Ch 32: Same Shit , Different Days

  A wagon wheel bit too hard around a corner, flinging murky spray into the grumbling vendors’ legs.

  The road funneled tight ahead, squeezing breath and footfall between narrow walls. Cracked brick shifted to polished stone. Banners sagged like old prayers between lantern poles, colors bled to memory by sun and steam.

  Something tugged, brushing the back of his neck. Not loud. Not clear. A whisper?

  “Soren”

  His gaze drifted sideways, toward a shallow basin at the street’s edge where water lay still and flat beneath the morning light. No ripple. No wind. Just reflection.

  “Soren?”

  A hand skimmed his sleeve—Ayola’s touch, quiet but grounding.

  He blinked.

  “Yeah,” he said, forcing a small grin. “Just thinking.”

  Her eyes searched his face, quiet questions flickering, but she let it pass. They kept walking.

  The shift didn’t announce itself—but it wasn’t hiding either. Each step felt like trespassing deeper into someone else’s memory—scrubbed bright, yet unraveling at the seams.

  Between the lines of stilted homes and cracked stone shops, the Greyblade Guild Hall rose.

  Not massive, But unmistakable.

  Three stories of pale stone faced in dark, water-worn brickwork, stitched together with elegant archways and deep-set windows that caught the morning light and turned it back in shades of tarnished gold. The entrance was a wide double door flanked by two carved columns, vines creeping up the sides as if the building had outgrown the city itself.

  Above the entry hung the guild’s symbol—three blades crossing at the hilt: One pristine white, One ash-blackened and dulled. One caught between—grey steel, neither tarnished nor pure.

  The carving had weathered years of rain and steam, the grooves darkened with time, but the edges were polished often enough to gleam. Someone still cared about appearances.

  Soren slowed slightly, shoulder brushing Ayola’s as they took it in.

  The Greyblade guild. Too polished for a city wheezing on its own breath. Too clean for streets still steeped in yesterday’s sweat.

  Merchants drifted by, their boots too clean for the Wilted Edge. One of them wore a woven sash thick with copper coins, jangling with each self-important step. Another group—leaner, shabbier—hauled crates down a side alley, their faces hollow-eyed but determined.

  Whispers rode the air between them, low and resentful:

  “Protects the coin, not the hands that earn it.”

  “Saw ’em turn away the whole north end last month—said they didn’t meet ‘contract standards.’”

  “Greyblades don’t guard towns no more. They guard investments.”

  A boy sat hunched near the end of the main bridge, carving the guild’s tri-blade symbol into a slab of driftwood with a rusty nail. His work was uneven, but careful.

  Ahead, the guild’s outer courtyard stretched like an open mouth—wide, paved in mismatched stone, bordered by wrap-around porches where guild members lounged in loose groups. Some leaned against the rails, smoking. Others cleaned weapons or read battered newspapers.

  Built like a fortress. Felt like a market at dusk.

  Ayola’s eyes flicked to the edges—where the fancier stone cracked and the bridges grew thinner. Where water lapped closer to the foundations than it should.

  “All show,” she murmured under her breath.

  Gothic arches strained skyward, warped by steam and rust—grand design buckled beneath grit and ambition—a city trying to wear the clothes of better bloodlines, but built by hands that never forgot the swamp at their heels.

  A gull’s cry split the air above the water. A dog barked once. Somewhere close, an argument cracked the morning’s hum.

  And then the sound of raised voices spilled out through the open doors ahead.

  Conflict. Tension already brewing.

  Shoulders rolled loose beneath a slow hiss of breath.

  Ayola adjusted the angle of her cloak, half-hiding the glint of steel at her hip.

  They kept walking—straight into the weight of it.

  But it wasn’t one voice this time. It was two.

  To the left, near a side alcove: a soaked man slamming both hands on the front desk. Veins bulged at his temples, fury ripe in every word. “Y’all took my coin. Swore she’d come home safe.”

  Voice caught, then turned hard—raw bark over rot.

  “She came back draggin’ blood, arm hangin’ loose. That what y’all call protection?”

  Across the hall, a second desk, smaller—more decorative than functional. There, another man in courier leather argued over a delayed contract. “You signed the release! The roads were clear!”

  Both clerks responded with a kind of mechanical deflection. Half bored, half blind.

  “One of our mercs reported wolves,” said the woman at the side desk, lips pursed.

  “That’s not wolves,” the courier hissed. “That’s trained. That’s someone’s pet gone off leash.”

  From the benches nearby, a pair of mercenaries chuckled. One leaned back and mocked, “Maybe don’t run letters through a warzone, aye?”

