Lyall’s knee sank an inch into the soft, silken muck lining the unassuming stream winding its way through the forest. Having intended to immediately start the hour-long walk to Riath, Lyall’d detoured as each reluctant pulse of blood through his sore left forearm transformed the dull, itchy throb into blistering heat. He hissed slipping back his sleeve to reveal swollen, black-bruised skin tender to even the gentle bounce of the warm spring wind. 

“That shield was titan lindenwood...” Lyall grumbled softly. It was also sixty years old. Lyall caught his pouting face—and all the scratches—on the water’s surface and shook off the expression. Thorne would rebuke him for whining, even though Thorne was the one who whipped a finger in Lyall’s face after bequeathing his student his precious shield and warning of consequences if anything happened to it. Lyall couldn’t help one more mumble, “You’re the one who wore it to the point of breaking.” 

He dunked his arm in the water and let his lashes flutter together from the icy relief. A pale-yellow salve that defiantly stuck under his fingernails went on his arm to next be covered by a wrapped bandage. Deep nostalgia followed from the dabbing of a white cream upon his scratches. Lyall had always flinched at the slight sting, but his mother’s touch was never anything but gentle all the times she applied the coneflower-scented medicine. At least she wouldn’t bemoan the quick loss of the healing scroll bought using her limited funds. 

Lyall cleaned the blood, dust, and sweat off him as best he could before resuming his path out of the forest. The canopy he walked under was young. This area had once been a part of the grassy, open flatland stretching the southern reaches of Riath, but the abandonment of the bunker and other nearby military operations once the rebellious duchy of Gavint rejoined the kingdom of Evaritia permitted the old forest to steadily spread. Eyelids hot and heavy, Lyall closed his eyes once more—though his feet kept moving. Not once did he trip or stumble. A sense beyond sight alerted him to the presence of each young birch or uneven root from an inner glow delicate as the light of a virgin sunrise. Branches rustled louder from his passing, and the otherworldly excited flitter of nature around him reassured Lyall he’d no need worrying about nearby danger. 

It took twenty minutes to clear the forest. The grasslands greeted him then, and Lyall struck to a straight path through their tall blades, bursting wildflowers, and bumpy barrows of tiny wildlife instead of seeking out the road. His eyes stayed open this time. Only the trees spoke to him loudly enough for him to trust their guidance. Thankfully, Lyall’s feet trampled no hidden wasp nest as they had on the way to the bunker to send him fleeing like a spooked foal. His hour proved peaceful and uneventful where the cresting of a small hill as the land began to undulate cast before him the city of Riath. 

The ending peaks of the Ironhold mountain line, snow-tipped tops almost entirely melted, speared the horizon as the city’s backdrop. Roads from all directions filed citizens through gates of the twenty-foot-high protective wall boasting recently constructed battle mage towers clashing new stone against old. The wide Lembern river cutting southeast around the city was recent too. Ten years recent, but still a fresh, massive project undertaken by Evaritia to make a connection between the populated trade rivers of Ferport and Bursnia that burgeoned the populace of Riath to almost more than it could hold. 

Lyall passed the endless crop fields radiating the stench of fertilizer and dotted with lime-bright shoots to tread carefully amongst the oddly open space of pitiful grass trampled into hard ground closest to the southern gate. Broken glass and hidden holes of uprooted tent stakes served as threats to anyone walking idly. Only a week ago a slum encampment parked itself right up to the wall like a burgeoning wart concerningly swelling in size each day. Some of the destitute citizens had been propositioned low-level manual labor in exchange for boarding in the city, but such an offer wouldn’t have been enough to remove the slums entirely. Lyall couldn’t say how the rest had been moved, but it wasn’t a matter clinging to his mind. 

