The Bellringer sat near the east gate, tucked between a tanner’s shop and a two-story boarding house with sagging shutters. The sign above the door was iron, shaped like a bell, rusted at the edges where the rain always hit. The tavern was one of five in Grahsbad. Not the worst. Not the best. He’d eaten there once—weeks back—out of curiosity, not habit. The fish had been passable. Battered, fried, too thick with grease, the fillet lost under the crust. The lentil stew had weight but no depth. It filled the gut, but not the mouth.

  Still, it was food. Cooked. Warm. Sometimes that was enough.

  He didn’t visit taverns often. The Blackshield was his usual stop. Not for the food, which was little better than anywhere else, but for the mead. Honeyed and dark, poured thick, served cool. The other places didn’t carry it, or didn’t do it right. The Blackshield got close enough.

  The bell rang as he pushed the door open.

  It wasn’t a loud ring. Just a light chime above the frame, struck by the shift of air. Inside, the tavern was warm and lit by wall sconces and a fire that burned low in the hearth. The walls were pale wood, clean, scrubbed down regular. No soot on the ceiling. No mold in the corners. The tables were plain but solid, no wobble to the legs, no knife scars. A woman’s hand had shaped the space. That much was plain.

  He remembered now. A grandmother ran the place. Owned it. Decorated it. Did the cooking too, back behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Her grandson worked the bar—young man, thick-armed, fast with a rag. He stood behind the counter now, polishing glasses that didn’t need polishing. The place smelled of bread and yeast and old wood. Comfortable.

  The Red Sparrows were easy to find.

  Corner table, like Muriel had said. Near the window. Four of them, spaced out but tight enough to show they moved as one. Their gear was stacked against the wall—bows, packs, a blunted warhammer. One of them had a spellbook open beside his drink, the pages edged with ribbon. Another was sharpening a blade, small, quick strokes with a whetstone.

  They didn’t look up when he entered. Didn’t need to. They had the posture of men and women used to watching without watching. He stepped in, let the door shut behind him, and walked across the floor.

  His boots made soft sounds on the wood. The fire popped in the corner. Somewhere in the back, a pot rattled on a stove.

  He approached the table. Stopped just short.

  They looked up, one by one. Not startled. Not surprised.

  He said nothing at first. Let them see him. Let them measure the silence.

  Then he spoke.

  “I am Syras Valtin. I hold skills under the Assassin Class. Most of them fall in the [Stalking] tree. I spoke with the receptionist. She said your group is looking for a tracker. If you plan to enter the Congathala woods, I’ll go with you. If we find loot or hidden treasure, I only ask for what I need to stock up on ingredients and necessities–the rest is yours.”

  The one with the spellbook looked up. Man in his late thirties, maybe older. Hair tied back, sleeves rolled, ink stains on the edge of his palm. His gaze didn’t linger on Syras long. Just enough to read the weight in his posture. Then he nodded once and gestured toward the empty seat at the edge of the table.

  Syras sat.

  The table was clean. Someone had wiped it down not long ago. A few wooden mugs sat near the center. Half-full. One plate of stew between them, mostly untouched.

  “Syras Valtin,” the man said again, like he was testing the name for weight. “We heard of you. Guild said you’re good. No failed quests. No injuries. They said you move quiet and clean. We took a look when we arrived.”

  He folded the spellbook closed and set it aside.

  “They also said you’re a Chef.”

  Syras didn’t respond. He watched the man, still.

  “A real one. Not the kind who heats trail rations. Not a pot-boy with a fancy pan. Guild said you trained formal in some fancy culinary school. Got ranking. Capital work.”

  The others were watching now. Not speaking. Just listening. The one with the hammer leaned forward a little, arms crossed. The mage didn’t blink.

  “How’d you end up here?” the man asked. “Chefs at your level don’t leave the cities. You’re supposed to be in a keep somewhere. Earning gold plating feasts for nobles. Cooking with wine and silver pots.”

  Syras looked at him. Then past him, toward the hearth, where the fire glowed low. The smell of stew hung faint in the air. Lentils. Salt. Bone.

  He turned back. Spoke quiet.

  “I left.”

  That was all.

  The man didn’t press him. Didn’t need to.

  He nodded once more and reached for his mug. Took a sip. Set it down again.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  “We're the Red Sparrows,” he said. “Four of us. Bronze rank. No pretenses. We’ve been out east and north, but we haven’t stepped into the Congathala woods. Not yet. It’s a kill zone. The Guild doesn’t care what comes out of there, just what doesn’t come back. But you already know that.”

  Syras gave a small nod.

  “We lost our Thief two months ago,” the man said. “She triggered a runed cache. Wasn’t enough left to bury. We’ve been looking for someone who can move quiet and see what others miss. Someone who doesn’t talk loud or walk heavy. The Guild said you do that.”

  He looked Syras over again. Then offered his hand.

  “Name’s Orlen.”

  Syras shook it. Firm. Brief.

  No more words than needed.

  Orlen turned in his seat, thumb hooked over his shoulder.

  “These are Vanya, Thrane, and Kidu.”

  Vanya sat to Orlen’s left. Elf-blooded. Pale skin that caught the firelight and held it. Hair black as tar, combed back and tied at the nape. Her eyes were green and sharp, not bright. The kind of green seen in moss after rain. She had a bow leaned against her chair, unstrung but polished, limbs of dark yew carved with soft glyphs. Her fingers moved across the fletching of an arrow as if out of habit. She looked at Syras and gave no nod, no smile, nothing. Just looked, then turned her eyes back to her hands.

