The next morning, Roland left home earlier than usual. His sleep had been shallow and broken, and the city hadn't fully woken yet,though the main streets were already busy with the people who were always up at dawn: traders, apprentices, messengers, guards changing shifts.
And there, before he even reached Master Klein's shop, he ran into the first group wearing House Halven's colors.
They weren't standing around by chance, and they weren't speaking in hushed tones. They'd taken up positions where foot traffic naturally gathered,at crossroads, by wells, at the market entrances,and they spoke loudly and clearly, with the calm confidence of people who didn't need to persuade anyone by force. The message would do the work for them.
"Official announcement," said one of them,a young man in a spotless coat with well-kept hands. "The boss of a Beast-rank dungeon was defeated last night."
Roland slowed, like many others. Words like that didn't pass by unnoticed, not after days of tension and waiting for news from the dungeon's direction.
"The threat of a Dungeon Break has been averted," the messenger continued, his voice carrying down the street. "House Halven announces that three young mages of the family, acting together, defeated the boss in a single raid,without the need for prolonged operations or mass casualties."
Voices immediately rose around him.
"In one raid?" a woman beside Roland said, clutching a shopping basket. "Is that even possible?"
"The Halvens have always had powerful mages," someone else replied, relief plain in his tone. "If they handled it, it was only a matter of time."
"A Beast, not some mid-tier thing," an older man added. "If it's true, that's something to brag about."
Roland kept walking, slower now. Similar groups stood every few dozen meters, repeating the same information,sometimes with small embellishments, always in the same tone that emphasized not just victory, but the way it had been achieved.
"Three young mages," another envoy declared on the next street. "House Halven's future is secure, and the city can sleep peacefully."
"You hear that?" a boy jogging past Roland said to a coworker. "Three of them, and it's over. Didn't even need multiple expeditions."
"Good," the other answered. "People were saying if the boss matured, half the district would need evacuating."
"Well, there you go," someone cut in. "Noble magic does what it does."
Roland listened as he headed toward the shop, noticing how fast the tension that had hung over the city for days began to dissolve. People straightened their shoulders. Conversations drifted away from escape plans and stockpiling supplies toward something much simpler,relief, excitement, a rising pride. Nothing soothed ordinary people like the thought that someone stronger had already taken care of it.
"So it's over," an elderly woman told her neighbor. "I told you the noble houses wouldn't let a dungeon slip out of control."
"And thank the gods," the neighbor replied. "What could we have done anyway?"
Something in that line felt familiar. Roland had heard it in a hundred different shapes,whenever magic and power brushed up against ordinary life. It always ended the same way: a quiet acceptance of being an onlooker.
At one square, a messenger added something that drew particularly lively reactions.
"House Halven assures the public that further operations inside the dungeon will be conducted under full control, and all resources will be secured by the appropriate parties."
"So no more monsters on the roads," someone sighed.
"Good," a merchant said. "Let them take whatever they want,as long as we get peace."
Roland noticed what no one asked: who else had been in the dungeon, how many had gone in, what price had been paid for that "single raid." Propaganda didn't work through outright lies. It worked through omission,by putting the spotlight exactly where it was convenient and letting the rest vanish into the background.
By the time he reached Master Klein's shop, the city felt lighter, as if an invisible weight had been lifted. The talk around him was full of excitement and pride, even though most of these people had nothing to do with House Halven, or magic, or dungeons at all.
Roland paused for a moment before the door, still hearing a messenger behind him.
"The city can sleep safely. House Halven stands watch."
And he thought: this was how it always went, when victory was told from only one side,and the rest of the story was sealed somewhere deeper, where ordinary people didn't look. Because they didn't have to, if someone else had done it for them.
***
Rethan started early. He'd gotten the list of addresses during the night, and he knew that if he put it off, "later" would never come.
He got up, washed with water that stayed lukewarm no matter how far he turned the tap, pulled on the same jacket he always wore, checked that his guild documents were tucked into the inner pocket, and left,closing the door without hurry. There was no reason to rush anymore.
The first building was low and close to the street, plaster chipped around the frame. Before he knocked, he could hear voices through the thin door,ordinary, uneven. One raised more in irritation than anger. The other tired. He stood there for a moment, adjusting the strap of his glove, because he'd learned you didn't step into someone's life without warning, even if there was about to be no room left in it for order.
When the door opened, the man's eyes flicked first to Rethan's face, then to the guild insignia,like he was arranging the proper sequence of what was about to happen. Rethan gave his name and said he'd commanded the raid, with no preamble and no explanation. Any extra words tended to stick in memory longer than the ones that mattered.
The man took a step back, as if the doorway had suddenly narrowed.
He said his son was supposed to come back tomorrow.
Rethan said he wouldn't.
He died in a Beast-rank dungeon.
The body would be brought back after the procedures were complete.
Those were the facts. And facts came in an order that didn't care who was listening.
A woman came out from the other room, slow. She looked at her husband, then at Rethan. She didn't ask anything,just leaned against the wall. Rethan stayed a moment longer, answering questions about personal belongings, about pay, about who needed to report to the guild. He wrote names down, because without that, something was always missing later.
Then he left, closing the door behind him,the one someone had forgotten to shut all the way.
The second apartment was quieter. An older woman was already seated at the table, like she'd been waiting. Before he could speak, she said it was about her husband. Then she slid the cup that sat perfectly centered on the tabletop aside to make room for documents. She asked whether he died instantly or if it took a long time, and whether the dungeon had been closed,because if it had, at least no one else would have to repeat the same mistake.
Rethan answered each question in order, the way he'd answered them many times before. He didn't add anything beyond what he knew for certain. As he was leaving, he noticed she'd begun stacking cups inside each other, even though none of them were dirty.
At the third place, the door was opened by a boy,too young to understand why an unfamiliar adult stood on the threshold at that hour. Rethan had to repeat himself twice. The first time, the words didn't find meaning. When the simplest version finally landed, the boy sat down on the floor, back against the shoe cabinet. Rethan shifted slightly so he wouldn't block the stairwell light, because someone might be coming home any minute.
The fourth was transitional. A woman stood in the doorway holding a child who was asleep and too heavy to carry for long. Rethan spoke quickly,about assistance, deadlines, where to report. He could see her questions were mostly about rent and food, not about what happened in the dungeon. He wrote everything down, because memory failed people at moments like this.
The fifth house was full of people and the smell of food no one had touched. Conversation died the moment he entered. Someone asked if it was his fault.
Rethan said yes.
He'd been in command.
He didn't add anything else. That was enough. He waited until someone else took over the talking, then left.
The sixth apartment was the smallest. The door was opened by a man who'd once gone down into dungeons himself. When he saw Rethan, he nodded, like he was confirming something that had been written a long time ago. They sat at the table, and the conversation drifted to equipment,whether the sword would be returned, whether the son had had time to retreat. Rethan said he fought until the end, because that was a truth he could give without having to rewrite it in his head.
By the time Rethan got back to his room, it was late. Someone was cleaning the corridor. He took off his boots, set the documents on the little table that had been wobbling for years, and lay down on the bed without turning off the light. Tomorrow he still had to finish the report and check the payout list.
Those things didn't do themselves,no matter how many doors had closed today.
"I need a drink," Rethan whispered, staring at the ceiling above him. "As soon as possible."