The air in the sewer was thick with rot, damp stone, and something sharper, almost metallic. Every step Finnien took sent ripples through the ankle-deep sludge, and he gritted his teeth as something soft brushed against his boot. He didn’t want to know what it was.

  Ashling walked beside him, her knuckles whitened around her makeshift spear, the wood rough against her palm. The sharpened tip bobbed with each step, ready to strike at the first sign of movement. The thresh light in her other hand flickered as the damp air threatened to snuff it out. Finnien held his own light lower, trying to push the shadows back, but they clung to the walls like living things. His “shield,” a battered wooden sign with half its lettering worn away, felt solid enough, though he wished for something better than a thick stick to fight with.

  Behind them, Sylra was silent, walking carefully to keep the thresh light in her hands steady. Her only job was to make sure their backs were covered and to keep their precious light from dying too soon. She shifted nervously as she glanced over her shoulder.

  “This is worse than I imagined,” she muttered.

  “You expected it to smell like fresh bread?” Ashling whispered back.

  Sylra didn’t answer, instead her lips pressed into a thin line. She swallowed hard, her nose wrinkling as she took another cautious step forward. She didn’t have to say anything. Her stiff posture and the way she gripped the thresh light like a lifeline said it all.

  A faint skittering sound echoed ahead, and all three froze. Finnien tightened his grip on his club. Ashling lowered her stance. Sylra held her breath. The flickering light revealed movement—a dark shape darting across their path.

  The rat.

  Finnien sucked in a sharp breath, his grip tightening on his club. His shoulders tensed, ready for the impact. Then the rat bolted, a dark blur that vanished down the tunnel.

  “…It ran?” Finnien asked, blinking.

  “Yeah,” Ashling said, clearly just as surprised.

  Sylra let out a quiet, relieved laugh. “Smart rat.”

  Finnien exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders sagging as he let the club drop slightly. His fingers flexed, aching from gripping it so tightly. “So what, do we…”

  A wet splash behind them.

  Sylra gasped and spun, nearly dropping her light. Something rushed up from the shadows, claws scraping against the stone floor.

  “The other way!” Ashling hissed, already trying to turn.

  Finnien stumbled as Sylra yelped and jumped back, nearly knocking into him. Ashling twisted to get her spear into position, but the narrow tunnel made moving awkward.

  Finnien barely had time to react. As he stumbled forward, his foot slid against the slick stone, and he bumped into Sylra. His fingers slipped, and his thresh light tumbled from his grasp. It hit the thin stream of sewer water with a quiet plop and was instantly snuffed out.

  “Dammit,” he muttered. A third of their light—gone.

  The dire rat pressed forward, its greasy fur glistening in the dim glow of their remaining thresh lights. It lunged at Finnien, its teeth snapping inches from his knee. He barely got his makeshift shield between them, slamming the battered wooden sign into the rat’s face with a dull thunk. The creature screeched, scrabbling at the shield’s edges, trying to find a way around instead of forcing its way through.

  “Uh, Ash? Little help?” Finnien grunted, twisting his body to keep the rat boxed in.

  “Hang on, I’m—dammit, this stupid—” Ashling was still trying to maneuver her spear, but the narrow tunnel and the unexpected attack had her turned the wrong way. Instead of bringing the point to bear, she was awkwardly trying to shift her grip without jabbing Finnien or Sylra. “I just need a second—”

  “You don’t have a second!” Finnien shouted as the rat’s claws scraped against his shield, its beady red eyes darting between his legs and Sylra’s ankles.

  Sylra, gripping her own heavy stick in one hand and clutching her thresh light tightly in the other, took a half-step forward and waved her weapon. “Just hit it with the club!”

  Ashling scowled, still wrestling with her spear. “I have a weapon!”

  “Yeah, and you’re fighting it more than the rat!”

  “Fine!” With an irritated growl, Ashling dropped her spear with a clatter and reached for Sylra’s club. Sylra fumbled, trying to pass it off without losing her grip on the light, and for a second, both were holding onto it.

  Finnien’s stomach dropped as the dire rat suddenly leaped.

  It scrabbled over the top of his battered shield, its claws raking against the wood before landing right in front of him.

  “Oh, hell—”

  Before Finnien could react, Ashling swung.

  With a solid thwack, the rat was sent tumbling sideways, landing with an angry, high-pitched screech. It twisted back onto its feet, its teeth bared and tail whipping wildly.

  Thinking fast, Finnien slammed his shield down.

  The battered sign hit the stone with a crack, pinning the rat’s thick, hairless tail beneath it. The creature shrieked and thrashed, trying to pull free, but Finnien pressed down with all his weight.

