Night Registers and Sharp Eyes
The column never reached Brighthollow.
A flash flood three nights earlier had torn away the only stone bridge across the Whitefoam. The detour cost an extra day and spat them out at Greystone Ford instead: a squat, ugly trading post of black basalt and dwarf-forged iron crouched on the edge of the Ashen Hills. Coal smoke, wet slate, and the sour reek of forges hung over everything. Smaller than Brighthollow, rougher, louder, and far less forgiving.
But it had a guildhall.
That was all that mattered.
Night fell like a dropped curtain.
Most of the camp was dead on its feet. Nobles sulked in their tents. Common soldiers snored in heaps around dying fires. The otherworlders slept curled into exhausted knots, some still twitching from nightmares of Low Cradle. The six moved through the darkness like it belonged to them.
Rin led.
Zeon walked half a pace behind and to her left (his place since the first midnight run, claimed without words and never surrendered). Kael, Noel, Silas, and Rhys followed in loose diamond formation, boots silent on frost-rimed grass. They ghosted between picket lines and half-dozing sentries with the ease of people who had learned that being seen was a choice, not an accident.
Greystone Ford’s guildhall squatted at the end of Smith’s Alley, three storeys of black stone and dwarf-iron beams built to survive siege or drunken brawl. The front doors were barred at sunset for show, but the side entrance (the one that opened into the alley that stank of ale, forge-coal, and piss) never truly closed. A grizzled doorman with one milky eye and a beard like steel wool waved them through without a word. He had seen Rin before.
Inside, the hall was warm, dim, and half-empty.
A dozen freelancers played cards in the corner, coins clinking. A dwarf smith nursed a tankard the size of a helmet, muttering at a cracked greave. Two beast-kin mercenaries sharpened claws at a back table, tails flicking. The air tasted of lamp oil, old blood, and the sour comfort of people who killed things for coin.
Rin walked straight to the registration counter like she owned the place.
Mara (mid-thirties, scar across her throat, eyes that had catalogued every lie ever told in this building) looked up from her ledger. Recognition flickered, followed by the faintest smirk.
“Well. The ghost returns.”
She tapped the open page with a calloused finger.
“ID: R-117. Current rank: Silver C-plus. Solo completion rate ninety-eight percent. No party. No fails. No disciplinary notes.”
She leaned forward slightly, voice dropping.
“You could sit the Gold exam tomorrow and walk out A-rank before lunch. Estates, not gold, girl. Why are you still slumming it in Silver?”
Rin’s answer was the same as always. Flat. Practiced.
“Busy.”
Mara snorted. “Busy hiding.”
Her gaze slid past Rin to the five young men waiting a respectful step behind.
“And you brought friends. That really is new.”
Zeon said nothing; he had heard this exact exchange four times before and knew Rin never changed her answer.
Kael, Noel, Silas, and Rhys, however, stared at Rin with open reappraisal.
Silver C-plus was already elite for someone who looked nineteen at most. Deliberately refusing Gold (and the near-certain A-rank that would follow) was something else entirely.
Mara slid four fresh registration forms across the scarred oak counter.
“Names?”
They were ready.
Kael became “Kale Blackpine.”
Noel became “Noel Ashwood.”
Silas became “Silas Greycloak.”
Rhys stayed simply “Rhys.” A single silver coin pressed into Mara’s palm ensured no one would ever ask for more, and the guild’s mute policy on such matters held as firm as dwarf-steel.
Ink dried. Bronze plates were stamped (Rank F provisional, the lowest rung, the safest place to hide in plain sight).
While the clerk filed the paperwork, the six drifted deeper into the hall.
Rin exchanged silent nods with a pair of veteran beast-kin who had once hunted corrupted treants with her near the capital.
Zeon bought a round of watered ale no one drank, just to keep the table.
Kael studied the quest board with predatory focus, eyes flicking over postings most F-ranks would run from.
Noel tested the balance of second-hand daggers with idle flicks of his wrist.
Silas and Rhys catalogued every face, every exit, every visible weapon without seeming to move their eyes at all.
Twenty-three minutes after entering, four new bronze tags hung from leather cords around four new necks.
