I was passing the sketch of the thug when Calr arrived with news of Luna’s disappearance. Apparently, she was heading home after receiving her pay when she was kidnapped.

  “Do you think the temple of the unholy set her up?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I only got this news because Amara is on the warpath; she is questioning every thug or known thief in Hano’s underbelly.”

  “Yeah, most known criminals now know not to mess with Amara’s girls,” added Kuru, “This has to be the cult.”

  I noticed that Vena was almost in tears.

  “I knew Luna,” she said. “She wasn’t a friend, but she was one of us. She volunteered at the temple. Made it to the Faithful class by the age of sixteen. And she was one of the nicest girls I knew.”

  Nobody spoke. I didn’t know why I was feeling guilty, as if I could have stopped things from happening if I had stayed longer or if I had bid for her…

  “I don’t even want to think about what’s happening to her,” Vena continued. “If the Crusader finds the ones responsible, we’ll be lucky if he leaves enough behind to bury.”

  Nakera let out a slow breath and finally spoke.

  “I think this is getting a bit too dangerous, so it's better to leave the rest of the investigation to me and Kuru. We will keep digging, quietly. The Guild doesn’t want a panic, and neither do I. We need confirmation before we move on with this publicly. You four...” she pointed at me, Calr, Kan, and Vena, “You... need to disappear. Not literally, just stay off the cult’s sightlines."

  “Doing nothing doesn’t sit right,” Vena muttered.

  “Then do something. Just not anything too flashy,” Nakera replied. “Freelance. Take a mission. Something rural. Something boring.”

  That gave me an idea. “Yon mentioned a hunt a while back. Maybe we tag along on whatever he’s got lined up.”

  Nakera gave a tired nod. “Good. Check with him. And Alice…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch your back. You’re not from here. The cult might see you as an easy target.”

  We found Yon behind the Guild barracks, halfway through shouting at Vals.

  “Why do you keep skipping training? Do you want to stay the weakest freelancer in Hano?”

  Vals looked like he was losing a wrestling match with a practice sword.

  “Yon!” I called. “You still owe me a hunt.”

  He glanced over. “That I do. You want to go on the silk run?”

  “Silk run?” Vena asked, stepping up beside me.

  “Mostly spider silk harvesting. Maybe some life cores too, if we’re lucky,” Yon said. “It’s not far, just a day’s walk. Next to Weavershall. Small village, lives off a giant spider colony.”

  “Giant spiders? Isn’t that too dangerous?” I asked.

  “Not really,” he laughed. “Actually, it’s low risk and decent pay. Assuming no one pisses off the matriarchs.”

  Why do I hear Chekhov’s gun getting loaded?

  “Sounds perfect,” said Vena, ever the brave healer.

  Yon looked us over. “Just you four?”

  “Yeah. Us and whoever else you’re taking.”

  “I was already bringing eight people, but hey, twelve means more hands for harvesting, and a safer trip overall. You’re welcome to tag in.”

  “So, when are we leaving?” I asked.

  “Meet me at dawn here. I’ll do a last-minute gear check, then we’re out of Hano.”

  Vena nodded. Calr looked relieved. Even Kan gave a short grunt that meant she was fine with it.

  We have our mission. We have our cover. And tomorrow, I’m leaving the city for the first time since arriving in this new world. The thought alone helped shift my mood toward excitement. There’s nothing I can do for the missing people; let the professionals handle it.

  It’s time for my first adventure.

  I met Yon just before dawn in the Guild courtyard, bleary-eyed and wearing a backpack. I carried a new spear, since Nina's wasn’t ready yet. Hopefully, this one wouldn’t snap in half either.

  Yon’s team, all twelve of us, were already gathering and stretching nearby, looking like they’d been plucked from a half-finished fantasy tale. Most were young, in their twenties or even late teens, wearing mismatched armor, scuffed boots, and patched cloaks.

  One tall woman in her forties sat cross-legged, arranging spools of thread in her backpack. Most were empty, but some weren’t. Her practiced movements and the easy confidence on her face screamed battle tailor. But what do I know?

  Then there was this kid. Maybe eighteen. Maybe younger. Fat, round-faced, and over two and a half meters tall. He carried a pack that could double as a house in a pinch. It was stuffed with gear, tools, food, a bundle of poles, and what might’ve been a tower shield big enough to stop a siege engine bolt.

  Calr seemed to get along with him and was sitting next to him, chatting his ear off about hunting rats and sewer profits. The kid didn’t say a word but nodded along, his face surprisingly expressive.

  Once everyone was ready, we didn’t head for the city gates.

  Instead, Yon led us straight into the heart of Hano.

  At first, I thought it was a mistake, some detour through the upper districts, but the further we walked, the more the city shifted. The communal living spaces gave way to private residences: gated, guarded, and quiet. Then the buildings got older, thicker, and designed for war, not comfort. The noise fell behind us, replaced by silence and stone. People started walking in lines like they were boarding a flight. Not anxious, just ready.

  And then I saw it: the castle.