  Next was Thrane. Big man. Not just tall, but built wide through the shoulders, neck like a beam. His armor was layered plate, patched and re-patched. Nothing matched. Bits of it bore different sigils, scraped and repainted. The kind of armor not bought, but earned, scavenged from battlefields or stripped from the dead. His arms were crossed, forearms thick with old scars and half-faded ink. A greatsword leaned against the table behind him, chipped along the edge. He didn’t speak. Just watched. His breath moved slow.

  Then there was Kidu.

  Smallest of them. Wiry. Narrow frame, hands calloused in ways that didn’t come from swordwork. Tools hung from his belt—hooks, pliers, a short saw. Syras spotted the glint of steel needles tucked along his sleeve. His cloak was oiled canvas, patchy and stained from long use. His eyes were quick, darting from Syras to Orlen, then to Vanya, then back again. He had a small knife in his hand, turning it slow, edge to thumb, testing the sharpness without drawing blood.

  A quiet bunch. No wasted movement. That said enough.

  Syras looked them over one by one. Not for show. Just to know. He filed them away the same way he’d file a cut of meat, a type of root, the shape of a blade. Knew what each was likely for. Knew what they were not.

  Orlen leaned back.

  “Got a quest lined up for tomorrow,” Orlen said. His fingers drummed once against the table. “Prospector found a cave a few klicks north. Claims it’s clean. Probably isn’t. We’re to check it out. You come along, we see how you work. If you move how the Guild says you move, if you see what others miss, then I don’t see why we can’t pay the deep woods a little visit. Sound fair?”

  “I am agreeable to that,” Syras said. His voice was even. “Time and place of gathering?”

  “Northern gate,” Orlen said. “Sunrise. We move light and move fast. No second calls. No waiting on stragglers. Full gear. You tire easy?”

  “Not often,” Syras said.

  “The last one did,” Orlen muttered. “Got halfway up a ridge and fell over, wheezed himself into the dirt. Shit himself right there.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Good.” Orlen nodded once, short. Then waved him off with two fingers. “Nothing else to say. Show up on time.”

  Syras stood. “I will.”

  He turned from the table, walked out past the bar, past the fire, and out into the cold night.

  He didn’t stay in town. Didn’t like the noise, the tight walls, the eyes that lingered too long. He made his way north through the thinning streets, past shuttered stalls and closed shops, and followed the path that curled out into the open fields beyond. The sky above was clear and black and scattered with stars. The wind moved low across the grasses. There were no torches here. No light but the moon.

  He found the place he liked. A long-dead oak, twisted and bare, its limbs broken by old storms. The roots jutted out from the dirt like reaching hands, but they held firm. They went deep. Didn’t shift even when the wind pressed hard.

  He pitched his tent beside it.

  The spines were forged from mithril. Light, thin, and cold to the touch. Stronger than steel and quiet when packed. Didn’t bend in storms. Didn’t rust when wet. He carried them in a canvas roll, each one wrapped separate, and set them with practiced hands into the grommets of the black tarp. It took ten minutes. No more. The cloth was thick and oiled. Windproof. Fireproof. Enough for a night.

  Inside, he laid out his bedroll. Placed the pack at his feet. Folded his cloak for a pillow. No fire. No lantern. Just the dark and the sound of the wind.

  He lay down with his back to the tree and stared at the tent’s ceiling until the black swallowed him whole.

  When morning came, the wind had died. The sky above the plain was gray and low, streaked with the last haze of night. Syras rose without hurry. The ground was cold beneath him. Dew clung to the tent walls. He stepped out barefoot and stood a moment beneath the limbs of the dead oak, his breath rising in thin clouds. Then he knelt and packed his things.

  He dressed with care. Nothing in his kit was for show. The gear was old, but clean. Each strap, each buckle checked for wear. No metal save what could not be avoided. He wore boiled leather layered over padded cloth, stitched tight at the seams, dyed a dark brown that drank in the shadows. The kind of armor meant for movement, not showdowns. It wouldn’t stop a war hammer. Wouldn’t turn a bolt. But it let him run. Let him climb. Let him press through the thick brush and crawl through stone fissures where a man in plate would die stuck like a beetle in a jar.

  He tied the chest piece down with quiet fingers, then strapped the bracers to his forearms and fitted his gloves. No enchantments. No sigils. Just good leather and worn cloth.

  There were adventurers who wore the work of kings. Armor that shimmered in daylight, armor that bent magic, armor with names. But those were men and women who danced in castles and took coin from lords. Syras had no use for that. He had what worked. What moved.

  His weapons were few.

  The cleaver came first. Worn bone handle, blade dark from years of flame. The edge remained sharp. He tied it around his waist so that it hovered mere inches from his right hand–easy to reach.

  Then came the dirk. Straight and narrow, black grip wrapped in sinew, pommel scuffed near flat. That one went at the hip. Balanced for thrusts or getting into the weak spots between armored plates. Beside it, a dagger—smaller, curved slightly, more tool than weapon. It fit into a sheath near the thigh, low enough to draw kneeling.

  Last, he strapped the mallet to the side of his pack. All metal. Head the size of a closed fist, shaft as long as his forearm. It could split bone or tenderize meat. Had done both. No enchantment, no shine, just a hard tool for hard work.

  He looked over the ground once more. Kicked loose dirt over the spot where the tent had been. No firepit. No scraps. No sign.

  Then he turned and walked toward the northern gate, his breath trailing behind him in the morning air. And when he arrived the Red Sparrows were already there in full gear. Orlen welcomed him with a curt nod. "Shall we?"