  Sabric Loboire didn’t laugh.

  He lounged with his back half-propped against a crate, a blackened machete resting flat across his knees—curved, notched, brutal. Sun-slicked skin glinted at the temples. Loose waves of dark hair, damp at the tips, clung to a sharp, fox-boned face marked by a thin scar along the jaw. He wore his usual swamp-spun layering: rolled sleeves, ash-washed vest, red-threaded bone charms winking against a wrist as he shifted.

  The grin came slow—half-lidded, crooked, dangerous. More cut than curve.

  Then he stood.

  Not fast. Not loud. Just a coil of lean muscle and calm violence rising from the floor like the bayou breathing up something sharp.

  Jaw tight, shoulders taut, the father stood like a storm holding its breath—rage banked just under skin.

  “You laughin’?”

  Bootsteps scraped forward. The swamp in his voice boiled up, thick and spitting.

  “My girl got teeth marks where a hand should be—and you sittin’ there with that damn grin like it’s a tale worth tellin’?”

  Sabric cracked his neck and took two slow steps forward. “I think you’re loud.”

  The clerk at the main desk didn’t look up. “Sabric. Let it go.”

  But the mercenary didn’t. He grabbed the man by the collar and flung him back.

  A crash echoed. Chair. Crates. Shouting.

  The courier stumbled too, shoved aside when he tried to intervene.

  A beat passed before anyone moved.

  A merc in a patched coat shifted first, breaking the stillness without a word. His guild emblem was stitched in pale thread, half-faded, blending into the fabric like he’d never meant it to stand out. He helped the courier up with a quiet, “You alright?”

  Another dropped to one knee beside the girl, hands gentle. His badge was old steel, dulled and rubbed down like it’d been thumbed too many nights. “Lemme see that, lil’ miss,” he murmured, voice low enough to keep the shame off her father’s shoulders.

  It wasn’t loud. But it cut through the silence better than Sabric’s punch had.

  That’s when another voice rang out—sharper, older, tired of the rot.

  A woman with a half-fastened pauldron pushed off the wall. “That’s a townman. You lay another finger on him, you’re gonna wish you hadn’t.”

  Sabric’s teeth showed. “Mind your business, Mersia.”

  “Ain’t yours to break,” Sharp, quick.

  The room was coiled by then. Everyone waiting for who’d flinch next.

  From a bench near the far wall, a voice muttered—half-bitter, half tired.

  “They wait. Let others bleed on the risky jobs, then snatch the ones that pad the board.”

  “Course they do,” another replied. “Heroes on paper. Nowhere else.”

  Eeeerhhhk

  The main doors inched open.

  Near the side wall, one grey-aligned merc leafed through a bounty flyer like it held more truth than anyone here. Another twisted a flask open, took a sip, and went back to sharpening his blade—slow, even, like nothing in the room deserved urgency.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Ayola entered, hood down, cloak trailing like bleached mist. Soren followed, slower, eyes catching the pause in every breath inside the room.

  All heads turned. Not in surprise—just calculation. A white-thread badge gleamed from one shoulder; a blackened pin glinted from another’s belt. One merc near the wall traced the edge of his dull grey tag with a thumb, gaze unreadable.

  Soren looked ready to speak.

  Ayola beat him to it.

  “Didn’t realize registration came with a floor show. If this is the Greyblade Guild, the bar’s real low.” she said dryly.

  A few mercs chuckled. Even the courier cracked a bitter smile.

  Ayola stepped forward, glancing over the mess, then the scattering of guild tags.

  “We’re here to register,” she said flatly. “And see what bounties need covering.”

  A scoff from the benches. “What’s that—charity work?”

  Another voice hooted from deeper in the room. “Good luck, fresh meat!”

  Soren’s gaze didn’t waver. “Nah,” he said, dry. “We’re here to finish what you lot couldn’t.”

  That got a ripple of laughter—sharper from the pale-thread badges, more bitter from those whose emblems hung worn and rubbed down to dull steel.

  “And if this is how you handle business,” he added, “we’ll assume hazard pay includes friendly fire.”

  Another low chuckle. But some didn’t laugh. The air twisted.

  Soren came to stand beside her, gaze settling on Sabric last.

  A slow grin crept across Sabric’s face, his eyes sliding toward Ayola.

  Sabric’s smirk cut sideways, muddy-gold eyes flicking to Ayola like he was sizing up a mark, not a threat.

  “Ain’t used to the pretty ones talkin’ back.”

  Steel flicked—silver spun once before Ayola caught it, wrist already twisting his open.

