The air outside was crisp, the kind of cool evening breeze that carried the faint scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Rowan pulled his coat tighter around himself, his steps light yet deliberate as he made his way through the cobbled streets of Litwick.

  The town was alive with the soft hum of activity—merchants packing up their stalls, lamplighters igniting the lanterns that illuminated the streets, and the faint laughter of revelers spilling out from the taverns and inns that dotted the main thoroughfare.

  His body still ached from the ordeal in the Plateau, the residual pain a constant reminder of how close he’d come to ending up as a lizard's dinner. His Core felt dim, his channels sluggish, but Rowan pushed those thoughts aside.

  Right now, he had a different goal in mind.

  It had been almost a week since Rowan had last left his house. Seven days of grueling focus, advancement, and all-around boredom.

  Well, besides that part at the end. That was as far from boring as it gets.

  But tonight wasn’t about reflection. It was about something far simpler: a drink, and some good company to go along with it.

  Rowan’s lips twitched into a faint smile as he approached the Guild Hall, the familiar sight easing some of the tension from his shoulders. The massive structure loomed ahead, its stone walls etched with years of wear and its thick wooden doors practically radiating warmth.

  The faint hum of a busy night reached him even before he stepped inside—the clinking of tankards, the muffled banter of adventurers, and the occasional cheer coming from what he assumed was the arena.

  I hope the team’s here, he thought, stepping inside.

  Warmth enveloped him, along with the unmistakable scent of ale, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of recently sharpened weapons.

  Rowan looked around, searching for anyone familiar.

  When he didn’t find them, he moved deeper in, going to the back.

  Probably at the training yard.

  They spent most of their time there—working on their skills, sparring, and pushing themselves in anticipation of the next challenge.

  The backyard of the Guild Hall was a sprawling space, dotted with sparring circles, training dummies, and scattered groups of adventurers in various stages of practice.

  It didn’t take him long to spot them.

  Nemir was leaning against a post, his greatsword in hand as he lazily inspected the edge. Omi stood nearby, watching Annie demonstrate a series of rapid strikes on a worn practice dummy. Her spear moved with frightening precision, the thuds of her blows audible even over the din of the yard.

  And then there was Silvia, standing next to a familiar figure.

  They were a little apart from the others, with Zoe crouched over a small bundle of herbs, her lips moving in what Rowan guessed was some sort of incantation. Her wheat-white hair caught the light of the torches scattered around the yard, and her forest-green eyes flickered upward as she caught sight of him approaching.

  Rowan raised a hand, a smile on his face. “Would you look at that,” he called out. “If it isn’t the hardest working team in Litwick.”

  Annie paused mid-swing, turning to look at him. “Well, well, well,” she smirked, stabbing her spear into the ground. “Still alive, huh?”

  “What? Disappointed?”

  She snorted, crossing her arms. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  Nemir walked over, clasping his forearm. “So, are you finally going to share what’s got you holed up for so long?”

  Rowan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he glanced at Nemir. “I might. But I'd much rather do it over a drink.”

  Silvia stepped closer, looking him over with a critical eye. “Something’s different about you,” she muttered, circling him. “You look like you went ten rounds with a troll and came out… well, alive, at least.”

  “Hey now,” Rowan replied, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I took a bath before coming here. Even added a bit of soap.”

  “Truly a man of culture,” Omi snorted.

  Zoe nodded towards him, holding a pack of bundled herbs in her arms. “Congratulations on advancing.”

  That passed through the group like a wave, and Rowan barely managed to suppress a sigh.

  Way to pop my bubble.

  Annie grinned after she scanned him. “So that’s what you were working on,” she said, clapping him on the back.

  “Surprise,” Rowan smiled.

  “I told you I hate surprises,” she laughed. “But alright. This one isn’t all bad.”

  The rest of them joined in, and pretty soon Rowan was flooded with congratulations and an even bigger number of questions. He had his own set for them, so he herded them away from the yard and towards the Hall.

  The team picked up their gear and obliged.

  There was a lot to talk about. The reason Rowan had finally focused on advancing had been the encounter with Killian, and ever since Annie had told him the Silver-rank wanted a cut of the shaman's Core, he’d been expecting a knock on his door. But it hadn’t come.

  Yet.

