While Doc and his companions settled into the Thornwick Rest, Torven guided his group through Glasshold's outer gate and into the heart of the city proper.

  "That was the strangest group I've seen in months," Lyss said, keeping pace beside him as they navigated the crowded street. Her sharp amber eyes tracked the flow of traffic around them—merchants hauling carts, students in Academy robes, laborers returning from the lower districts.

  Torven grunted agreement. "Level forty-six orc traveling with a merchant, a beast tamer, and two support types. Plus whatever that armored figure was."

  "You noticed that too?" Lyss's tail flicked with interest. "My Identify failed completely on him. And that wolf—" She shook her head. "Phase-stepping creature with void markings, but it didn't feel corrupted. Just… different."

  Behind them, Borin adjusted his pack. "The wagon was enchanted. Good work too—Lightload and Expanded Hold, minimum. Probably cost more than most frontier settlements see in a year."

  "Yet they were heading to a goblin-run inn in the outer district," Kael added quietly. "Not the kind of place high-level adventurers typically choose."

  Torven processed that as they walked. The pieces didn't fit together cleanly. A level forty-six Warden—legendary tier—traveling with support personnel and camping outside Waypoint instead of securing proper lodging.

  Were they trying to keep a low profile, and if so why? Torven wondered.

  The street widened as they climbed toward Splitstone Row. Glasshold's architecture shifted around them—older construction giving way to buildings pressed tight together along the broken ridge line. The district carried a working energy that reminded Torven of a frontier towns, despite sitting in the heart of the North's old capital.

  Blackstone kilns lined the eastern edge, their heat bleeding into the surrounding air. Workers moved between forges and workshops, their voices creating a steady background hum. The central lane bustled with activity—stalls selling tools and provisions, craftspeople calling out their services, groups of adventurers moving between guild halls.

  "There," Lyss pointed ahead where three distinct buildings dominated the district's center.

  The Adventurer's Guild sat at the western end, its entrance marked by a worn iron archway and the familiar crossed-swords emblem. The Merchant's Guild occupied the middle ground, its doors wider to accommodate cargo assessment. The Mage's Guild anchored the eastern position, subtle ward-light flickering across its threshold.

  Torven led them toward the Adventurer's Guild, weaving through the foot traffic. A bulletin board outside displayed contract postings—escort work, dungeon delves, monster removal. Standard fare for Glasshold.

  The common room inside held long tables filled with adventurers discussing jobs, a contract board covering the far wall, administrative desks where guild staff processed registrations and payments. The space carried the particular smell of leather armor, weapon oil, and too many bodies in close quarters.

  A clerk looked up as they approached. "Contract completion or new registration?"

  "Contract completion," Torven said. "And we have high-tier loot to move. Who handles assessments?"

  "Assessments go through Registrar Kells," the clerk said, nodding toward the back desk. "He handles completions too. Board's current if you want to look while you wait."

  Torven nodded his thanks and moved toward the board with his group. Lyss immediately began scanning postings, her Treasure Sense no doubt evaluating potential rewards.`

  But Torven's thoughts kept circling back to that strange crew heading toward a goblin's inn. The armored figure Lyss Identify couldn't read. The phase-wolf that moved like something from the deep Waste. A Warden traveling with merchants instead of a proper combat party.

  People with secrets, he thought, studying a contract for frost drake removal. And power enough to keep them.

  In Glasshold's political maze, that combination meant trouble for someone. Eight years of leadership had taught Torven when to keep information close and when to share it up the chain. This fell squarely in the latter category.

  Torven left his team examining the contract board and returned to the clerk's desk.

  "Can I help you with something else?"

  "Is Gar in?" Torven asked. "I need to report something."

  "Commander Ironwood's in the training room," the clerk said, already reaching for a brass token. "Lower level, west side. I can escort you if—"

  "I know the way." Torven had been reporting to Gar for eight years. He didn't need a guide.

  The clerk nodded and returned to his work. Torven moved through the common room toward the stone stairs at the back, descending into the cooler air of the lower level. The sounds of the guild hall faded, replaced by the rhythmic thunk of weapons hitting practice dummies and the shuffle of boots on stone.

  The training room opened before him—a long chamber with reinforced walls, weapon racks along the sides, and a practice area marked with painted lines. Three young adventurers stood in formation near the center while Gar observed from a few paces back.