Rin paid the fees from a pouch that should have been empty weeks ago. Mara’s eyebrow rose, but she asked nothing. Some secrets paid better when left alone.
They were back in camp before the moon crested its zenith.
And walked straight into a conversation they were never meant to hear.
Sir Aldric stood outside the command tent with three of his senior officers: Lieutenant Sera (scar across her cheek, voice like gravel), Ser Gavren (still young enough to believe in heroes), and Master-Sergeant Holt (old enough to know better). Maps were spread across a crate. A single lantern painted harsh shadows.
“…twenty mentors and only six of them worth the rations they eat,” Aldric was saying, voice low but carrying in the cold night. “Competence isn’t the problem. Half the noble-born can swing a sword well enough when they feel like it. It’s the attitude. They think rank and blood make them untouchable. They whine about blisters while my knights are stitching their own guts in. We reach Silverglade in two days. The elves will laugh us out of the valley if we drag that baggage with us.”
Sera spat to one side. “Cut them loose. Send the useless ones back to the capital with a polite letter.”
Gavren hesitated. “Some are royal blood, captain.”
“Royal blood bleeds the same,” Holt grunted.
Aldric rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Tempting. But the king wants all fifteen delivered intact, and the Academy will scream if we ditch their precious noble charges. Besides, the elves will do the culling for us. They have a way with arrogant children.”
He paused, then added, almost to himself, “Though I’d keep six. The wind boy Zeon, the quiet killers Kael and Noel, the gloved one, the ice mage, and that mentor girl—Rin. The rest can rot.”
The six eavesdroppers froze in the shadows just beyond the lantern light.
Aldric’s head snapped up.
“Come out, brats. I’ve caught your scents already.”
They stepped into the circle of light as one. No shame on any face—only the mild irritation of being caught by someone sharp enough to matter.
Aldric’s gaze swept over them, lingering on the four new bronze tags and on Zeon’s older silver D-rank plate that glinted differently from a completely different guildhall months ago.
“Greystone Ford back door. Clerk named Mara.” He didn’t ask how. “You moved fast.”
Zeon shrugged. “We move quiet.”
Aldric’s attention settled on Rin like a hawk on a mouse.
“You’re the girl Sylph won’t shut up about,” he said, almost to himself. “The one he thinks is wasting her life on passing marks and orphanage stipends.”
A pause.
“To think he’s been worrying himself grey over a ghost who’s already stronger than half my veterans.”
Rin’s expression didn’t change, but her fingers tightened on her satchel strap.
Aldric waved a gauntleted hand.
“Relax. Your secret’s safe. I’ve got bigger problems than one over-qualified orphan.”
He glanced at the five tags again.
“Just inform someone next time you vanish in the night. Some idiot will assume desertion and slap bounties on your heads. I don’t want the paperwork of dragging you back in chains when you’re just earning pocket money.”
Rin’s voice was winter-flat.
“I’m here by contract. I can end it any time I choose.”
The five otherworlders went very still.
Aldric’s brows rose—the first genuine surprise he had shown all night.
“Can you now.”
He stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind storm-grey eyes. Then he barked a short, humourless laugh.
“Sylph really is a blind old fool. No wonder he’s terrified of losing you. Some instinct of his must be working after all.”
He turned to leave, then paused one final time.
“Two days to Silverglade. The elves and dwarves will test every soul in this column—mentors included. Some of your noble friends are about to learn what real humiliation tastes like.”
His gaze flicked across the new bronze tags and Zeon’s older silver.
“Try not to let the dead weight drag the rest of you down with them.”
He walked away, boots crunching on frost, shadow swallowing him whole.
Silence held the six in place until his footsteps faded completely.
Zeon exhaled slowly.
“He’s going to be a problem.”
Rin’s reply was barely a breath.
“He already is.”
Somewhere in the camp, a horse whickered nervously. The night wind shifted, carrying the faint, distant scent of elf-wood smoke and pine resin from the south.
Silverglade was waiting.
And for the first time since the summoning, Rin wondered if hiding was still enough.
End of Chapter 10.