  His soul injury made that whole thing much more complicated. Because even though Rowan advanced, he was weaker than ever right now. Without access to his spells, there wasn’t a lot he could do if things went sideways.

  Having the stats of someone at low Iron while at Bronze I was usually enough when he could explode his problems away, but if he fought someone now, he’d most likely lose.

  No going on quests for a while, he thought, looking at the team. And I’d feel better if they didn’t go either.

  There was no telling how long it would take for him to heal. Rowan hoped his trait wasn’t just for show, and that it’d prove its worth now that he could really use it, but the only thing he could do was wait.

  This was his first time experiencing something like this. Depending on the severity, a soul injury could take anywhere between a week and a year to heal. But the System was deliberate in its naming, so Rowan had a feeling his recovery wouldn't be quite so long.

  After all, an [Immortal Soul] should be able to take a bit of a beating.

  Rowan looked over at the new member of their group, which was another thing he wanted to hear about.

  He wasn’t surprised by their decision to let her join. Having a healer was a massive boon. The worship of Eldara was widespread, even here in Litwick, but members of her order were rare. She could have joined any team she wanted, and ‘Why them?’ was a question Rowan was curious to hear the answer to.

  They entered the Guild Hall.

  The noise had only grown, more adventurers filling the space, and even a troupe playing in one of the corners.

  Rowan let the familiar atmosphere wash over him.

  This was exactly what he needed.

  A moment to just… breathe.

  For a minute, he just stood there at the doors. As he did, a small, miniscule portion of the ache in his spirit disappeared, and Rowan couldn’t help but smile.

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  Might take even shorter than a week, he thought.

  “You coming?” Annie’s voice broke him out of it. “They found a table, and you’re buying,” she said, nodding towards where the rest of the team was already sitting down, ordering a round.

  .

  .

  .

  The next hour passed faster than Rowan would have liked. They celebrated his advancement, his coin purse getting lighter by the minute.

  The conversation flowed freely, and he found out what he missed over the last week.

  Zoe hadn’t been all that forthcoming about her reasons for joining them, and besides saying that it ‘felt right’, she didn’t offer much else. But that was fine. Her reasons were her own, and it would be more than a bit hypocritical for him to pester someone about their secrets. Not to mention plain old rude.

  Silvia, Omi, and Annie all proudly showed off their new gear. The reward from the goblin quest had filled their pockets, and they decided to splurge.

  Silvia’s new bow was made of hardened ironwood. Flexible and strong in equal measure. It was the perfect material for making a weapon that focused on range, and Rowan found himself surprised there was someone in Litwick capable of making it.

  Annie, on the other hand, had decided to strengthen her existing spear. There was a sharpness rune engraved into the blade now, and a durability one adoring the shaft.

  Omi had gone a different route, purchasing a pair of finely made boots. The muffle enchantment on their heels wasn’t flashy, but for the rogue, it was exactly what he needed.

  Rowan realized something as they bragged about their purchases. Something he should have done as soon as he’d advanced.

  He was so focused on playing with his new affinity and wanting to test himself that he’d forgotten to really look over the Vault. The only thing he’d taken had been the ring. And while it had certainly proven useful, Rowan really should have outfitted himself better.

  Now he couldn’t. At least not until his soul healed up.

  Thinking about the Vault led to him wondering if he should share his gear with the team. There were items in there that would give them a substantial increase in fighting power. But it’d also lead to questions.

  He couldn’t exactly start pulling out suits of armor and a dozen different enchanted weapons for them to choose from without raising a few eyebrows.

  They knew he had a storage ring, but explaining the size could prove troublesome.

  In the end, Rowan decided he’d make that decision when he actually needed to. The Vault wasn’t going anywhere, and neither were they. He’d have time to mull it over while he was healing.

  But the fun couldn’t last forever.

  After a few drinks, he shoved away his plate and looked at Annie.

  “Any news from the loan shark?” he asked, setting aside his mug.

  She sighed, the atmosphere immediately growing strained. “His main group left on a quest a few days ago, guarding a caravan up to Tumbleton, so it’s been quiet. But his team has some thirty-odd members. The ones he left behind are mostly low Iron. Nothing too troublesome, but they started getting annoying a few days back.”

  Rowan frowned. “Annoying how?”