  Torven recognized the setup immediately. New recruits running coordination drills.

  "Shield up, Brekka!" Gar called out. "You're the front line!"

  A stocky young woman with a round shield and shortsword shifted her stance, but not quickly enough. The archer—a nervous-looking kid with an ash wood bow—loosed an arrow that struck the practice dummy's shoulder just as Brekka stepped forward. She flinched sideways directly into the path of the second warrior, a tall youth with a two-handed sword.

  The sword wielder stumbled, his Cleaving Arc skill activating mid-recovery. The wide horizontal slash caught empty air as he overbalanced, nearly dropping his weapon.

  "Hold!" Gar's voice cut through the chaos. "Reset positions."

  The three recruits scrambled back to their starting marks, breathing hard despite no actual combat. The archer's hands shook slightly as he nocked another arrow.

  Torven leaned against the doorframe, watching. He'd seen this exact scenario play out a hundred times during his military service. Young fighters so focused on executing their individual skills that they forgot to function as a unit.

  The archer would loose without checking his front line's position. The shield bearer would advance without signaling. The sword wielder would commit to a skill activation at the worst possible moment.

  I was exactly that green once, Torven thought, remembering his first patrol assignment. Nineteen years old and convinced his Rally Point skill made him invincible. He'd activated it in the middle of a narrow canyon pass, pulling his entire squad into a clustered formation that blocked the archers' sight lines and left their flanks completely exposed.

  His sergeant had made him run drills for a week straight after that.

  "Again," Gar commanded. "Brekka—you move on my mark, not when you feel like it. Tavin—" he pointed at the archer "—you don't loose until Brekka's shield is planted. And Merrik—" the sword wielder straightened "—save your skills for when they'll actually hit something."

  The recruits nodded and reset. This time they managed three coordinated exchanges before Merrik activated his Cleaving Arc again, forcing Brekka to duck and completely ruining Tavin's aim.

  "Better," Gar said, though his expression suggested otherwise. "Take fifteen. Then work on basic footwork without skills. I want you moving together before you try anything fancy."

  The recruits practically fled toward the water barrels at the far end of the room.

  Gar turned, spotted Torven, and crossed the training floor with the steady movement of someone who'd spent too many years in dungeons to waste energy on anything unnecessary.

  "Torven." Gar's weathered face showed mild curiosity. "Didn't expect you back for another month. Verdant Hollow give you trouble?"

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "Hollow was fine," Torven said. "Got something to report though. Private would be better."

  Gar studied him for a moment, then nodded toward the room off the main training area. "Come on."

  The room proved to be a narrow passage leading to another stone staircase. Torven followed Gar up, the sounds of the training floor fading behind them. They emerged into a familiar corridor—administrative offices, quieter than the chaos below.

  Gar's office sat at the end of the hall, its door already half-open. Inside, Merl sat at a small desk positioned perpendicular to Gar's larger work table, her sharp eyes tracking across a ledger. The halfling's graying brown hair was pulled back in its usual bun, and her quill moved with the measured grace Torven had seen her apply to everything from contract disputes to supply requisitions.

  She looked up as they entered. "Torven. Welcome back!."

  "Merl," Torven said with a slight nod.

  "Something came up," Gar said, moving past Merl's desk toward his own chair. "Worth hearing."

  Merl's gaze sharpened slightly—the only indication of increased interest. She set down her quill and leaned out the door. "Jessa—three cups, please. Hot tea if there's any left."

  A muffled acknowledgment came from somewhere down the hall.

  "Sit," Gar said, gesturing to the two chairs facing his desk.

  Torven took the left seat while Merl claimed the right, turning her chair to face him rather than her paperwork. The halfling's assessment settled on him with the weight of someone who'd spent nineteen years evaluating adventurers, merchants, and contract terms.

  "What happened?" Gar asked.

  Torven organized his thoughts, keeping it direct. "Camped outside Waypoint last night. Another group arrived late—trade wagon, good enchantments. Pulled by a Colossagoat."

  Merl’s eyebrow twitched slightly. Colossagoats were beasts of the northern heights. One this far south was a rarity.

  "Six people," Torven continued. "Merchant type leading negotiations. Beast tamer. Young support personnel. But the significant ones—" he paused, making sure they understood the weight "—a Warden at level forty-six, and an armored figure Lyss's Identify couldn't read at all."