  It had no banners, nor gold. Just walls, massive black stone reinforced with steel plates and layered glowing cores. Every chokepoint had murder holes and staggered towers. Defensive runes glowed faintly under the morning sun.

  “Why are we going into the castle?” I whispered to Calr.

  He gave me a look. “How do you think we’re getting to Weavershall?”

  I stared at him. Then at the fortress. Then, at the red-armored guards patrolling the battlements.

  Vena slowed beside us. “Weavershall is through the gate? I thought the mission was just in the countryside around Hano.”

  “Wait,” I said. “What gate?”

  “The Rift,” Calr said simply. “You’ve never been through one?”

  “The one in the roundabout?” I asked.

  “No, those are portals,” Calr said quietly. “Those just hop you around the city or to nearby places. The big Rift’s inside that castle. You go through it to get to the Elemental Bloodline Realm.”

  My stomach dropped. “You mean… the place where we’re going is not even in this realm?”

  “Exactly.”

  I swallowed. “So the castle isn’t for a royal court. It is just… an entry point?”

  “Pretty much.” Then he narrowed his eyes on me. “Rifts are the main way to travel to other realms. How did you even get to Hano?”

  “I used to have my private Teleporter before my father lost everything gambling,” I lied with a perfectly straight face.

  “Seriously? The sewer goblin was a princess?” he shot back.

  “I’ve seen you eat with Malik and his crew,” he added, shaking his head. “They had better table manners than you.”

  Vena burst out laughing. Even Kan smiled a little.

  “Hey! So yeah, I was joking,” I said, mock-offended.

  We arrived at the gate. The guards weren’t freelancers; they weren’t members of the Guild. This was a real military, disciplined, uniformed, and silent. Their red and black armor matched. Their weapons gleamed. They didn’t wear their personalities on their sleeves like the freelancers I met.

  And they were letting us through.

  Yon didn’t flash a badge or speak a word. One look at him and the checkpoint waved us in.

  Inside was colder. The light dimmed as we entered a stone corridor lined with checkpoints and soul mirrors. There were five layers of defense, I counted. Every hallway was a funnel. Every ceiling was a trap. This place wasn’t built for kings. It was built to survive a siege.

  We reached the final chamber.

  At its center, suspended in the air, was the Rift.

  It looked like a red wound in the air... a slash. As if the world had been stabbed and hadn’t healed. The edges glowed faintly, pulsing in a rhythm too slow for a heartbeat, yet too fast for comfort.

  And people were just walking through it like it was a city gate.

  Couriers. Traders. Porters. A caravan guard munching breakfast. A woman in a bright yellow scarf pulled a cart while chatting about fish prices.

  “What,” I said flatly, “the hell?”

  “Keep moving,” Yon called over his shoulder.

  Vena leaned toward me. “I can’t get over how casual people are about rifts.”

  “Didn’t you come to the Contested Realm from the one in Highrock?” Calr asked.

  “Yeah, but all I saw was a spiral staircase.”

  “I’m with Vena on this one,” I said. “People going through a gate to oblivion should not look this chill.”

  “People can get used to anything,” Kan murmured.

  My steps slowed as we approached.

  Yon raised a hand, and the Misfits fell into loose formation, mismatched armor, uneven strides, casual like it was just another job.

  And then I stepped through.

  The world around me shifted. The air changed, the light changed, and the gravity felt slightly different. I stumbled, catching myself on Calr’s arm.

  “Easy,” he said. “It’s just the transition. You’ll get used to it.”

  I looked around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. We were standing in a fortress-like structure, with high walls and defensive towers. The architecture was similar to the one we’d left behind in Hano, but the materials were different. The stone was a lighter color, and the walls were adorned with intricate carvings. There was no city in sight, just a checkpoint. A military compound with just a few food shops and one large inn. Beyond the stone wall was nothing but road and trees, and sky.

  And the sky told me everything.

  The sun here was white, not yellow nor blue. It looked more like Earth than the weird stuff happening over the Contested Realm. The light was clearer, the air crisper. And gravity pulled harder, still not as heavy as Earth yet, but just enough to make my gear feel heavier.

  No one else mentioned it.

  Yon gave us ten minutes to adjust packs and do a quick gear check. Then we set off.

  The road was busy with traffic. Caravans. Traders. Supply wagons. All under escort. Beast handlers urged woolly raptors forward, and soldiers shouted over one another in different dialects as we passed. It was a trade artery.

  “This is busier than what I imagined,” I said.

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

  “The only way to travel between the Bloodline Realm and the Soul Realm is through the Contested Realm by way of Hano’s Rift,” explains Calr. “And there is a lot of trade happening between those two worlds.”

  I decided to approach one of the nicely dressed merchants and ask him what his trade was.

  “I am taking paper to sell in Sky-Daisy,” he puffed up his chest. “Half the ice Soulbooks are made with our paper.”

  There is a fantasy equivalent to the Silk Road, and it’s happening across realms. One that mainly trades in magic rather than spices.

  We kept to the edges and walked for six hours straight.

  Yon rotated the formation every thirty minutes. Front guard, rear guard, center. It was efficient, but only because he made it so. Half the group didn’t seem to register the rotation until Yon barked their name.

