled toward my face.
For a moment, silence stretches between us.
Then he moves.
A thrust – fast, clean, aimed straight for my heart.
I barely manage to deflect it, twisting my wrist and guiding the blade aside.
I counter with a downward slash.
He parries perfectly, the wooden swords clashing with a dull thud, and ripostes in the same breath – a strike at my ribs.
I raise my weapon to block, but it was a feint.
He shifts and stops his blade an inch from my neck.
The fight ends before I can breathe.
"You've got form," he says, lowering the sword. "And instinct. You read my first move, that's rare."
I exhale and nod, accepting the loss.
The receptionist steps forward. "That's enough. Both of you, follow me."
As we walk back through the corridor, Raynor glances at me with a small grin.
"You've got talent, pal," he says. "Where'd you learn to move like that? Haven't seen a style like yours before."
I hesitate. Even I don't know.
So I keep it ambiguous. "My master was a retired mercenary. He used to say his sword was shaped by what he faced on the battlefield."
Raynor chuckles. "So, his own creation. A personal style. Makes sense."
We stop before a tall wooden door. The receptionist turns to us. "This is the Guildmaster's office."
She knocks twice.
The door opens to reveal the guild scribe, a thin man with ink-stained hands and a polite smile. "Come in", he says.
The receptionist steps aside. "I'll take my leave here."
The scribe ushers us into a spacious office.
Behind a wide desk sits a man with a trimmed beard and eyes that seem to measure everything they see - Gmyr The guildmaster.
He looks up as we enter.
"Raynor," he says, "the test?"
Raynor nods. "He's got a good level, sir. Sharp instincts, solid balance. Unusual swordsmanship, though. Can't place it anywhere I know."
Gmyr studies me in silence for a long moment. Then he gestures toward the sofa opposite his desk.
"Thank you, Raynor. You're dismissed."
Raynor leaves.
The door closes.
The room is quiet again, except for the faint scratching of the scribe's quill.
Gmyr leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His gaze settles on me – calm but heavy.
"Tell me, Izur…" he says at last, voice low, deliberate.
" Were you ever with the Church" he says with serious tone.
I frown. " The Church? No."
Gmyr smile faintly. "Hmm. That's curious..."
He flips through a few pages of the register.
"I though he was a member because there is no records about you, no family, no trace before a few months ago," he murmured, eyes scanning the page.
He finally looked up. "That's rare. Most people leave something behind. Debts, friends, enemies… You, however, seem to have appeared out of thin air, Izur."
He leaned back in his chair. The faint smile never left the Guildmaster's face, yet something sharp flickered in his gaze.
"Well," he said softly, "I suppose every story starts somewhere. Let's see where yours leads."
He closed the register, and he looks in my eyes.
"if there's truly nothing behind you, What is it you're walking toward?"