  The silence that followed carried weight.

  "Forty-six," Gar repeated, his tone carefully neutral.

  "That's what Lyss registered. Orc woman. Green skin, tusks, heavy armor. Warhammer." Torven met Gar's eyes. "She gave a name. Mazoga and told me she was part of the adventures guild from down south."

  Merl was already moving, rising from her chair with the grace of someone half her age. She crossed to a filing cabinet against the wall, pulling open the middle drawer. "Class confirmation?"

  "Warden," Torven said.

  Merl's fingers walked through organized folders with practiced speed. She extracted a slim file, scanning the first page as she returned to her seat.

  A young woman—probably Jessa—appeared at the door with a tray holding three clay cups. Steam rose from the dark tea inside. She set it on Gar's desk and departed without a word.

  "Mazoga, Warden, level 35," Merl read aloud, her voice carrying the cadence of someone reciting verified information. "Last registered activity—western frontier. Operated near Hollow Vale forest for approximately eight years." She paused, scanning further. "No disciplinary actions. Contract completion rate ninety-four percent. Specialty notation: defensive operations and monster elimination."

  "Party affiliation?" Gar asked.

  "Independent," Merl said.

  Merl's eyes tracked across the page, her expression shifting from routine assessment to something sharper. "There's a note here. Mazoga was last confirmed near a frontier settlement eight months ago. Village was hit by bandits—raid led by Rellan Vex, wanted for multiple counts of murder and magical trafficking."

  Torven recognized the name. Everyone operating in the adventurers guild knew about Rellan Vex. The man had carved out a bloody reputation throughout the years and had multiple bounties on his head.

  "Mazoga was presumed dead after the attack," Merl continued. "No body recovered, but the settlement was razed. Guild classified her as inactive pending confirmation."

  "Inactive to level forty-six," Gar said slowly. "That's not a typical recovery."

  "No," Merl agreed. "Whatever she walked into after that raid — she didn't just survive it. She came out the other side stronger for it. Multiple times over."

  Torven understood their concern. Levels didn't come from rest and recovery. They came from pushing against lethal threats until the system acknowledged growth. Each threshold harder than the last. Whatever Mazoga had walked into, it hadn't been a single encounter.

  She hadn't postured, hadn't asserted rank, hadn't reacted when he'd assessed her party. Just watched. Quiet and completely unbothered by the attention.

  Gar leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "What's a Warden at that level doing this far north?"

  "Trade delegation," Torven offered. "That's what the wagon suggested. Looked like a serious operation, not a quick run."

  "Serious enough to warrant a level forty-six bodyguard?" Merl's tone carried skepticism. "Most merchants hire protection in the twenties. Maybe thirties for particularly valuable cargo. Forty-six is overkill unless—"

  "Unless the cargo isn't the primary concern," Gar finished. "Or unless they're expecting trouble that would make standard protection useless."

  Torven nodded. "The whole setup felt deliberate. Good equipment, coordinated movement, clear chain of command. But staying at a goblin inn instead of guild lodging? That's someone avoiding attention."

  "Or someone who knows guild appraisal would raise questions they don't want to answer," Merl added, tapping the file. "Like how an inactive adventurer gained eleven levels in under 8 months."

  Gar stood, moving to the window that overlooked Splitstone Row's central lane. The blackstone kilns glowed in the distance, their heat shimmering against the cold mountain air.

  "What about the armored figure?" he asked, still facing the window. "The one Lyss couldn't read."

  "No class identification," Torven confirmed. "No level. Complete blank. Lyss said she's never had her Identify fail that thoroughly. And there was a wolf—phase-stepping creature with void markings. Moved like it belonged to the armored figure."

  "Void corruption?" Merl asked sharply.

  "Lyss said it didn't feel corrupted. Just… different."

  Gar turned back from the window. "Different how?"

  Torven chose his words carefully. "The way it moved suggested intelligence beyond typical beasts. And when it looked at us—" He paused, remembering those violet-traced eyes. "It was evaluating. Not hunting. Evaluating."

  The silence stretched. Gar and Merl exchanged a look that carried years of partnership and shared assessment protocols.

  "Is she planning to check in?" Gar asked finally.

  "I asked if they were heading to the guild halls," Torven said. "The merchant—Marron—said they'd be visiting merchant guild after they settle in but I did not pry into it further."