  “Now! Now!” he barked.

  Ashling didn’t hesitate. She brought the club down in a quick, brutal arc, and with another heavy thud, the rat stopped moving.

  The only sound left was their heavy breathing and the slow, dripping of sewer water.

  Sylra, still clutching her thresh light, scanned the tunnel behind them. “Okay. It’s dead. Now let’s go before we find out if it had friends.”

  Finnien let out a breath and pried his shield off the rat’s tail. “Good idea.”

  Ashling wiped the club against the damp stone, smearing dark streaks across the slick surface. She crouched, grabbed the rat’s hind legs, and hoisted it up with a sharp grin. “One rat down,” she muttered, giving the limp body a small shake. “First step to the guild. And dinner.”

  Sylra grimaced at the sight of the limp, mangy thing. “Yeah, great. Can we celebrate somewhere that doesn’t smell like we’re inside a dead man’s shoe?”

  Finnien didn’t argue.

  With their prize in hand, the trio turned and hurried back the way they came, their remaining thresh lights flickering against the stone as they disappeared into the tunnels.

  ***

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  The slums stretched out before them, a patchwork of scavenged wood, tattered canvas, and rusted nails. The air smelled of brine and smoke, tinged with the ever-present stink of low tide. The shacks near the water sat precariously on stilts, their warped frames creaking with every shift of the wind. Further in, closer to the city walls, the homes were more stable—if still barely more than patched-together shelters.

  Sylra walked slightly ahead, fussing as she always did. “Finn, hold still—your sleeve is soaked in something foul. And Ash, you’ve got rat fur on your cheek.”

  “I’ll live,” Ashling muttered, hefting the dead rat higher onto her shoulder. “Besides, we’re about to eat this thing. I don’t think a little fur’s the worst of our problems.”

  Sylra made a disgusted noise but didn’t argue.

  Their steps slowed as they approached Ashling’s home—a squat, one-room shack with a sun-bleached scrap of sailcloth hanging over the doorway. The smell of boiled fish and old spices drifted from within, mixing with the salt air.

  Ashling’s mother was waiting at the threshold, arms crossed.

  “You went into the sewers?”

  Her voice wasn’t angry—just tired.

  Ashling didn’t flinch, but she did shift the rat behind her back like a guilty child. “We needed the practice.”

  Her mother exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I know what you’re doing. And I know why. But if you get sick from filth fever or lose a leg to some gutter beast, what then?”

  “We didn’t get sick. We got a rat,” Ashling countered, pushing past her mother to set the carcass down on a rickety wooden table. “Sylra, you want to start the spices?”

  Sylra shot a glance at Ashling’s mother before stepping inside. She pulled out a small handful of dried herbs from their container, crushing them carefully with a stone pestle.

  Ashling took a knife from a peg on the wall and set to work skinning the rat. She was quick about it.

  Her mother sighed, rubbing her forehead. “At least boil it properly. And don’t let the fat go to waste.”

  “I know,” Ashling muttered.

  Her mother lingered for a moment, then finally turned away, muttering something about the folly of youth.

  Finnien, seeing his chance, slipped away toward the next shack.

  Finnien’s home was quieter. The wooden slats creaked as he stepped inside, the smell of drying fish thick in the warm, enclosed space. His father sat on a low stool near a battered work table, knife in hand, slowly slicing a gutted fish into strips. His skin was pale, his hands rough and calloused. There was a time when he had been stronger—before sickness took its toll.

  “Back already?” his father said without looking up.

  Finnien pulled up a crate to sit on. “Yeah.”

  His father sliced another strip, laying it onto a wooden rack. “Still playing at being an adventurer?”

  “It’s not playing.”

  His father scoffed, shaking his head. “You want to risk your life for coppers. For what?”

  Finnien didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at his hands—dirt under his nails, knuckles scraped from holding the shield too tight.

  “For a chance,” he finally said.

  His father exhaled slowly through his nose. “A chance at what?”

  Finnien shrugged. “Something better.”

  For a long moment, the only sound was the knife against the cutting board. Then, finally, his father reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a few small coins.

  “Take it,” he said, setting them on the table. “Maybe it’ll buy you some sense.”

  Finnien hesitated before picking up the coins, feeling their weight in his palm. His father knew what he would use it for. So why give him the money?

  “Thanks.”

  His father grunted, but didn’t say more. Finnien sat there for a while, watching his father work, until the smell of roasting rat wafted through the thin walls, calling him back to his friends.

