The heavy oak doors of the Vanguard Guild Hall slammed shut behind them, muffling the roar of the drinking mercenaries and the aggressive crackle of the hearth. Outside, the night air of the Port of Brotherhood was biting, carrying the scent of salt and the lingering, metallic tang of the Kristal Biru fused to their weapons.
The coin purse at Aurora's hip didn't just jingle; it sang the heavy, seductive baritone of survival. They were rich. They were alive. And for the first time in their short careers, they were dangerous.
Roui Mirtout made it three steps down the cobblestone street before his legs gave out. He slumped against the rough brick of a warehouse, sliding down until he was sitting on the damp stones, his polished Null-Plate screeching against the masonry.
"I think," the noble wheezed, loosening the collar of his tunic, "that my heart has stopped. Check my pulse. I am statistically certain I am dead."
Persya didn't check his pulse. instead, he leaned against the wall opposite the noble, crossing his arms over the slate-grey skin of his chest. The faint, angry orange glow in his veins was slowly fading as his internal furnace cooled down.
"Your heart is fine, 'Lord Mirtout,'" Persya said, the mockery in his voice tempered by a grudging respect. "Though for a moment back there, you sounded exactly like the people who used to bid on me."
Roui looked up, a ghost of his usual smile returning. "It's called elocution, Persya. It's a weapon. Just one that doesn't involve turning wood into sludge."
"It worked," Persya admitted, kicking a loose pebble with his boot. "Garrick bought it. For now."
A few paces away, Isla was kneeling on the cobblestones. She wasn't praying; she was working. Alyia stood rigidly still, her face a mask of indifference, but Isla was gently rolling up the sniper's pant leg.
"You're favoring the left," Isla murmured, her hands glowing with a soft, diagnostic Hydro pulse. "When you climbed the crane. You twisted it."
"Structure is intact," Alyia said, staring straight ahead at a flickering streetlamp, refusing to look down at the care being administered. "Pain is... manageable data."
"Pain is a warning, Alyia," Isla corrected softly. She pulled a small vial of salve from her pouch—sea-kelp and iodine—and began applying it to the swelling ankle. "We aren't machines. Even if you try to act like one."
Alyia didn't pull away. In the silence, the awkward Pengdhudhuk leaned slightly, just a fraction of an inch, resting her weight on Isla's shoulder to take the pressure off the foot. It was a gesture so small it was almost invisible, but for the shy Una cum Aequor, it was a shout of gratitude.
"Hey," a voice drifted from the center of the street.
Aurora was standing under the gaslight, inspecting her fingernails. She looked entirely too calm for a woman who had just defrauded the Guild and killed a D3 threat. She turned, her bioluminescent blue eyes catching the lamplight.
"Are we done hyperventilating and nursing wounds? I'm starving. And thanks to Roui's 'inheritance,' I can afford actual meat. Not the rat-on-a-stick Persya usually finds."
Persya pushed off the wall, walking over to her. He towered over her, his presence a wall of scarred muscle and cynical pragmatism, but she didn't flinch. She never did.
"We need to talk about the Intel," Persya said, his voice low. "Scribe Varrick. The trap."
"We will," Aurora yawned, stretching her arms until her joints popped. "Over food. I can't plot revenge on an empty stomach. It's bad for the complexion."
"You're taking this lightly," Persya growled, stepping into her personal space. "We almost died, Aurora. If Isla hadn't seen the currents... if Roui hadn't held the line..."
"But they did," Aurora interrupted. She looked up at him, the playfulness vanishing for a singular, terrifying heartbeat. She reached out, her hand brushing the collar of his armor, right over the hidden brand on his neck. "I trust them. And I trust you to be the paranoid one so I don't have to be."
Persya froze. It was the same look she had given him ten years ago in Basilea Elpidos. The look that said 'You are not a thing. You are Persya.'.
"I am not paranoid," he muttered, looking away, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "I am statistically realistic."
"Sure," Aurora grinned, slapping his arm. "Come on, Persya. Lead the way. You know the best dive bars where the nobles won't look for us."
She turned and began walking down the fog-slicked street. Persya watched her for a second, sighed—a sound like a collapsing lung—and followed. He would always follow.
Roui scrambled up, dusting off his armor. "Wait! If we're going to a dive bar, I need to scuff my boots. I look too... shiny."
"You look like a target," Alyia said, testing her weight on her healed ankle. She walked past him, daggers clicking at her waist. "Try not to get stabbed."
The Squad stood at a crossroads in the damp night. To the east lay the Tavern of the Drowned, a subterranean hole-in-the-wall known for strong Bēor and loose tongues. To the west lay the Raimei-Gai District, the slums where they could hide and properly test their new gear without prying eyes. And to the north... the Guild Records Office, where Scribe Varrick worked.
