Sat in his corner of the inn, with drink in hand, Alex studied the room with care, keeping his head tilted just enough to avoid drawing attention. Most of the patrons wore practical, well-worn clothing—sturdy cloaks, reinforced boots, weapons strapped loosely to their belts, dimensional pouches, and deadlier, hidden tools. Hunters. Or something close to it. He traced a finger along the polished edge of the tavern’s table in thought, feeling the slight imperfections in the wood. It wasn’t a fresh cut—there were faint gouges and scratches, remnants of old scuffles. He rested his hand there, blending in with the room’s atmosphere. Around him, the tavern buzzed with conversations layered over the occasional clang of metal tankards.

  He listened.

  Fragments of dialogue floated by:

  “…the job paid less than expected…”

  “…went out to the frontier. Heard he didn’t make it back…”

  “…next shipment’s coming in tomorrow…”

  He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and tilted his head slightly to get a better look at the noticeboard near the wall. It was crowded with papers pinned haphazardly—most bearing bold text and short descriptions. He spotted terms like “Hunter’s Contract,” and “Bounty.”

  That’s probably what I’m looking for, he thought, tapping his fingers against his knee. You can always judge a city by its problems. If hunters register with the crown, then the crown likely posts jobs for them, too.

  Alex considered approaching the noticeboard, but he stopped himself. There were too many people there and he wasn’t here to make friends or draw attention. Listen first. Watch. Learn.

  He folded his arms on the table, lowering his gaze as he tuned into the nearest conversations.

  “…heard they’re sending an assessor to the frontier,” a man said, his voice low but clear. He leaned toward his companion, his expression serious. “Something’s stirring out there.”

  His companion snorted. “When isn’t there something stirring?—it’s always the same.”

  “Not this time.” The first man shook his head. “This is different. They wouldn’t send an assessor for the usual trouble.”

  Alex’s fingers tapped lightly against the wood. An assessor. The Frontier. He didn’t know what any of that meant, but it sounded important.

  The conversation drifted on, the men discussing the details of recent jobs and the state of the roads outside the city. Alex caught bits and pieces—

  “Did you hear about the Azure Wolf?” one of them asked, swaying with inebriation and his expression filled with a mix of awe and disbelief. “They say she took down three Sanguine on her own.”

  “THREE?” The other man scoffed. “I heard it was just one Sanguinari, and even then I didn’t believe it. It’s all lies. Propaganda.”

  Alex’s ears perked up, though he kept his gaze fixed on his cup. Judging from the conversation, it seemed that the man’s words carried a hint of truth, buried under layers of embellishment and lies. At best, it was possible that this ‘Azure Wolf’ had at least battled a ’Sanguine’ and survived.

  But why did that warrant such a conversation? Is that what they consider an impossible feat? He found himself curious as to the level and strength of the strange group he had yet to truly meet. The palefaced, long eared group at the palace didn’t count, I could hardly see them on the balconies. But if they were the Sanguine, then it seems like ‘The houses’ and Sanguinari might be one and the same.

  Another voice joined the group’s conversation—a gruff man with a patch over one eye. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

  “The Azure Wolf is real,” he said, his tone cutting through the room like a blade. “I’ve seen her. She doesn’t hunt for coin or glory. She hunts to settle debts.”

  The hunters fell silent for a moment before resuming their chatter, their voices quieter now.

  Debts? Interesting, Alex thought.

  He glanced toward the noticeboard near the bar. The papers pinned there listed bounties, missing persons, and job offers. Some bore official seals, while others were scrawled hastily, their ink smudged from handling.

  A man approached the board, pulling a dagger from his belt to remove one of the notices. He inspected the parchment before folding it and tucking it into his coat. His movements were precise, practiced—someone who had done this many times before.

  Alex lowered his eyes to his drink, swirling the liquid slowly in the cup. I need to figure out how to register with the crown. That much is clear. But this place makes it feel like the city doesn’t run on official channels alone.