  She examined it a moment, eyes cool. Then flipped it, offering the hilt back toward him—sharp end pointed at his gut. “You should keep better hold of it,” she said. “Next time I won’t.”

  Laughter rippled through the benches—sharp, biting.

  “Damn, Sab,” someone hooted. “Girl played you like a greenhand.”

  “Oughta just sit down, man,” another snorted. “Ain’t worth it.”

  But others didn’t laugh. A few leaned in, eyes sharp. The room pulled taut.

  Steel met callus with a hiss. Red crept up his neck as fingers found the machete's hilt—then retreated

  "Bitch—" The lunge came—all rage, no thought.

  Soren flowed sideways. Let Sabric's weight carry past, then helped it along. Boot to ribs. Physics did the rest.

  The crash echoed.

  "Careful, kid." The words dropped casual as the kick. "Grown-ups are talkin'."

  Sabric shoved himself halfway upright, chest heaving, glare pinned to the floor like a curse.

  The tension snapped—quiet, like a rope underwater. Some badges eased. Others didn’t. Danger coiled beneath the air, waiting.

  From the noticeboard wall, a voice rumbled—low, steady, like churned earth. “Let ’em through, Denna. Ain’t had fresh blood since the last brave soul got chewed up.”

  The clerk at the side desk—Denna—nodded, then waved toward the hallway.

  “Briefing rooms’re open. Pick one.”

  Denna’s pen scratched back to life, already dragging ink across the next name before they’d cleared the doorway.

  “Sit tight. Don’t start nothing you can't finish.”

  Two lower-ranked guards moved in from the edge of the room. One offered a quiet word to the courier, helping him upright for the second time. The other approached the father, who’d pulled his daughter close again.

  “This way, sir,” the guard said. Not unkind.

  The man hesitated, glaring down the hallway Soren and Ayola had disappeared through. Then back at Sabric.

  No one was laughing now. Even the mercs who’d snickered earlier watched without a word.

  The girl’s sling had slipped. She clutched it tighter, hiding her hand. Her eyes didn’t rise.

  They were escorted out without fanfare—one limping, one silent, one still trembling. Just like that, they were gone.

  Ayola didn’t wait for confirmation.

  Sabric’s voice dropped low, less a promise than a rusted edge dragged over bone. “Clock don’t stop just ‘cause you got jokes. We’ll see who’s laughin’ later.”

  Ayola tucked her cloak tighter, already walking past. “It is for today.”

  But Soren caught the way Sabric’s gaze followed her—smoldering, sharp. A grudge kindling. The kind that’d wait for the next open door.

  And as they walked deeper into Greyblade’s halls, past the still-smoking stares and faction lines drawn in mud, the air finally exhaled behind them.

  A guild in pieces. Every eye measuring the new blood.

  Some badges gleamed white in the dim. Others blackened, polished sharp. A few dull grey, tucked half-hidden beneath collars.

  Not with welcome.

  Ayola’s shoulders stayed squared as they crossed the hall, each step a quiet dare against the eyes pinned to their backs.

  The receptionist didn’t smile—just adjusted her ledger and clicked a rusted pen against the page. “Names?”

  “Ayola,” the white-haired tactician replied crisply. “Binding rank. Dual Class.”

  Beside her, Soren tugged his scarf lower. “Soren. Thread Rank.”

  “You here for work or ego”

  “Work,” he said. “And research.”

  Ayola added, “Route maps. Risk logs. Guild trends.”

  The clerk hummed without real interest. “Most of the readers came and went a year ago.”

  “They didn’t have us,” Soren muttered.

  “You two just lookin’ to stir dust, or you got the stomach to chase what don’t wanna be found?”

  The one who’d spoken stepped forward from the noticeboard wall.

  Soren caught the height first—taller than him by more than a head. Built broad through the shoulders and hips, but not to loom. Just… stay. Like levee stone sunk deep in the mud—meant to hold when everything else cracked.

  Not soft. Not showy. Strength grown thick through the arms and legs, shaped by weight and work. Leathers hugged close, soft at the seams from wear, creased where hands had pulled them on a hundred times. Plates strapped snug at elbow and knee—built for movement, not flash. Bone charms clicked low at her wrist and throat, dull as old teeth. Not decoration. Not by the way she carried them.

  Sunlight caught the gleam of heat across her skin—deep umber, golden where the light touched. And her face… strong lines, high cheekbones cut clean above a broad jaw. A nose once broken, never set right. A scar kissed her chin like a blade had changed its mind. Her mouth didn’t rest soft, but it held shape like it knew how.

