Ch 30:Glum On Over

  The world didn’t return all at once.

  Wrong and warped, sound reached him first—like wind trapped in glass. Behind his eyes, a high ring hummed persistently. Cold followed, not as a true chill, but as a sudden vacuum where warmth should’ve been, as if heat had been scrubbed from his skin entirely. The air carried faint traces of smoke and copper

  Soren stumbled a step forward. The forest had reassembled itself in uneven strokes—trees slightly askew, sky faded behind thin branches, dirt smeared with leaf litter. Everything looked real, but it felt staged. Unsettled.

  Fingers found the hilt, no draw, just pressure. A quiet promise.

  A dry cough raked out of his throat. He doubled forward, catching himself against a trunk that hadn’t been there a heartbeat ago. Bark bit into his palm—cold, ridged, real.

  Behind him, Ayola dropped to a knee. One hand braced against the ground, the other gripping her thigh as her breath hitched. Shoulders curled, like her spine was holding back collapse by memory alone.

  Her fingers flexed—one twitch, then another—as though she still didn’t trust the weight of her own body.

  Stumbling half a step as he turned, Soren reached toward her. "Ayola—"

  "I'm fine," she rasped, too quickly.

  Her locked jaw and immobile knees betrayed her words. The lie stuck in the air, limp and useless. Her eyes dragged towards the edge of the clearing—slow, stubborn.

  The bird stood first. It wasn’t small—at least as tall as Ayola’s hip, talons planted in the soft dirt, feathers ash-white with streaks of ink black slashing down the crest. That crest flared and lifted like a jagged crown. Eyes yellow, cold, intelligent. Each blink deliberate. It didn’t watch like prey or friend—it watched like a second pair of judgment. The kind that didn’t need to speak to command silence.

  It clicked its beak once—dry, decisive. Then let out a low, almost canine chuff.

  Behind it stood a cloaked man, tall and long limbed. His posture was all loose weight, like nothing here required tension. A shakujo staff rested lazily over one shoulder—its head crowned with iron rings that chimed faintly as they moved, wind or not.

  The man’s green eyes caught the low sun in full. Not glowing, not alight. Just catching it—like polished coin catching a thief’s glance.

  Soren’s hand twitched toward his blade again. “Don’t like the way he’s standing there,”

  Ayola’s voice came quieter. “He saved us. If he meant harm…” her breath trembled, “he’d have let us sink.”

  Soren didn’t like it, but he felt the weight of her words settle. His grip loosened.

  The man crouched beside the bird, brushing fingers beneath its chin. The animal responded—not with affection, but acknowledgment. He made a few short clicks, one whistle, and the bird’s crest dipped.

  “…Is he talking to it?” Soren asked, flat.

  “Looks like it,” Ayola murmured.

  The man didn’t glance up. “Talking with, technically.”

  Soren blinked. “What?”

  He stood, slow and easy, brushing his cloak off with the back of one hand. His build was lean, taller than Soren by a full head. Auburn hair, pulled back into a loosely knotted mullet, framed a round face, and monolid green eyes gave him an unreadable calm—almost sleepy if not for the quiet focus behind them.

  A short beard lined his jaw—natural, untamed. His cloak, deep reddish-brown and frayed with travel, was stitched with faded patterns—some tribal, some symbolic. Beneath it, layers of rugged fabric hugged a frame built for motion, not muscle. Bracers of dark leather clung to his forearms, etched with pale markings. His boots rose nearly to the knee, scuffed but firm, strapped in places where stitching had failed.

  He raised both hands—not in surrender, but like someone pressing pause.

  "Sorry," he said. His gaze drifted upward, eyes narrowing against the afternoon glare. A heartbeat of silence. The silver ring on his hand caught sunlight as he dragged fingers through unkempt hair, leaving it more disheveled than before.

  "Wasn't for you."

  The fence post creaked as he shifted his weight, one mud-crusted boot crossing lazily behind the other. No hurry in the movement. No concern.

  He jerked his chin toward the empty space beside him. "I talk to her sometimes." His voice lowered, almost private. "Helps me think."

  The wind filled the pause between them, rustling through tall grass.

  "Better listener than most." A smile touched the corner of his mouth, there and gone like summer lightning.

  When he finally looked back, his eyes met hers without flinching—steady as still water, curious but patient. Like someone who'd learned that silence often revealed more than questions ever could.????????????????

  “You pulled us out,” he said.