Aurora spun on her heel, her new axe humming with a hungry blue light.
"Alright, team. Decision time. How do we spend our first night as legends?"
"To the east," Aurora declared, pointing her axe toward the faint, rhythmic thumping of bass coming from a subterranean stairwell. "Alcohol. Grease. And bad decisions. My three favorite food groups."
She didn't wait for a vote. She marched down the stairs, the heavy coin purse at her hip keeping time with her steps.
The Tavern of the Drowned lived up to its name. Located in the sub-basement of an old dry-dock, the ceiling was low enough that Persya had to stoop, and the air was thick with the humidity of a hundred sweating bodies, roast meat, and the acrid smoke of Tobac pipes.
The squad claimed a scarred oak table in the back, far from the prying eyes of the bar but close enough to the kitchen to smell the roasting Tauros ribs.
"Four pints of Bēor," Aurora ordered, slamming a gold coin onto the table as a serving boy scurried past. "And meat. All of it. If it had parents, I want it on a plate."
The boy's eyes widened at the gold, and he vanished into the crowd.
Roui sat down gingerly, trying to keep his cloak from touching the sticky floor. He looked around the dimly lit room, his nose wrinkling slightly. "Charming atmosphere. It smells like... wet dog and regret."
"It smells like honest work," Persya grunted, sliding into the booth opposite him. He removed his gauntlets, placing them on the table with a heavy thud. "Something you wouldn't recognize, 'Lord Mirtout.'"
"I worked today!" Roui protested, unbuckling his pauldron. "I held a pier together with my bare hands. I lied to a purple-tier veteran. I am practically a working-class hero."
"You looked terrified," Alyia noted flatly from the end of the table. She was polishing her glasses again, her amber eyes scanning the room's exits. "Heart rate elevated to 140 beats per minute. Pupil dilation consistent with acute panic response."
"That was adrenaline, Alyia," Roui said, flashing a winning smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "The fuel of champions."
"It was fear," Isla whispered, sitting next to Alyia. She reached out, her pale hand covering Alyia's trembling fingers on the table. "And that's okay. We were all scared."
The food arrived—a mountain of ribs, blackened potatoes, and bread so dense it could be used as masonry. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of starving soldiers eating.
For ten minutes, they weren't a squad; they were a pack of wolves devouring a kill.
When the pace slowed, and the mugs of dark, heavy Bēor were drained, the tension in their shoulders finally began to unspool.
"So," Persya said, wiping grease from his chin. He fixed his bioluminescent blue eyes on Roui. "That speech. 'Strategic Inheritance.' Where did you pull that from?"
Roui took a long drink, the foam coating his upper lip. He wiped it away with a napkin—likely the only napkin in the entire tavern.
"My father," Roui said, his voice losing its usual theatrical lilt. "Lord Commander Mirtout. He used to say that the truth is just a raw material. You have to refine it into a narrative before you sell it." He looked at the glowing blue veins in his armor. "I just... channeled him. I hated every second of it."
"It saved our skins," Persya admitted, leaning back. "Garrick would have crushed us. You bought us time. I respect the outcome, even if the method was... flowery."
"Flowery?" Roui chuckled. "It was poetry, my grey friend."
At the other end of the table, a quieter conversation was unfolding.
Isla was staring at the pile of bones on her plate, doing mental math. "This meal cost four silvers. The Kristal Biru modifications... the bribe for the clerk... we're spending the money faster than we earned it."
"Survival is expensive," Alyia said, dipping a piece of bread into the gravy. She didn't look at Isla, but her shoulder was pressed firmly against the healer's arm. "Dead people have excellent savings accounts. But they are bored."
Isla smiled, a small, genuine thing. "I just... I need to send enough back to Estrada. The sea-grain harvest was bad this year."
"We will," Alyia stated, her tone final. "Persya optimized the loot distribution. Your share is secured. I checked the math. Twice."
Isla looked at the socially awkward sniper, seeing the fierce loyalty behind the amber eyes. "Thank you, Alyia. For checking."
"It was... efficient to check," Alyia mumbled, burying her face in her mug to hide the flush on her cheeks.
Across the table, Aurora had finished her second pint and was now leaning her chin on her hand, watching Persya with a heavy-lidded, predatory amusement.
"You're doing it again," she murmured.
Persya blinked, pulled from his staring contest with a drunk Jötunn at the bar. "Doing what?"
"Scanning. Assessing. Being a prickly pear," Aurora said, reaching across the table to poke the center of his forehead. "We are safe, Persya. The door is locked. The beer is cold. Turn off the 'Soldier' setting."