  ***

  The guild hall was more than just a building—it was a symbol of everything they wanted.

  Set near Besaria's inner wall, it was sturdier than anything in the slums, with thick stone walls and a reinforced wooden door left open just enough to show the flickering light within. A heavy wooden sign above the entrance bore the crest of the Dungeoneering Guild—a crossed sword and lantern—worn smooth by years of weather and neglect.

  Inside, the smell of ale, oiled leather, and old parchment mixed with the sound of low chatter and clinking coins. A long counter stretched along the back wall, where guild clerks handled paperwork under the illumination of magical lanterns. A few adventurers—real ones, with proper weapons and thick armor—lounged at tables, drinking and laughing.

  The trio stepped forward, Ashling taking the lead. Finnien and Sylra flanked her, still feeling the weight of all the copper coins they had scrounged together.

  The clerk barely glanced up as they approached. A middle-aged man with thinning hair, he wore a loose-fitting tunic with the guild’s crest stitched on the chest. His expression was the sort that said he had dealt with too many people for the day.

  “Which one of you is registering?” he asked, voice flat and uninterested.

  Ashling squared her shoulders. “All of us.”

  The clerk finally looked up, blinking as if he had misheard. Then, with a weary sigh, he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a ledger with a wooden cover. “One silver each,” he said, flipping it open.

  The words hit like a hammer.

  “…Each?” Ashling echoed, her confidence flickering.

  The clerk didn’t even bother to hide his impatience. “Yes, each. One silver per person. That’s the registration fee.”

  Sylra swallowed. “But we—”

  “No silver, no registration,” the clerk interrupted, already turning back to his work.

  A snicker came from somewhere behind them.

  Finnien didn’t look to see who it was, but he could feel it—the amused glances from actual adventurers, the barely-contained smirks of people who had probably started just like them but had already climbed far past this first step.

  Ashling’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

  Finnien clenched his jaw.

  Sylra exhaled quietly and lowered her gaze.

  Without another word, the three turned and walked out of the guild hall, the snickers following them into the pre-dusk air.

  ***

  The rhythmic lapping of the river filled the silence between them, broken only by the occasional splash as Finnien sent another rock skipping across the water. He was aiming for Goblin’s Gutter, the rougher, more lawless district of Besaria sprawled across the opposite bank. He never made it that far—his best throws barely reached a quarter of the way before sinking beneath the dark surface.

  Ashling sat hunched on a log, arms crossed, staring into the distance. Sylra sat beside her, quiet, eyes downcast, tracing idle patterns in the dirt with her fingertip.

  “How much can we sell a dire rat for?” Finnien asked, breaking the stillness. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Three, maybe five copper?”

  Ashling exhaled through her nose. “Even if we could get five, we’d need forty rats. I don’t even know if there are forty rats.”

  “Time,” Sylra murmured.

  “Right,” Ashling said, tilting her head toward her. “Forty days if we could get one per day.”

  Finnien hummed in thought, tossing another rock into the river before sitting down beside Ashling. “Did anyone increase a skill today?”

  Ashling shook her head.

  “Um… I’m three in cooking now,” Sylra admitted quietly.

  Ashling blinked, then patted Sylra’s shoulder. “Good job.”

  Another long silence settled over them. Finnien tossed his last rock, watching it sink without a single skip. He sighed. “Too bad we couldn’t get into a different dungeon.”

  He wasn’t expecting an answer—it was just something to say.

  “Umm…”

  Finnien turned to Ashling. “Umm?”

  Sylra frowned. “What does ‘Umm’ mean?”

  Ashling hesitated, clearly debating whether to even say it. Then, in a reluctant tone, she continued, “Well… there is a dungeon that isn’t too far, and it doesn’t have a guild blocking the entrance.”

  Finnien and Sylra both turned to stare at her.

  Ashling lifted her hands as if bracing for an argument. “It’s not ideal.”

  “How so?” Finnien asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “It’s called Desperation Point,” she said. “It’s out on the coast, on the cliffs. There’s no town, no support, nothing. Too far for experienced dungeon delvers, and the ones who do go? They usually don’t come back.”

  Finnien rubbed his face. “We only need a few kills to get started.” His tone was hopeful, but his expression said he understood the problem.

  “Sure,” Ashling deadpanned. “And if one of us gets hurt, we die.”

  Sylra crossed her arms. “How do you even know about this place?”

  “Tomlin,” Ashling answered.

  Finnien tilted his head. “Tomlin?”

  Ashling stood up suddenly, her face lighting up as if struck by divine inspiration.

  “Tomlin!”

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