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  The man tilted his head. “Call it instinct.”

  One sharp peck punctured the dirt—off-beat, impatient.

  Soren’s fingers twitched again.

  The man’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “If I meant you harm, I’d have let the beetles finish the job. You were already slipping.”

  His gaze flicked down—over Soren’s boots, to the edge of his coat—and paused. Not at his face. But at the wrapped naginata slung across his back before looking away.

  “City’s that way. Mile and a half.” He tapped two fingers lightly to his collarbone.

  Ayola pulled herself up finally. Slower than usual. Her hand didn’t leave her side.

  “Are you from around the area?” she asked.

  The man hesitated. Just long enough for the pause to feel too quiet.

  “Sort of,” he answered. “Technically I’m… working with the guild. For now.”

  That earned him a glance from both of them.

  “You don’t look registered,” Ayola said.

  He gave a lazy shrug. “Nomads don’t usually get licenses. Not the standard kind.”

  “Then what kind do they get?” Sharp, Quick.

  The man didn’t flinch. “Temporary contracts. Nothing official.” He nodded toward the staff. “Jobs get done. That’s all they care about.”

  The lie slid in like a stream under moss—soft, buried, and gone if you didn’t step on it.

  I’m Reinar,” he said, with a half-bow that was more show than ceremony. “This one’s my partner. Biko.” Crest flaring slow and deliberate, ash-white feathers rising as if applause were owed. Regal. Proud.

  Ayola’s lips twitched—just the outline of a smile. Like the idea of one, unsure if it had permission to exist.

  “Ayola,” she offered, steadier now. “And that’s—”

  “Soren.” His name landed flat, low. His grip hadn’t fully eased, but the edge was dulling.

  They began walking again. The earth underfoot softened, and the fog unraveled like pulled silk that caught on roots and vanished.

  Biko strutted ahead like it owned the path, then burst upward without warning. Wings flared once, cutting clean through the mist. It vanished past a bend, no goodbye.

  Reinar didn’t flinch. Just followed it with a glance and an unreadable smirk. “Knows when it’s time to go.”

  “You sure it’s coming back?” Soren asked, suspicion still coiled in his tone.

  “Always does,” Reinar replied. A beat. “Eventually.”

  The silence after that was thin. Tense in all the unspoken ways.

  Ayola broke it. “We should’ve introduced ourselves earlier.”

  Soren didn’t look at her, but the side-eye was palpable. “Now you care about manners?”

  “He saved us,” she snapped, just sharp enough to bite. “It’s not about manners. It’s about respect.”

  “You could’ve said something.”

  “I thought you’d catch on.”

  “Oh, right. I’ll work on my mind-reading.”

  A slow tilt, head cocked slightly—as if listening to a familiar song beneath their argument, one whose lyrics he already knew by heart.

  "To find love in a world like this…" he said lightly without turning.

  Both companions froze mid-step.

  "Miraculous, really."

  "What?" Ayola blinked, confusion breaking through her pain.

  Between cough and scoff, the exile made an indecipherable noise. "We're not—"

  That crooked grin playing at his mouth, Reinar glanced back. "No judgment. Just envy."

  They continued on.

  They crested the last rise before the valley, revealing Gloammere at last. Its districts layered and split, shaped not like a ring but something more crooked. From this angle, the city spread out like a marsh flower caught mid-bloom, petals wilting into the lowlands, each fold a district unto itself. Smoke spiraled from bent chimneys and half-sunk rooftops, veins of rotwood and stone holding it all together like ribs of a long decaying leaf.

  Soren turned, mouth already opening—

  His words died in the silence. Where Reinar had stood heartbeats ago, only disturbed dust motes danced in shafts of light. Soren's ears strained for the telltale jingle of staff rings or the soft crunch of retreating footsteps.

  Nothing.

  Not even a shadow remained to prove the man had existed at all.

  Only a swirl of dust on the path behind them, and somewhere above, the shriek of a bird fading into blue.

  “Where the hell did he—” The tactician's voice caught short.

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  Soren squinted into the haze behind them “Didn’t say anything at all.”

  “Do you think he made it to the city?”

  “Maybe,” the exile muttered, “Or maybe he didn't want to be seen.”

  They stood a moment longer, silence creaking around them like wood under strain. Then a voice echoed from behind a crooked ridge ahead—some traveler’s shout, and the sound of carts pulling through mud.

  The road called, and Reinar was gone.