  Eyes dark as riverwater, still and watching.

  Locs coiled high, tied back in thick twine. The ends swung behind her like a weighted cord—controlled, but ready to whip. Not a piece of her moved without reason.

  Ayola’s gaze sharpened. This wasn’t someone posturing. This was a presence.

  The woman nodded once toward the parchment-stamped desk. “That job’s still open. Pays good. Might jus’kill ya.”

  Ayola didn’t blink. “We’re hard to kill.”

  The woman gave a low hum, half-approval, half-sifting. “Big words. Y’wear ’em like folk ain’t bluffin’. Rarer’n it oughta be.”

  She fished the folded job slip from the desk without looking at the receptionist. Held it out between two fingers.

  Soren took it—but her eyes didn’t leave Ayola.

  “You dual-class?”

  Ayola lifted her tag in response. “Binding rank. Strategist line.”

  The woman grunted. “Thought so. Saw the way you walked in—like you already weighed the room ‘fore the door finished openin’.”

  Soren stepped forward slightly. “And you are?”

  “Talithe Delmoire,” she said, plain as stone.

  No murmur. No stir. But something settled in the room—a hush that wasn’t silence, just space being made without asking. Even the ones who hadn’t looked up still knew.

  Ayola’s brow lifted, slight and sharp. Not recognition. Not surprise. Just… calibration. A presence measured and noted.

  “Didn't expect someone like you still holdin' ground in a place like this.” The statement hung between them—neither question nor accusation.

  Talithe’s mouth quirked, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Ain’t say I liked it. Ain’t leave neither. Some of us ain’t get that choice.”

  There was no bitterness in the way she said it. Just fact.

  “The bounty?” Soren asked. “What’s the truth of it?”

  “South line. Silo outskirts. Something’s takin’ patrols. Might be an animal, might be worse. Fast. Big. Learns too quick. Don’t bleed right.”

  She paused, mouth tightening.

  “Don’t leave bones.”

  Ayola’s gaze flicked sharp. “Anyone actually see it?”

  Talithe shook her head once. “Only the drag marks. Sound carries weird that far out. Things go quiet before they go missing.”

  She tapped the slip again, slower this time. “Two teams down. Didn’t see either come back.”

  The pause landed harder now—not empty, but weighted. Something in her jaw tightened, just for a breath, then vanished like it never cracked the surface.

  “You’ll get no backup from the board,” she said. “They don’t like the odds.”

  Soren shifted his weight, but didn’t step back. Just angled his body—like someone getting a better look at a map he already planned to walk.

  “And you?” No smile in it. No bluff either. Just a quiet pressure, balanced on edge.

  Talithe didn’t answer right away.

  Didn’t need to.

  She just held his gaze for half a second longer than polite—long enough to say she wasn’t supposed to be going either. Not ‘til now.

  She turned, steps heavy but steady.

  Then paused—just long enough to look over her shoulder.

  “When the call comes, move fast. Don’t wait for a bell.”

  “Briefin’ rooms’re down that way,” she said, noddin’ toward the hall. “If y’re serious, I’ll see what’s left of ya after.”

  And then she was gone. Back into the fractured shell of Greyblade, where only a few still carried weight.

  A few heads followed her; most went back to their vices. Soren exhaled slow. “Well,” he muttered. “One hell of an onboarding.”

  They nodded.

  Turned to go.

  Sabric—bruised, breathless, still stupid—coughed out, “No one come’s back from that one.”

  Soren’s stride caught. One eye found Sabric over his shoulder.

  “Good. We’ll clear it for you. You stay home, oil your blade, practice your embroidery.”

  The words trailed after them.

  “Guys can want to be trophy husbands too, you know.”

  Ayola didnt stop her mouth twitched-barely.

  He shrugged. “What? It’s an underappreciated role.”

  Ayola didn’t even look back.

  Their steps carried them deeper—down the dim hall, beneath beams stained dark with steam and age, past doors that creaked closed as they passed.

  The guild swallowed them, one shadow at a time.

  Laughter spilled out behind them, rough and sharp-edged.

  “Embroidery,” someone wheezed between snorts.

  “Dead gods, did he say embroidery?”

  Another voice—older, rasped by too many years of smoke—added, “Trophy husband’s still worth more than your pride, Sab.”

  Sabric rose like smoke from scorched earth, jaw set, hands twitching toward blades he didn’t draw. “Y’all think it’s a joke. Wait till the swamp gets hungry again.”

  “Not funny,” came a voice near the benches.

  “Hilarious.”