"I don't have an off switch, Aurora," Persya said, though he didn't pull away from her touch. "One of us has to pay attention. Varrick is still out there. Garrick might come back. The beer might be poisoned."
"Paranoid," she sang.
"Realistic," he countered.
Aurora sighed, shifting in the booth so she was facing him more directly. The noise of the tavern seemed to fade into a dull roar around them.
"Do you remember the first time we ate meat like this?" she asked, her voice dropping to a register that excluded Roui and the others.
Persya stiffened. "Basilea Elpidos. Ten years ago."
"You were so skinny," Aurora said, her eyes soft. "You tried to hide the bread in your pockets because you thought the masters would take it back."
"I was a slave, Aurora," Persya said, his voice hard, the orange glow in his neck veins pulsing faintly. "Old habits die hard. You were the one who told me to eat it. You told me..."
"...that food belongs to the one who holds the fork," Aurora finished. "And names belong to the one who answers to them."
She reached out, grabbing his hand. Her skin was warm, a stark contrast to his cool, slate-grey flesh.
"You aren't that boy anymore, Persya. You aren't 'Nameless Property.' You are the man who just melted a pier to kill a leviathan. Why do you still look at the door like you're waiting for permission to be here?"
Persya looked down at their joined hands. The scar on his neck itched—a phantom pain from the collar he hadn't worn in a decade.
"Because I know how the world works, Aurora," he whispered, the vulnerability cracking through his cynical shell for just a second. "They let us play at being heroes. They let us wear the badges. But the moment we step out of line... the moment we actually threaten them... they will remind us what we are. 'Half-breds.' 'Mongrels.'"
He pulled his hand back, clenching it into a fist. "I watch the door because I know who is waiting on the other side. And I need to be ready to break their teeth so you don't have to."
Aurora looked at him, a mixture of frustration and heartbreak in her eyes. "I don't need a shield, Persya. I have an axe. I need a partner."
"I am your partner," Persya said, his voice gruff. "I'm the one who makes sure your blind side doesn't get you killed."
"That's a role, not a person," Aurora snapped, signaling for another drink. "But fine. Be the wall. Just... try to enjoy the ribs while you're being stoic."
The tension at the table was thick enough to cut with a knife, but before Roui could attempt a diplomatic intervention, the tavern door slammed open.
The music stopped. The chatter died.
Standing in the doorway wasn't Garrick. It wasn't the City Watch.
It was a courier, wearing the grey-and-gold livery of the Guild Intelligence Office. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the mismatched squad in the corner. He walked over, the sound of his boots echoing in the sudden silence, and dropped a sealed envelope onto the table, right in the middle of the rib bones.
"Message for Squad Aurora," the courier droned. "From Scribe Varrick. He says... 'Congratulations on your survival. We should discuss your performance review.'"
The courier turned and left.
Aurora stared at the letter. The wax seal was red.
"He knows," Alyia said, her hand drifting to her daggers. "He knows we survived. And he knows we didn't report back immediately."
"Performance review," Persya spat. "That's code for 'Interrogation.'"
Aurora picked up the letter. She didn't open it. She looked at her squad—Roui, pale but determined; Isla, terrified but ready; Persya, eyes already mapping the exit routes.
"Well," Aurora said, a dangerous smile returning to her lips. "I guess the celebration is over."
"He wants a meeting? We give him a show," Aurora announced, kicking her chair back with enough force to startle a table of Dwarven miners. She stood, the blue veins in her Kristal Biru-infused axe pulsing in sync with her irritation.
"We don't hide. And we don't skulk. If Varrick wants a review, he gets an audience." She tossed a gold coin to the serving boy, who caught it with the reverence of a acolyte receiving a holy relic. "Keep the change. And tell everyone the 'Slayers of the Deep' are heading to the Hall to claim their due."
Persya groaned, sliding his gauntlets back on. The metal clicked, a sound like a chambering round. "This is a mistake. We are painting a target on our backs."
"We are the target, Persya," Roui corrected, standing and smoothing his cloak. He checked his reflection in a polished spoon, adjusting a stray lock of hair. "The only way to stop a hunter is to become a celebrity. Nobody shoots the lead actor in the middle of the play. It's bad form."
Alyia stood silently, her amber eyes flicking between them. "Logic sound," she murmured, holstering her daggers. "Publicity increases the social cost of our assassination. Though... I hate crowds."
"Just stay close to me," Isla whispered, grabbing her wand. "I'll make sure nobody steps on you."