Traffic moved swiftly into the city. Merchants and farmers jammed the gate this morning when he left, but few were around now to slow his path. Ten guards worked the gate: three on each side and four on the rampart above. Seven were human. Two were dwarves, one of which stroked a thick beard long enough to wrap around his shoulders and back down his front as an adornment. The last guard was one of the small folk, who did her best to stand intimidating despite her tiny cheeks bouncy and bright as cherries and glittering blue eyes silently proclaiming delight. This composition carried into the citizenry of Riath. Evaritia was a human kingdom, but the Ironhold Mountains boasted several dwarf clans while the eastern reaches home to the small folk had been negotiated into Evaritia’s borders some time ago. 

Lyall entered the gate without issue. Though his stomach rumbled, he pressed on past restaurants exploding the alluring scents of sizzling meats and herbed breads. His sight set itself on the cluster of tall buildings centered in the city and nothing else. Dodging bands of residents who gave no thought to making room on the streets for others and avoiding carriages unrelenting in their trajectories was a trial of its own, yet Lyall finally stood before a massive three-story building settled outside the walled administration district. 

Riath’s adventuring guild. Shined and reflective were its white floors and impressive were its dark blue walls featuring gold-coated reliefs of famous heroes or crucial historical moments. The pretty images entertained the crowd filling rows of hard chairs beyond the welcome desk awaiting the call of their daily lottery number. Greenhorn Square, the rest of the building unofficially called this section. The butts filling the seats were those new to sword or spell earning their way to recommendation through menial tasks like serving as temporary guards or smacking down dire moles churning up cropland. Lyall pressed on here too, flashed his badge at a guild member stationed at one of four glass doors beyond the Square, and successfully entered the inner portion of the building. 

The inner portion had a name too: the Mall. The large middle of the floor offered cushioned couches and chairs with bowls of apples refilling themselves whenever the last was taken, and the open air above the sitting area stretched all the way to the top of the building where a glass roof shone down the noon sun in sparkling spears. ‘Storefronts’ lined the perimeter walls for guild members to wait in line seeking out more lucrative jobs available from other guilds, cities, or individual citizens of influence. The second floor was for harder jobs while only the most skilled or foolhardy sought out the third-floor fronts. The first floor was for the trained who simply needed more basic experience. 

It was supposed to be, anyway. 

“Mr. Blakely!” Lambert—human, middle-aged, pasty-skinned—rose sharply from his chair of elegant red velvet behind a front with no line at the back of the first floor. “Done within the very same morning! Was the excursion successful?” 

“I have the journal of General Estorus. I opened the cover to confirm it his, but, as requested, I did not read the contents,” Lyall set the weathered book upon the gloss-shined mahogany counter. Lambert’s long fingers snatched it away the moment he had. 

“Lord Tancred appreciates your integrity. For your efforts, the promised twenty gold as payment.” Lambert’s wide smile reminded him of the death mouths as the bag of coins jingled onto the counter. Lyall didn’t take it. 

“I would like to express a concern.” 

“...Yes?” Lambert replied slowly, the over-enunciation almost singing. 

“The guild’s policy is to assign tasks to their proper risk levels. There was not a minor presence of death mouths but a den of over forty. This job should have been on the second level.” 

“Ah. Well,” Lambert flapped his hand, “Lord Tancred and I express our apologies for the unanticipated risk. We’re glad to see you managed the issue safely. Naturally, we don’t wish for those who work for us to encounter danger far above what’s been stated, but our intelligence guaranteed us the threat was minor. The guild is also understanding that some risk levels can change quickly, and death mouths do breed rapidly. It seems this was an unfortunate, abrupt shift no one would reasonably be able to foresee.” 

“I explored the entire bunker and discovered seven bodies all deceased within the past week or two. Unless another front here had the same job available, that’s seven men and women sent there under your request who never made it back. Would seven seeming disappearances not be cause to consider the risk assessment inaccurate?” Lyall folded his arms. 

“I—” 

“I lost both my shield and a healing scroll due to the unexpected swarm of death mouths. Given the sharp discrepancy surrounding the stated danger level, I would like additional compensation to cover the cost of those items.” 