  The hunters near the fireplace raised their mugs in a toast, interrupting his thoughts.

  “To the fallen!” one of them shouted.

  “To the living!” the others replied.

  Alex watched as the group fell into quieter conversation, their expressions growing more somber.

  The large door to the tavern swung open, letting in a cold gust of air. A man stepped inside, his presence commanding immediate attention. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his armor polished to a mirror finish. A longsword hung at his side, the hilt engraved with detailed designs.

  Whispers spread through the room.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “That’s Darius.”

  “The King’s Hound.”

  “Why’s he back so soon? You think he’s hunting someone?”

  “Nah he’s probably just here to post a special notice, stop being a coward.”

  Alex watched as Darius made his way to the bar, his movements perfectly commanded and controlled. He exchanged a few quiet words with the barkeep before turning to survey the room.

  Their eyes met briefly, but Darius’s gaze moved on, uninterested.

  Ah, so he’s not after me, Alex relaxed slightly, his gaze returning to his drink. Alex leaned back in his chair, the cup of lukewarm ale resting between his hands. The inn’s sounds drifted around him—conversation, laughter, the scrape of boots on wooden floors. He tuned out most of it, focusing on the steady hum of mana in the room, the ambient energy flowing through the people around him like rivers through unseen channels. Some flowed smoothly, controlled and refined. Others sputtered, chaotic and uneven, revealing gaps in discipline or talent.

  He was still learning. Listening.

  A shadow fell over his table.

  “You’re in my seat.”

  Alex glanced up. The man standing before him was old—his face lined with age, skin weathered and leathery, like parchment left too long in the sun. His hair was a wild tangle of white, falling just past his shoulders, and his beard, though neatly trimmed, couldn’t hide the sharp angles of his jaw. His eyes, a faded gray, bore no warmth, but they shone with a vivid alertness that betrayed his years.

  Alex remained still. “Didn’t see a name on it.”

  The old man chuckled—a dry, rasping sound. He leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. His fingers were gnarled, knuckles swollen, veins bulging like thick ropes beneath his skin. “But I wasn’t asking.”

  He grinned, revealing surprisingly intact teeth for someone his age. His hand extended toward Alex, palm up.

  “Come on, boy. Show some manners.”

  Alex hesitated briefly before clasping the offered hand. The man’s grip tightened instantly. The pressure was startling—no gradual buildup, just raw, crushing force. Alex felt his bones compress, a sharp spike of pain shooting up his arm the sound of fractured bones rang in his inner ear. If he was a little weaker, his fingers would have snapped like twigs.

  But he wasn’t, and they didn’t.

  Alex exhaled slowly, letting his own strength flow into his grip. He ignored the fractures and concentrated through the pain, distributing the force evenly through his bones and muscles. His hand didn’t move an inch. The old man’s eyes pursed slightly in evaluation.

  “Not bad,” the man murmured, though his smile never wavered. “You’re stronger than you look.”

  Alex kept his expression neutral. “You too.”

  The old man grinned and huffed a short chuckle. He released Alex’s hand and dropped into the seat opposite, stretching his legs out beneath the table. His joints cracked audibly as he shifted.

  “Damn knees,” he muttered. “Youth never appreciates what they’ve got.”

  Alex didn’t like him. If he wasn’t trying to keep a low profile, a kick would have sent the man flying. He resisted the urge, though his leg twitched with the impulse.

  He studied the man closely now, noting the worn, practical clothing—nothing flashy or extravagant. No visible weapons. No armor. But the mana within him… it was unlike anything Alex had encountered. Dense. Compressed. Immense. Yet utterly still. It didn’t flow or cycle like the others in the room. It sat, static and unmoving, coiled deep within the man’s core.

  “You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” the man asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

  Alex shook his head with curiosity. “Go ahead.”

  The old man leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze swept the room briefly before settling on Alex again.