  Omi rolled his eyes. “They’re waiting for an opportunity to jump us, that’s how,” he took a sip of his drink, not seeming too bothered by that fact. “Not that it’d do them much good,” he said with a wry smile. “Well, besides getting some of their facial features rearranged.”

  “I could assist,” Zoe added, nursing a glass of apple cider. “Wrongly healing an injury is immensely painful. Not to mention making it much harder to mend.”

  A stunned silence fell over the table.

  Didn’t expect that, Rowan thought, barely suppressing a chuckle.

  “That is… brutal,” Silvia muttered, a not-so-innocent twinkle in her eyes. She tried to put her arm around the healer, but Zoe scooted away with surprising agility.

  “Was that not what we are going for?” she asked, glancing around the table with a curious expression.

  “I like it,” Omi nodded. “It’s savage. In an almost artistic way.”

  “Alright, let’s not get carried away,” Nemir quickly interjected, raising his hands placatingly. “As much as I don’t like them and the way they do things, torture doesn’t seem like the way to go.”

  “Spoil sport,” Annie smirked, nudging the burly swordsman with her shoulder. “Besides, I doubt they’d try anything now that we have an Orange-core mage with us.”

  Rowan smiled, raising his mug. “If they do, I’ll make sure to bore them to death. Because right now, I doubt I can do much more.”

  His soul injury had one silver lining, and that was that it coincided with his advancement. Mages usually spend a few weeks recuperating after managing it, their Core’s strained from the task. Him being out of commission was expected.

  Rowan had completely forgotten about that particular aspect of his craft. Which was understandable, seeing as he never thought he’d have to actually deal with it.

  “How long is it going to take for you to heal?” Nemir asked.

  Rowan sighed, tapping the edge of his mug. “I’m not exactly sure, but I’d say around a week or two.”

  That was a complete guess, but Rowan trusted in his trait to get him through this.

  “Might finally be time for you to work on getting a skill,” Annie suggested. “Your body’s fine, why not use it? Skin Toughening shouldn’t take you that long.”

  “That doesn't sound like a good time,” Rowan muttered. “Hitting myself with a stick for hours on end isn’t my idea of fun.”

  But even as he complained, Rowan knew she was right. He wasn’t planning on spending the next whoever knows how long just lying around. This was the perfect opportunity for him to work on advancing his body. And getting a skill would be helpful, in more ways than one.

  “There are better ways to go about it,” Nemir said, a smile tugging at his lips.

  “Is that what you think warriors do all day?” Annie snorted “Hit stuff?”

  “And get hit back,” Rowan added, earning himself a flick to the forehead in response.

  “Hey!” he yelped, some of his ale spilling on the table. “You’re just proving my point.”

  Silvia finally stopped pestering Zoe, turning to Rowan. “You’d rather sleep under a tall oak for a week, taking in the sunshine and smelling the grass? Thinking really hard?”

  “Honestly, yes,” he chuckled. “But if there’s a better way, I’d be eager to hear it,” he said to Nemir.

  “We can work on it tomorrow,” Nemir answered, taking in a spoonful of a hearty broth.

  Rowan nodded. “Alright, I guess that’s settled.”

  “I still can’t believe you spent a whole week doing nothing,” Silvia shook her head. “My brain would literally melt if I had to do something like that.”

  “Gods forbid,” Omi muttered, also earning himself a flick to the forehead.

  Rowan could have tried to argue that he was working on his Core, perfecting his craft, mastering the arcane arts. But he’d tried to explain magic to her multiple times already, and it almost always ended with him getting a headache.

  “Alright, it might not have been the most exciting few days. But it was more than worth it.”

  Mentioning his trip to the Plateau would have dealt with the accusation that he was doing nothing, but Rowan couldn’t exactly mention it. The tokens weren’t something he could easily explain.

  Rowan was fine with them thinking he was an apprentice sent out to get life experience, the same way he assumed another member of their team was.

  But even the richest people in the kingdom couldn’t teleport halfway across it—and back—for an afternoon trip the way Rowan was doing it. The tokens were by far the most expensive thing in the Vault—at least of what he’d gotten so far—and if he showed them off, the only thing that would make sense was if he was a member of a Great House.