  Gloammere rose in the near distance—stone and rotwood, rooftops bent low with age. The path forked between a vine-covered ridge and a sunken field of marsh brush.

  The air thickened as they approached.

  Heat pressed down like weight.

  Not the dry kind that cracked lips and burned. This was damp. Syrupy.

  It clung to skin. Settled into clothes.

  Cloaks became rags. Breath turned chewable.

  Soren exhaled through his teeth, dragging a hand down his neck. “This place feels like breathing through wet wool.”

  Ayola gave him a sidelong glance. “Didn’t peg you for the weather-sensitive type.”

  “Swamps are fine,” he muttered. “When I’m knee-deep in one and getting paid. Not when I’m walking through one wearing everything I own.”

  She smirked. A breath of humor, quick and gone.

  From where they stood, they could make out the guard post up ahead—two men leaning on the remains of a once-painted timber post, half-swallowed by moss and creeping vine. Their armor looked more ceremonial than functional—quilted with layers of sweat-warped canvas, plates of thin bark-lacquered wood covering chest and shoulders. One had his boots off, ankle-deep in a nearby puddle, trying to cool off. The other waved lazily with a strip of folded cloth swatting at flies.

  The first guard lounged with shoulders slack against the post, fingers idly drumming on a rusted sword hilt that hadn't left its scabbard in weeks. The second one stifled a yawn, eyes half-lidded in the haze, gaze sliding past travelers without bothering to focus. When a cart wobbled dangerously close to the post, neither man moved. One sighed. The other blinked slow.

  Gloammere sat low and heavy, its rooftops weighed down by time and mildew. The outer ring stretched first—makeshift homes, tents, scavenged lumber hammered into slanted awnings. A rusted water pipe ran overhead, dripping into a bucket half-buried in mud. Near it, a boy scrubbed the inside of a pot with damp moss while an older woman bartered quietly with a vendor over dried marrowroot. Faces carried the same weight—worn, cautious, persistent.

  “Please, lemme trade it—just need a pinch for broth.”

  “Ain’t charity day, missus. Come back with coin.”

  The Veilstone native slowed. His eyes flicked to a passing traveler—bent under a half-broken cart, the wheels barely turning, cloth draped over something too still to be just cargo.

  The strategist grazed her side again, but her voice stayed even. “This is the east ridge entrance. Less foot traffic. Fewer questions.”

  “That’s supposed to be comforting?”

  “Depends who you are.”

  Ahead, a short queue formed at the checkpoint—two guards in thick vests checking tags by hand. No scanners. Just touch, glance, memory. An old man ahead fumbled his badge; one of the guards rolled his eyes and waved him on.

  The blade carrier shifted the strap of his pack. “Early system. No real central archive. If someone swaps your tag, there’s not much stopping them.”

  Ayola nodded. “Names matter more than metal. One wrong stamp and someone else walks in your skin. That’s why drifters don’t last long. That’s why guilds hold power. Reputation, not regulation.”

  Silence served as his reply. Just reached under his coat and touched the tag strung around his neck, the faint scrape of metal against fabric the only sound.

  "Whatcha here for, sugar?" drawled the first guard, voice rough with fatigue and disinterest.

  "Just passin' through," Ayola answered, keeping her tone light but purposeful.

  The tired guard squinted, dragging a faded kerchief across his damp temple. His bloodshot eyes lingered on the dual-etched triangle and square catching dull sun against her chest.

  “Mmm.” The guard’s brow arched slow, skeptical. “Merchant an’ Adventurer, huh?”

  "Guild-sanctioned." she said.

  The guard grunted, then jerked his chin with the minimal effort of someone conserving energy in the heat. “Keep that tag where folks can see it, ya hear? Lotta turnover these days. Don’t want nobody takin’ ya for no drifter.”

  “What’s he runnin’ as?” drawled the second guard, not bothering to lift his head.

  "Mercenary. Thread Rank."

  Now the second guard finally glanced up—a lazy flick of eyes beneath heavy lids, mouth quirking in that particular half-smirk of a man too long at his post. “Any them boys come draggin’ back yet?” he asked his partner, the question floating between them like the dust in the air.

  "Still nothin'. Not since last moon's end," the first guard muttered, tucking the kerchief away with weathered fingers. He turned back, shoulders already dismissing them. “Y’all keep ya noses clean, hear? G’on then.”

  The tactician offered a tight nod. Soren didn't speak.