  “Name’s Osric,” he said. “And you are?”

  “Alex.”

  Osric nodded, as if filing the name away. “So, Alex… what’s a lad like you doing in a place like this?”

  “Looking for work.”

  Osric snorted. “Aren’t we all?” He reached for Alex’s cup, taking a swig without asking. He grimaced at the taste. “Pisswater.”

  Alex said nothing, waiting.

  The old man eyed Alex’s clothing as though searching for something. “I don’t see a badge, you’re not registered. You a mercenary?”

  Alex shook his head to the question. That wasn’t what he was after.

  In response, Osric set the cup down with a thud, leaning in close. “You want to be a hunter?”

  Alex nodded.

  Alex leaned forward slightly, meeting Osric’s gaze.

  “I do.”

  Osric grinned. “There’s a registration tomorrow, actually. and a few sets after that. But…” He tapped his temple with a finger, as if recalling something. “…you’ll want to be careful.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the assessor in charge is one of the worst bastards the crown’s ever employed.” Osric’s tone was casual, but there was a glint in his eye. “Name’s Gideon Arlen. You ever heard of him?”

  Alex shook his head.

  Osric’s grin widened. “No? Well, you’ll remember him soon enough. They call him the Hand. They say he’s strong enough to split a fortified castle with his fists. Never seen him do it myself, but I’ve seen what’s left of the poor bastards who thought they could take him on.”

  Alex frowned. “And he’s part of the crown’s inquisition?”

  “Oh, aye.” Osric leaned forward, lowering his voice. “The crown employs men like him to deal with the… harder problems. The things even the Houses hardly touch.”

  The mention of the Houses made Alex pause. He knew the term referred to the ruling families of Serra, the real power behind the throne. Their influence stretched across the continent, their reach extending far beyond the city walls.

  “And the Sanguine?” Alex asked carefully.

  Osric’s expression darkened. “The houses? If you’ve got any sense, you’ll steer clear of anything to do with them.”

  Alex nodded slowly, filing the information away. “What about working for them?”

  Osric’s gaze sharpened. “You got a death wish?”

  “No. Just curious.”

  The old man sighed, rubbing his temples. “No offence, but please don’t ask stupid questions.”

  Stupid question? That implied that merely mentioning them held finality and absurdity. Alex considered that. “Once again, just curios. About you, too. I assume you’re a hunter of some kind?”

  Osric smirked. “Me? I’m just an old man.”

  Alex didn’t believe that for a second. The sheer volume of mana packed within Osric was staggering. It wasn’t natural for someone to hold that much power without it spilling out, without it affecting their surroundings. And yet, Osric sat there, utterly unassuming.

  “Then why’s your mana so still?” Alex asked finally.

  Osric’s grin returned, though there was a hint of something colder behind it. “That’s a question not many would think or know to ask.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of strong people,” Alex said.

  Osric’s gaze softened slightly. “You’ll figure it out in time, lad. Just make sure you’re still around when you do.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the tavern washing over them. The fire crackled in the hearth, and somewhere near the bar, a group of hunters began singing a raucous tune.

  “Tell me about the registration,” Alex said eventually.

  It starts at dawn, over at the assessor’s hall. You’ll have to prove yourself—strength, skill, resilience. And if you pass, you’ll get your token.”

  “And if I fail?”

  Osric’s grin turned wicked. “Then you’ll be lucky to leave with your bones intact. Gideon doesn’t take kindly to failure.”

  Alex absorbed the information, his mind already turning over plans.

  Osric drained the last of the ale from Alex’s cup and stood, stretching once more. “Good luck, Alex. You’re going to need it.”

  Without another word, the old man turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor.

  Alex watched him go and rose to head to his room, his thoughts still lingering on the name Gideon Arlen.

  The hand.

  He had a feeling tomorrow was going to be interesting.

  The is up and running. So if you like, you can read ahead there!