  His features would make narrowing it down even easier. Rowan’s raven black hair and steely gray eyes could be explained by them being a coincidence. The kingdom was big, and there were bound to be people who looked similar to those in power.

  But if someone really looked—with the right lens—it wouldn’t be hard to see a member of House Athlain.

  And that was something Rowan wanted to avoid.

  He’d like to think no one was looking for him, yet there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, telling him to be cautious.

  The other Great Houses had reasons for wanting him dead. His title was acknowledged by the System, and if they wanted it, there was only one way for them to get it.

  Rowan wasn’t going to underestimate what an Archmage could do. Finding him wasn’t going to be simple, but he wasn’t going to make it easier for them just so he could brag to his friends. They were in a room filled with competent people, and even though the noise was customarily high, there was no telling who could overhear.

  “You mages have it so easy,” Annie muttered. “Meanwhile, I’ve been swinging this hunk of wood around like mad for the last year, and I still haven’t gotten my [Spear Mastery] up to Expert.”

  “Having a Proficient skill at your level is already quite the achievement,” Zoe said. “Advancing it to Expert before reaching Silver isn’t something most are able to boast about.”

  Annie seemed taken aback by the compliment, and Rowan decided to save her from the monumental task of having to say thank you.

  “How much did the Core end up selling for?” he asked, calling over a server and ordering another round. “Seeing as Killian took an interest in it, it’s got to be a pretty substantial sum.”

  “1250 gold,” Omi answered, soundlessly tapping his new boots against the wooden floor. “All in all, we made just north of two thousand gold on that quest.”

  “More danger, more profit,” Annie shrugged, her lips curling down into a small frown. “But if I’m being honest, I thought it’d last me longer,” she glanced at her spear. “Enchantments have no business being this expensive.”

  Rowan ignored her complaining. “He’s asking for twenty percent, right?”

  Nemir frowned. “Yes. Two hundred and fifty gold. To ‘reimburse’ him.”

  “Well that's not going to happen,” Annie said firmly. “And they’re not going to do shit about it. There were six more goblin pack sightings in the last week, not to mention one that turned out to be another makeshift village. The Guild is turtling up for the surge. No ‘accidents’ allowed.”

  “Was there another shaman?” Rowan couldn’t help but ask.

  Annie shook her head. “No, just more hobgoblins. The Red Fangs are mostly a martial tribe, so they don’t have a bunch of casters. They probably pulled them back.”

  That was good to hear, because if a tribe that focused on magic tried to settle here, Rowan doubted there would be much they could do. But those thankfully rarely made their way south. Their territories were inside mountains, or deep underground, their tribes secure against the surge.

  Just then, a group entered the Hall. Rowan glanced at them absentmindedly and went to look away, but a familiar face caught his eye.

  He frowned. “That’s the guy that was with Killian in the cave, right?” Rowan asked. “Wisk?”

  Omi snorted. “Close enough.”

  “It’s Misk,” Annie corrected him. “He’s in charge of the Steel Fist while the big bad Silver-rank is out of town.”

  The wiry-looking man didn’t even spare them a glance, instead moving to a person sitting closer to the stage with a case clutched in his hands.

  Rowan looked closer. “What do they want with the kid?”

  The boy was around fourteen, with a messy head of chestnut brown hair and his face still carrying a hint of adolescence.

  “Guess we’ll find out,” Annie replied, setting her mug down and turning her focus to the group of four menacing-looking adventures making their way across the Hall.

  Once they reached him, Misk didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed the case and yanked it out of the boy's hands.

  His eyes widened in surprise and alarm. “Wait, don’t!” he shouted as the thug opened it, revealing a beautifully crafted lyre.

  “I paid for these strings, kid. And seeing as you decided to spit on my generosity, I’m taking them back.”

  Rowan felt his anger stir. It was one thing to mess with fellow adventurers, people who could fight back. But it was another thing entirely to go after someone so much weaker than yourself.

  He scanned the kid, his frown deepening.

  And when he scanned the group, Rowan was already standing up.

  There was something incredibly distasteful about taking a musician's instrument away. And while right now there wasn’t a lot Rowan could do if it turned into a fight, they didn’t know that.

  You want to be annoying? Fine.

  Straightening up, he began walking towards them, the very image of a pissed-off mage.

  I can be annoying too.