  They walked through the gates, stone giving way to soft-packed dirt and raised timber. As they passed, Soren leaned closer. “What boys?”

  “No idea,” Ayola murmured, but she didn’t sound convinced.

  Ayola lurched mid-step, fingers clawing at her temples. A strangled sound escaped her throat as color drained from her face. When Soren caught her elbow, she blinked rapidly, pupils contracting against pain.

  “You good?”

  A hard swallow worked its way down. Her jaw tightened before words came. “Just... the pressure.” Her knuckles whitened against her skull. “Still there.”

  They kept moving, weaving through low buildings and thin streets that smelled like rust, damp moss, and saltwood. Stalls lined one wall, hawking

  Somewhere behind a crate, a woman’s voice snapped: “Don’t come back askin’ for charity next moon—ain’t no guild payin’ what they promised.”

  A muttered reply followed. “Council ain’t taxin’ them rich boys none. S’all on us. Always been.”

  Another stall owner clucked his tongue as a man walked off empty-handed. “Food’s fer those what got coin. Not for them what just got mouths.”

  A guard leaned under an awning, grumbling low: “Taxes keep climbin’—but y’notice them topfolk still eatin’ steak while we chew boiled bone.”

  “Eh. Ain’t worth your coin, stranger. Swamp’s been thinning the catch this season.”

  Soren scanned the square. “Where’s the inn?”

  A vendor at the edge of the square leaned closer to a buyer, voice low:

  “—said it weren’t no cat. Not wit’ them extra claws.”

  The buyer shook his head. “Ain’t no beast smart enough to circle like that. It’s somethin’ else.”

  “Bah. Y’all believe every shadow’s got teeth. Ain’t no monster. Just a big cat. Maybe.”

  “You seen them glow marks on the trail? Tell me that’s normal.”

  Ayola paused near the stall, pretending to eye a bottle. Her lips thinned. “They’re scared.”

  “They should be,” Soren muttered.

  No answer at first. A half-step behind, eyes slightly unfocused.

  The Wilted Edge

  Ahead stretched a modest lane framed by crooked shutters and half-patched awnings. Signs hung at odd angles, letters faded or smeared by years of sun and swampwater. Near the end of the lane, a weathered board above a thick-timbered building creaked in the breeze: The Mudlamp Inn.

  A cracked lantern dangled beside the door, flickering in protest despite the daylight.

  Ayola paused first.

  “That’s the place,” she said, but there wasn’t much certainty in it.

  Soren squinted up at the frame. “Looks like it’s half sinking.”

  “Better than sleeping in the slums.” She pressed her palm to the door and shoved.

  A gust of musty warmth greeted them—heat from the kitchen, old wood, and damp fabric. The common room was quiet, just two travelers at opposite corners hunched over pale broth and thin bread. A woman behind the counter looked up, her sleeves rolled, hair tied back with a bit of string. Her eyes lingered on their boots, their coats, then their tags.

  The woman behind the counter didn’t bother to straighten. “Rooms?” she asked, wiping her hands on an old rag.

  “One night. Two beds, if you have it,” Ayola replied.

  The innkeeper’s lips pressed thin, not unkind. “Mmm. Back hall, third left. You pay now, sugar. Ain’t no tabs round here.”

  The coin slid across the counter without a word.

  Ascending the narrow stairwell with boards moaning beneath them, they entered a room carrying faint notes of cedar beneath layers of old sweat. Between the crooked bed and its companion—still bearing the dent of someone departed either too hastily or too distantly in the past—lay the promise of uneasy rest.

  Soren dropped his pack by the crooked bed and tugged the wrapped naginata free. The canvas scratched dry against his palm as he held it upright for a moment, gaze unreadable.

  Then he slid it beneath the frame, flat and careful, tucking one of his coats over the exposed end.

  Ayola turned from the window. “Leaving it here?”

  “It’s a pain to drag,” he said, like it was obvious.

  She hummed lightly. Not quite agreement. Not quite judgment.

  Soren didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

  The dual class eyes lingered on the covered blade taking in the pattern of the wrap. The buried crescent that anyone trained might recognize if they were looking too closely.

  He’d forgotten. Or ignored the thought entirely.

  Maybe he was tired. Maybe he didn’t want to think about what carrying it meant.

  Smart men got worn down like anyone else.

  A quiet hum slipped from her throat. She brushed the hem of her coat straight.

  “Did you hear them outside? Prices rising. Guards complaining.”