“Now, now, Mr. Blakely,” Lambert pushed the bag of coins closer to him with a singular finger, “please recall that I merely manage this front in Lord Tancred’s stead. There’s not much I can do without his direct permission but rest assured that I’ll speak with him and contact you later with his response to your concerns. The initial payment is all I can bestow upon you for today.” 

Silently, with a dry stare, Lyall took and pocketed the bag. Lambert clutched the book to his chest, offered another evasive smile, and turned to leave through the wooden door at the back of the station. 

“Mr. Lambert.” 

Lambert halted with his hand on the knob, and his grin was far more ominous than the death mouths’ now. Lyall ignored that, slipped out a thin, leather-covered booklet, and rose a brow. 

“My stamp and paperwork?” 

“Of course. Pardon me.” 

Lambert jerked the booklet from Lyall’s hand, flipped it to the appropriate page and row with the job’s details, and imprinted it with a green, circular mark. Next came paperwork filled from the drawer to be marked with the same stamp. Lambert squirreled that and the journal away through the back door and did not return. Lyall’s gaze only dried further studying his booklet of completed jobs. All other rows held additional stamps heralding his work as exceptional and above-and-beyond. To earn nothing but the barest recognition of success on a job like this... 

“You’re not getting that extra money,” a voice from behind broke the quiet air. Lyall turned, adding his booklet to his pocket, and found two men approaching. Both were over fifty with graying hair. The one who spoke was tall and bulky with a pale pink headband featuring ‘Strongest Man Vinton’ embroidered unevenly. “Granddaughter made it for me,” Vinton explained once noticing Lyall’s gaze before returning to the original topic. “Lord Tancred is a snake. He always posts deadly jobs here on the first level, but having friends in high places means the guild does shit about it despite how many complaints come through.” 

“In truth, I’d heard the rumors, but I hoped there’d be some illusion of dignity.” Lyall sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “A lesson learned, I—” 

“WAAH!” the second man exclaimed. 

Lyall knew why and didn’t flinch, nor did he mind the thin man with scraggly black hair reaching up and touching the point of Lyall’s right ear he’d exposed. It’d happened too many times in his life for care to remain, and the thin man’s wide hazel eyes glistened with childlike wonder. 

“You’re an elf?!” 

“Hoyt!” Vinton smacked his companion’s hand down. 

“Half-elf,” Lyall corrected simply. “Human on my mother’s, elven on my father’s.” 

“Amazing. Does your heritage have anything to do with your eyes? Are they special? Can you see into the Ripples?” Hoyt gushed, pointing this time to Lyall’s unique eyes. The right was green, and the left was brown. 

Vinton scoffed, “We’ve both known people with eyes like that. Don’t be a—” 

“Actually, my right eye can trace the invisible when someone in such a state is in close proximity to me, and my left can see the reverberations of feet upon the ground even an hour after a man or creature has passed,” Lyall said. Vinton and Hoyt gaped in utter awe, and Lyall let such expressions linger until the quiver of his mouth aroused suspicion. “I’m kidding.” 

“Bah!” Vinton threw his hands up, yet he laughed low and strong. “You must have told that joke many times to say that so seriously.” 

“Once or twice,” Lyall teased further. 

“But...but can you see the Ripples?” Hoyt urged hopefully. 

“No. To see the creation lines of the world is beyond me, although I do have a kinship with the forests.” 

“What’s that like? Can you talk with the trees?” 

“Let’s leave the poor boy alone.” Vinton hurriedly scribbled something on a piece of paper and held it for Lyall to take. “A crafter I know who makes good shields. Should give you a decent deal.” 

“Much appreciated.” 

“Thinking about taking another job?” Hoyt kept the questions coming. “Or resting?” 

“Not an official job, but I have something I need to get.” 

“Oh? What’s that?” 

Lyall shifted towards the doors of the Mall. “A cart.”