  Gar thought for a moment, his weathered expression settling into the careful neutrality Torven had learned to read over eight years of reports. The commander's silence meant he was weighing options.

  Finally, Gar sighed and nodded. "Appreciate the report, Torven. I'll handle it from here."

  "Need anything else?" Torven asked.

  "Not right now. But stay in the city for a few days if you can. I might need follow-up details once I know more." Gar's tone carried the weight of experience. "Good instincts bringing this up the chain."

  Torven stood, recognizing dismissal when he heard it. "We'll be around. Contract completion and resupply should take us through the week."

  "Keep your people available," Gar said.

  Torven left the office, descending the stairs back toward the common room where his team waited. The familiar sounds of the guild hall washed over him—voices negotiating contracts, weapons being discussed, the steady background hum of organized chaos.

  Level forty-six, he thought, weaving through the crowd. Void-marked wolf. Armored figure with no identification.

  Whatever that group carried with them, it was Gar's problem now.

  The door clicked shut behind Torven. Gar remained standing for a moment, staring at the closed ledger on his desk. Then he sighed and sank into his chair, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose.

  "I'm getting too old for this."

  Merl smiled from her seat across the desk. "You're not that old. For a dwarf, you're still pretty young."

  Gar let out a short laugh, more weary than amused. "Young enough to see more problems piling on, apparently."

  He leaned back, letting his gaze drift toward the window. Outside, Glasshold's crowded streets wound through the lower district. The city had always been complicated—clan holds rubbing against Imperial influence, old traditions pushed aside by new authority. Most days, Gar tried to keep the guild clear of the political games. Most days, he succeeded.

  "We didn't need another complication," he muttered. "Not now."

  Merl tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "Look on the bright side. Mazoga is a registered adventurer."

  Gar glanced back at her.

  "From what I was able to quickly read on her profile, she operated independently for eight years on the western frontier," Merl continued. "Solo operators who last that long don't get there by making enemies or breaking contracts. She clearly knows how to handle herself. And with the rise of draugr on the roads, having a powerful adventurer nearby is a blessing, not a curse."

  Gar grunted. "A blessing that appears out of nowhere at level forty-six," Gar said flatly. "A blessing that's traveling with someone who can block Identify completely. That takes either power we can't measure or magic we've never seen."

  Merl's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of her chair. "We don't know who that armored figure is yet. Could be a crafter. Could be a mage who invested heavily in concealment gear. Could be someone with a rare class variant."

  "Or could be someone sent by the Emperor himself," Gar said flatly.

  Merl didn't argue.

  Gar drummed his fingers against the desk. Glasshold had been balancing on a knife's edge for years. Every faction watched every other faction. One misstep, and everything could collapse.

  Now a presumed dead adventurer had returned. Stronger than before. Traveling with an unknown entity.

  That made her either a threat or a wildcard. Maybe both.

  "The clans will notice her eventually," Merl said quietly. "If she's as strong as Torven says, someone will want to recruit her. Or use her."

  Gar nodded slowly.

  "Which means our best move is to stay out of it," Merl continued. "Let them approach her first. See how she responds. Then we'll know what we're dealing with." Her smile returned, faint but steady. "We do what we always do. We watch. We wait. We stay neutral until we know more."

  Gar exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "You make it sound simple."

  "It's never simple," Merl said. "But it's manageable."

  Gar leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "Send word to our spotters in Splitstone Row. I want to know where Mazoga goes, who she talks to, and what she's buying. Don't approach her directly. Just observe."

  Merl nodded. "And the armored figure?"

  "Same rules apply. If they show up at the Merchant's Guild or Mage's Guild, I want a report. If they cause trouble, I want to know immediately."

  "Understood."

  Merl rose from her chair, straightening her guild tunic. She paused at the door, glancing back. "For what it's worth, Commander, I don't think Mazoga came here to start a war. She came here to trade. That's not the behavior of someone planning chaos."

  Gar gave a tired smile. "Let's hope you're right."

  The door closed softly behind her.

  Alone again, Gar leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Twenty-three years in the guild, and he'd learned to read the signs. When powerful unknowns arrived in Glasshold, things rarely stayed quiet for long.

  Let's hope Merl's right about this one.

  Thanks for reading!

  Chapter 84 drop friday!!