  She sat at the bed’s edge, gaze distant. “This place’s sinking under its own weight.”

  Soren leaned against the wall. “Always the same story. Poor get taxed. Rich get breaks. Makes it look like order on paper. Feels like rot in the bones.”

  “And the beast?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Maybe it knows. Maybe that’s why it circles—watchin’, waitin’. Or maybe it’s just hungry.”

  “Truth doesn’t shout. And if it does…” her voice trailed off. “It’s hiding something.”

  Honey met terracotta. Two burned truths catching in the light. “We don’t chase it. We follow the shadow.”

  “And shadows always lead somewhere.”

  [FIELD NOTES: THE GUILD SYSTEM & TRACING ]

  “The guild’s not a job. It’s a spine.”

  That’s what they say, out in the edges where no government flag’s flown in years.

  When the Broken Hour shattered old orders, the guilds didn’t rise—they were already there, filling cracks with grit and blood and barter.

  Today, every town worth a name has at least one guildhall: Adventurer, Mercenary, Merchant. Maybe all three. Maybe none left standing.

  They’re independent. They’re rivals. But they’re all woven into the same global network, like scattered forts linked by the thinnest thread. Some call it a syndicate. Some call it salvation. Either way—you want to survive? You’ll need their stamp.

  Each guild runs its own council. Own rules. Own punishments. But one thing binds them all:

  THE TRACING

  A soul’s walk toward purpose. Four stages. Four colors. Four marks burned into every tag that swings from a belt or neck chain. Doesn’t matter if you’re a sellsword, mapmaker, or spice-barterer—you walk the same steps:

  1. Hollow (Rank I)

  ? A vessel yet to be filled.

  ? They say hollows don’t know what they want—or worse, think they do but haven’t earned it.

  ? Most jobs are grunt work: clean this, carry that, fetch me a mushroom that won’t kill you.

  ? A Hollow’s tag glows dull gray, barely a whisper of light.

  2. Thread (Rank II)

  ? Now you’re tied to something. A path, a cause, a craft.

  ? Threads start gathering reputation—enough to be sent where danger flickers instead of burns.

  ? More doors open. More eyes follow.

  ? A Thread’s tag shines bronze or copper, the color of things that start to gleam but tarnish quick if ignored.

  3. Mark (Rank III)

  ? Leave an impression deep enough, and the world starts tracing you back.

  ? Marks get respect—and enemies. These are the ones guildmasters watch. The ones whispered about in bunk rooms.

  ? Assignments come riskier. Political. Tangled. Some never leave this rank. Some never want to.

  ? A Mark’s tag glows silver or iron—a glint you catch from the corner of your eye.

  4. Binding (Rank IV)

  ? Few make it here. Fewer stay.

  ? To be Binding is to be fused with purpose; to be known by name, symbol, legend.

  ? Some say a Binding doesn’t carry their tag anymore—the tag carries them.

  ? Their color? Gold, platinum, or something no one quite agrees on, because when you meet one, you know.

  ?

  ON CLASSES & COLORS

  Each tag bears both rank and class.

  Color marks the role. Pattern marks the path. An Adventurer’s blue stripe on silver. A Mercenary’s red flash across iron. A Merchant’s green swirl on copper.

  Cross-class? Dual-class? Your tag grows more complex. Lines interweave. Colors double. Some call it a blessing. Others a curse—because the more paths you walk, the harder it is to stay on any one.

  And for those brave or foolish enough to hold three classes at once? Their tags hum like strings stretched too tight. Their mission intervals stretch longer. Their scrutiny sharpens. Some councils eye them with pride. Others with suspicion.

  ?

  MISSION REQUIREMENTS & RANK TIMERS

  No one coasts forever. To keep a tag active, a guild demands proof:

  ? Hollow: Mission every month.

  ? Thread: Every three months.

  ? Mark: Every six months.

  ? Binding: Every year—or longer, if trusted.

  Dual-class? You earn extra leeway. Add three months to every interval. But miss your window, and your tag goes dim. Lose too many tags, and the guild might stop carving new ones for you.

  Each class’s missions are different.

  An Adventurer must explore, map, or retrieve knowledge.

  A Mercenary must complete contracts, defense details, or battles.

  A Merchant must move goods, secure trade, or stabilize markets.

  In some towns, the guild is the law. In others, the guild is the last thing between a flame and the wind. Either way: no one walks free without walking the Tracing.

  Q&A