They left the tavern not as a covert strike team, but as a parade. As they marched back up the street toward the Guild Hall, Roui worked the crowd. He didn't shout; he projected. He waved to mercenaries he didn't know, nodded solemnly to shopkeepers, and by the time they reached the heavy oak doors of the Vanguard Hall, a small, curious entourage had formed in their wake.
They burst through the doors.
The Guild Hall was at peak capacity. The evening rush of contracts was in full swing. The air smelled of wet wool, ozone, and cheap ale.
"Scribe Varrick!" Aurora's voice cut through the din like a Lumen flare. She didn't shout; she commanded. She strode to the center of the room, her heavy boots thudding on the stone floor.
The hall went quiet. Hundreds of eyes—veterans, rookies, clerks—turned to the Orange Tier squad standing in the center of the room. Their gear, glowing with the expensive, illegal hum of Kristal Biru, demanded attention.
A door on the mezzanine level opened. Scribe Varrick stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the main floor.
He was a man who looked like he had been dried out in a kiln. Thin, pinched features, wire-rimmed spectacles, and robes of ink-stained grey. He looked down at them with the annoyance of a librarian finding a dog in the archives.
"Squad Aurora," Varrick's voice was dry, amplified by a minor Aero cantrip. "I requested a performance review. In my office. Not a theatrical production in the lobby."
"We thought the Guild deserved to hear it," Roui called out, stepping forward. He adopted his 'Courtier' stance—relaxed, open, dangerous. "After all, it isn't every day a rookie squad neutralizes a D3 Threat that was misclassified as a simple pest control mission."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Misclassified missions were a death sentence. To survive one was a feat; to accuse the administration of it was mutiny.
Varrick's eyes narrowed behind his lenses. "Administrative errors happen, Signifer Mirtout. We can discuss the... compensation... in private."
"No," Persya said. His voice was a grinding growl from the back of the formation. He stepped up beside Aurora, his slate-grey skin flushing with a threatening orange heat. "We discuss it here. Why was a Kryopagon nesting in a harbor you certified as safe last week? Why was the intel suppressed?"
Varrick gripped the railing. He saw the crowd watching. He saw Garrick the Breaker leaning against a pillar, listening intently. He couldn't silence them now.
"Very well," Varrick said, his face smoothing into a mask of bureaucratic indifference. He descended the stairs, walking into the center of the room. The crowd parted for him, not out of respect, but out of fear of his pen.
He stopped three paces from Aurora. He smelled of old paper and bitter ink.
"You survived," Varrick said softly, too low for the crowd to hear. "Impressive. Most Orange Tiers would be frozen meat."
"We aren't most Orange Tiers," Aurora smiled, leaning on her axe. "We're the expensive ones. Now. About that review."
Varrick raised his voice, addressing the room. "Squad Aurora has indeed performed... adequately. They neutralized a threat that escalated beyond projected parameters. The Guild acknowledges their initiative."
He turned back to them, his eyes cold. "However, initiative requires direction. Since you have proven so... capable... of handling anomalies, I have a new assignment for you. A 'Reward' for your valor."
He pulled a scroll from his sleeve. It wasn't the standard parchment; it was black vellum, sealed with purple wax.
"The Sunken Cathedral of Lacus Mortis," Varrick announced. The room went deadly silent. Even the drunk Jötunn in the corner stopped singing.
"We have reports of a Mana-Surge in the ruins," Varrick continued, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "Standard recon. But given your new... equipment..." he glanced pointedly at the Kristal Biru axe, "...I'm sure you can handle a Purple-Tier investigation."
Persya stiffened. Lacus Mortis. The Lake of the Dead. It was a death trap. A place where reality thinned and the Void leaked through. Sending Orange Tiers there wasn't a mission; it was an execution.
"You're sending us to the grave," Isla whispered, her face pale.
"I am sending you to prove you belong in this Guild," Varrick countered smoothly. "You want to be legends? Legends don't complain about the difficulty setting. You accept the contract... or you hand over your badges and that illegal loot for 'insubordination'."
He held out the black scroll. It was a trap. If they refused, they were stripped of rank and arrested for the crystal. If they accepted, they walked into a nightmare.
"Public enough for you?" Varrick whispered to Roui.
Aurora looked at the scroll. Then she looked at her squad. Persya was tense, ready to fight. Alyia was calculating odds (likely close to zero). Roui looked like he had swallowed a lemon.
Aurora laughed. It was a loud, brash sound that echoed off the stone walls.
"Fine," she said, snatching the scroll from his hand. "We'll clean up your mess, Varrick. Again. But when we come back..." she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper, "...I'm going to shave that beard with my axe."
"I look forward to it," Varrick said dryly.