  The snickering didn’t stop. Not until he kicked over the empty chair and stalked out, heat rising off him like swamp haze in noon light.

  The hallway muffled the last sounds of the common floor—laughter frayed at the edges, muttering still simmering. The briefing room waited ahead, door shut, quiet like a held breath.

  Then a creak above. Not from behind, but above.

  A second set of doors swung open on the mezzanine.

  Two figures stepped into view.

  The first—tall, carved from discipline. His frame broad beneath a storm-dark coat, every line of him straight-edged and deliberate. Even the way he moved—like a sword kept sharp by habit, not pride. The kind of man who didn’t speak until the silence was ready to listen. He paused at the landing, arms behind his back, boots planted as if the stone needed permission to crack.

  The second came after—a shade looser in the joints, leaner, but with a wiry edge. Where the first looked like memory in motion, this one looked like hunger wrapped in silk. Braids of black hair trailed behind one ear, and a faint line of scar tissue dragged across one cheekbone like a half-healed insult. He wore a shirt one cuff short, collar half-buttoned. But his eyes—those didn’t wander. They watched.

  Below, Mersia glanced up from where she still leaned near the wall. Her arms crossed. Jaw tight.

  “Well,” she muttered. “Well, look what the swamp dragged back.”

  Lucien—because no one else could’ve stood that still and held a room—tilted his head just slightly. “Didn’t think I’d find the guild this far sunk.”

  Demitri let out a dry breath, half amusement, half smoke. “Thought I might have to dig you out myself.”

  Mersia didn’t flinch. “We’re holdin’. Barely. And just ’cause the floor ain’t given out yet.”

  “Barely’s doin’ the heavy liftin’ these days.” Demitri murmured, flicking a glance toward the side wall where Sabric nursed his pride behind a flask.

  Lucien’s gaze trailed them until they disappeared.

  “Those two?”

  “Thread rank merc. Dual-class tactician,” someone said from below.

  Lucien’s eyes didn’t leave the hall. “Let’s see how long they last.” Calm. Measured. Like a blade balanced across his palm—testing weight, not edge.

  Demitri snorted—short, sharp. “Gods, Lucien. Always a sunrise with you.” His gaze tracked the hallway. “They’ve got spark. Just a matter of whether it burns clean… or catches the whole damn house.”

  Talithe didn’t flinch. Just stared them down like she’d done a hundred times before—weight in her silence, not rage. Her gaze swept from Lucien to Demitri, lingered, then moved on like judgment already passed.

  “You showin’ up don’t fix nothin’,” she said, voice low and steady. Like the levee before the flood.

  “We’re not here to fix it,” Lucien answered, hands still clasped behind his back.

  “No,” Talithe murmured. “Didn’t figure you were.”

  Demitri’s jaw shifted, but he didn’t speak. Not yet.

  She turned—no stomp, no rustle. Just the slow drag of boots across wood, like every step cost more than it should.

  At the edge of the corridor, she paused. One hand rose—not to salute, not to wave. Just brushing the edge of the worn blue sash at her hip. A habit. A tether. Maybe a ward.

  She didn’t look back.

  The silence after her retreat wasn’t hollow. It pressed.

  One more leader walking into the dark, not sure who’d be left to follow.

  [Guild Contract Posting – Greyblade Guildhall, Gloammere]

  [NOTICE: CONTRACT CODE 013-44B]

  TARGET CLASSIFICATION:

  Unknown Predator – Southern Perimeter

  Common Alias: “Marsh Ghost” / “Ironclaw” / “The Thing That Watches”

  REPORTED SIGHTINGS:

  – First Ridge Drain (two livestock missing)

  – Lowfield Croft (patrol lost contact)

  – Silo Runoff (no remains recovered)

  KNOWN ATTRIBUTES:

  – Large quadruped, unknown mass

  – Tracks do not match known fauna

  – Avoids direct confrontation unless provoked

  – Observed circling perimeter routes

  HAZARD LEVEL:

  Tentative Class II (elevated pending confirmation)

  REWARD:

  – 400 Doba confirmed

  – +50 per confirmed limb recovery

  – +100 for intact carcass retrieval

  AUTHORIZED BY:

  Talithe Delmoire (Acting Senior Guard)

  Lucien Marveil (Recon Officer)

  Denna Silles (Desk Liaison)

  CONTRACT NOTES:

  – Team must include at least 3 thread-ranked mercs

  – Unauthorized attempts void bounty rights

  – Guild not responsible for recovery of remains if mission fails

  ADDITIONAL:

  “This posting is final. No further replacements will be dispatched without board vote.”

  – Copy archived Greyblade Records –