The morning light filtered in through the wide-paned windows of Papa's Roost, casting warm streaks across the wooden table where the trio sat, bowls of porridge and jam-streaked bread scattered between them. The scent of clove, baked apples, and soft yeast hung in the air, mingling with the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen behind the bar.
Moore was slumped sideways in his chair, arms folded, head bobbing slightly — a telltale sign of someone not quite awake. A half-eaten roll rested precariously in one hand.
Ronell sat upright, brushing crumbs from her lap with methodical care. She looked rested, if a little tousled, and her expression held a quiet ease as she spooned the last of her berries into her mouth.
May sat across from them, a cup of steaming tea cradled between her hands. Her cloak was draped neatly over her chair, and her eyes were fixed calmly on the two of them.
She took a sip, then set the cup down with a soft clink.
"You don't expect me to keep paying for everything, do you?"
The words dropped casually — not cruel, but direct.
Moore, eyes still half-lidded, glanced up, chewing slowly.
"Well, I was hoping that's what friendship meant…"
Ronell snorted, biting back a laugh.
"You mean mooching off a friend?"
Moore shrugged, unapologetic.
"It's a kind of bond."
May gave them both a look — not sharp, just amused in that quiet, unreadable way of hers.
"There's a guild," she said simply. "Local chapter. I know the quartermaster. They pay for completed jobs — caravan escorting, collection tasks, sometimes delivery work."
Ronell looked up at that, interested.
"So… official work? With coin?"
"Exactly," May said. "It's a good way to earn and learn the terrain. Besides," she added, reaching for a slice of bread, "you're going to need money if you want clean boots or second breakfasts."
Moore groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.
"And here I thought I could retire early."
Ronell, more sincerely:
"It sounds… exciting. I don't mind pitching in. It's only fair."
May gave a quiet nod, satisfied. She glanced toward the sunlit window, where the city was already stirring beyond the glass.
"You'll need to pull your weight eventually."
There was a beat of silence between them.
Then Ronell pushed back her chair with a soft scrape and stood, slinging her light cloak around her shoulders.
"Well," she said, glancing at Moore with a smirk, "guess we're adventurers now."
Moore groaned again — but this time, he was already on his feet.
---
The walk from Papa's Roost to the Tarnished Crest took them through winding backstreets — narrower than the main avenues, with clotheslines strung overhead and the smell of forge smoke lingering from a nearby smithy. May led the way in silence, steps even, cloak brushing against stone.
When they rounded the last corner, the guildhall loomed into view — not regal or polished, but lived-in. The building was old timber and patched brick, wide and low, with a crooked sign hanging above the heavy door: a faded crest, chipped and tarnished, just like the name suggested.
THE TARNISHED CREST Guildhall & Mercenary Contract House
Its paint was worn off in places, but its front steps were busy — boots stomping, weapons clinking, laughter echoing. Adventurers of all stripes leaned against the outer wall: a sun-scarred archer picking at his teeth, a woman with twin swords balancing on a railing while eating fried dough, a bard trying to tune her lute between quests.
Moore hesitated at the threshold, glancing at the crowd.
"Place smells like sweat and competition."
Ronell's eyes were already darting across the faces, the weapons, the posted job board near the front entrance. She stood straighter — not stiffly, but like something in her had clicked into place.
"It's perfect."
May opened the door without a word, and they followed.
Inside, the guild was louder — boots thudding against floorboards, the clatter of mugs from the side bar, and parchment being slapped onto desks. Walls were lined with pinned contracts and notices, some barely legible from wear. The air smelled of ink, oil, and old leather.
Behind a tall desk near the front, a sharp-eyed woman stood sorting papers. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled into a tight braid, her sleeves rolled up, and one eyebrow arched like it had permanently locked that way from too many ridiculous requests.
She looked up when she heard them approach.
"May," she said, not surprised — just acknowledging. Her voice was low, edged with steel.
"Corva," May replied, dipping her head in greeting.
Ronell stepped forward slightly, glancing between the two of them.
"We're… hoping to register."
Corva gave them each a sweeping look — eyes quick but unreadable. She didn't seem impressed, but she didn't dismiss them either.
"Name, age, any prior injuries I should know about. No fake heroics — if you die on the job, we don't do refunds."
Moore opened his mouth. May elbowed him lightly. He closed it again.
"Right," Corva muttered, already pulling forms from a stack. "You'll need to fill this out. And this. And—"
She paused, glanced back at May.
"You vouching for them?"
May hesitated — only slightly — then gave a quiet nod.
"I am."
Corva made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh.
"Then they're provisional until further notice. Welcome to the Crest."
She slapped a small stamped emblem onto the desk — a tarnished bronze pin shaped like a curled wolf, half howling, half fading into a tree.
"Your mark. Don't lose it."
Moore picked his up and squinted at it.
"Does it come with dental?"
Corva stared.
Ronell coughed to cover her snort.
May walked away toward the quest board.
---
The mission board creaked under the weight of faded contracts and fresh ink. Moore leaned in, scanning the parchment slips like he was choosing bread at a bakery.
"We could... escort a chicken merchant to the southern gate," he mumbled, unimpressed.
"Pass," Ronell said flatly.
May plucked one from the center and held it up.
"Here."
Corva looked over from behind the desk.
"Ah. The glowmice job. Still open. Old enchanter on Copper Street — his containment charms failed. Whole cellar's lit up like a firework festival."
Moore raised a brow.
"They're mice. What's the problem?"
"They bite," Corva replied. "And they duplicate when startled."
Ronell blinked.
"They what?"
"Don't startle them."
---
They arrived at the enchanter's house a short walk later — a squat, ivy-covered cottage with stained glass windows and a slightly scorched chimney. The old man greeted them at the door in slippers and a smoking cap, waving them down toward the basement stairs.
"Watch the spell shelf," he called. "Last time someone knocked it over, I grew mushrooms from my ears for a week."
The cellar was glowing. Literally.
Bioluminescent footprints darted across the dusty stone floor, vanishing behind crates, into cracks, through holes in the wall. Several tiny squeaks echoed like ghost bells.
May stood near the door, arms crossed.
"You two handle this. Think of it as training."
Moore pulled out a broom someone had left by the door.
"What's the plan, boss?"
Ronell scanned the room quickly — eyes sharp.
"We corner them gently. Don't startle them. No shouting. No sudden movements."
Moore made a show of zipping his mouth shut.
They started slow — easing around crates, whispering, gesturing. One mouse popped its head out of a broken jar — glowing blue, with tiny feathered ears. Moore lunged for it.
It squeaked.
There was a poof of light — and suddenly, two mice darted in opposite directions.
"You startled it!" Ronell hissed.
"It startled me first!" Moore hissed back.
From her place by the stairs, May sighed.
More chaos unfolded:Ronell tried luring a group with breadcrumbs from her pocket. Moore got a glowing tail up the sleeve. At one point, Ronell dove into a barrel, and Moore yelled, "Don't—" poof! — four more mice.
Eventually, they managed to herd the lot into a glowing pile beneath a laundry basket, which Ronell promptly dropped over them with a slam.
"Success," she panted, sitting on the edge of a barrel.
Moore's hair was sticking up on one side, and something had nibbled a hole through his cloak.
May clapped — once.
"You'll live."
The old man reappeared with a jar of candy and three small pouches of coin.
"Excellent work. You didn't collapse the ceiling this time."
Ronell grinned. Moore beamed. May pocketed the candy.
---
The sun was low by the time they returned to The Tarnished Crest, casting long shadows across the guildhall floor. A few adventurers were gathered near the fireplace, exchanging loud stories and louder drinks. The scent of roasted meat wafted in from the attached tavern.
Ronell's tunic was dusted with straw and glowing powder. Moore's sleeves were damp and slightly chewed at the edges. May looked, as always, pristine — though even she had a faint smudge of light dust near her collar.
They approached the desk. Corva looked up from her ledger, squinting slightly at their state.
"Let me guess," she said, deadpan. "You startled them."
Moore coughed. "Technically, they startled me first."
Corva rolled her eyes but held out her hand for their guild cards — plain wooden rectangles with a faint crest etched in the corner.
She pressed a thick iron stamp to each of them in turn. It left a deep red emblem like a wax seal, slightly warm to the touch.
"Congratulations. You're now officially part of the mess."
Ronell held her card up like it was gold. She couldn't hide the small smile pulling at her mouth — bright, almost childlike.
"We really did it."
Moore tucked his into his sleeve. "Could've gone worse. We didn't burn anything down."
"Yet," Corva said dryly.
May took her card back silently, brushing her thumb over the seal, but didn't comment.
They stepped aside, finding a quiet table in the corner as the light through the guild windows turned orange-gold. Someone nearby started tuning a lute. Tankards clinked. Voices rose and fell like birdsong.
Ronell leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands.
"I want to do that again."
Moore stretched, then slouched.
"Remind me next time to bring gloves. Or cheese."
May smiled — barely. A quiet breath through her nose.
"You did well," she said, so soft it could have been lost in the din.
But they heard it.
They sat there a moment longer, letting it sink in — the weight of the seal, the buzz of shared effort, the gentle feeling of we're really doing this.
For the first time since arriving in the city, they didn't feel like strangers anymore.
They felt like a team.
---
The three of them pushed through the front doors of The Tarnished Crest, stepping into the dusky warmth of early evening. The streets were glowing softly — lanterns being lit one by one. Laughter echoed faintly from nearby taverns. The day felt like a success.
Ronell and Moore were still mid-conversation, voices low and full of that new adventurer energy.
May lingered behind them, just for a second.
Her eyes flicked sideways, toward the guild's central bulletin board — where dozens of colorful quest slips fluttered like leaves. She scanned them once, disinterested.
Until she saw it.
Pinned in the top corner, trimmed in gold.Elegant script. Thick parchment. Heavier ink.
The request didn't list details — only a vague title:
"Special Commission: Retrieval & Containment — High Risk. Inquire Upstairs."
No contact. No location. Just a wax seal May recognized too well.
Her face didn't change. But her fingers curled slightly at her side. She glanced up — not directly, just subtly — toward the upper balcony of the guild.
For a moment, she thought she saw a figure standing there — tall, cloaked, unmoving.
Watching.
But when she blinked, the space was empty.
A wind rustled the papers. She turned away without a word and caught up with the others, slipping back into their laughter.
Behind them, the board was still.But the gold notice fluttered faintly in the breeze — as if someone had touched it.