  The center group was the worst. Too relaxed. Loud.

  Vals was sharing trail bread and telling a story about falling into a pit trap baited with salted fish. Two of the other Misfits were laughing so hard they could barely walk a straight line. The rear guard kept slowing down, distracted by a bird with golden tail feathers. Yon had to switch him up with Kan, who was one of the few with her head in the game.

  By the time we reached the clearing for camp, I could see the lines forming in Yon’s face.

  He called a quick setup, tents, cookfire, and perimeter. But half the group started debating whose tent was next to the fire. Someone misplaced the cooking pot. The tall woman with the threads was arguing with a hammer-wielder that his hammock wasn’t sturdy enough for his bulk.

  Yon ended up doing 90% of the work.

  He organized the tents. Set the fire. Redid the camp perimeter. And when the pot was finally found in someone’s bedroll, he started the stew himself.

  I caught Kan watching quietly. She didn’t offer to help. But she didn’t laugh either. Vena and I were too new to impose ourselves. We just made sure not to be in the way.

  We shared a tent that night, me, Vena, and Kan. Calr bunked with the giant kid and two others. They were still chatting when I crawled into the tent.

  The fire outside burned too hot, too fast. Sparks leapt high, and the wood turned to ash in minutes.

  “Too much oxygen,” I muttered, more to myself.

  “What’s that?” asked Vena.

  “The air,” I explained, “it’s different from Hano. Feels fresher; it’s more eager to burn.”

  “Watch duty’s sloppy,” Kan said.

  “I noticed,” I said. “You think they’re bad?”

  “No,” she replied. “They just haven’t gotten hurt yet.”

  That shut me up. I slept with one eye open that night.

  We arrived at Weavershall by mid-morning.

  The village wasn’t much, just a high-walled palisade nestled into a wooded slope. But the moment we passed through the main gate, I could feel its pulse.

  Textile workshops lined the roads. Spools of silk hung like trophies from rafters. Drying lines ran overhead between rooftops. Weavers moved like priests around a loom, quiet, precise, focused. A few children running errands darted between buildings. The air smelled of soap, dye, and thread oil.

  A few freelancers were lounging by the inner gates. And they brought with them chaos to an otherwise calm village full of hard-working people. Some checked gear. Others argued loudly over kill bounties and harvest limits. A cyan-haired man in ornate silk clothes kept inspecting wood jars filled with glowing honeylike liquid while two freelancers were waiting for his verdict. One woman held half a boot and was cursing the name of whatever spider had nearly eaten her leg.

  This seemed like a good place to start an adventure.

  We left the village just after midday, walking single file down a narrow trail carved between dense underbrush. The forest outside Weavershall wasn't too wild; it felt managed. The trees were old, the soil rich, but the signs of human and spider activity were everywhere. The first webbed clearing came into view like a silver curtain strung between the trees. Strands of silk glistened in the filtered light, some taut, some drifting loose. You could feel how alive the forest was, even if most of its occupants were creepy and eight-legged.

  “Keep your eyes sharp,” Yon called from the front. “We’re entering the perimeter.”

  That got a reaction from a few of the younger freelancers, stiffened shoulders, grips tightening on spears or bows.

  “The perimeter?” I asked.

  “It’s a kill zone,” Yon explained, nodding toward a curved line of stones painted red that marked a loose border through the trees. “Anything that crosses from the deep forest into this ring gets culled. Unless it’s a matriarch.”

  “How do we know if it’s a matriarch?” Vena asked.

  “They’re the size of a horse,” Yon said without turning around.

  “All right,” Yon said, clapping his hands once. “You know the drill. Non-adhesive silk gets spooled. Adhesive threads go into barrels, gloves on, no exceptions.”

  He pointed toward the thick, rubbery gauntlets hooked onto the giant boy’s massive pack, alongside several squat wooden barrels.

  “Shingo, you’re the barrel bearer.”

  The big guy grunted once and started unhooking the containers, not saying a word but more cooperative than the other Misfits.

  “Don’t harvest too deep,” Yon warned. “Anyone who goes past the tagged trees, and they are spider food.”

  “Wait,” I asked. “What happens if we run into one anyway?”

  “You back off. And if it follows you into the perimeter, we kill it. If it’s a Matriarch, you run.”

  Just then, a shout rang out from ahead. A spider, big, the size of a cat, had dropped from a tree near one of the younger freelancers. It hissed, legs twitching.

  Yon didn’t hesitate. He kicked once, and it was gone. Further back inside the perimeter.

  “If it lives, it will learn not to exit its territory. If you find it dead, check for a core, bag the fangs, and leave the rest past the line,” Yon instructed. “Let the others feast. They’ll recycle the corpse.”

  I blinked. “You mean… You feed them their own?”

  “They're not picky. Keeps the older matriarchs from getting too hungry.”

  “What if a matriarch crosses the perimeter?” asked one of the Misfits.

  “You don’t fight it. Run to me or the village, and you report it.”

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  As if on cue, a horn sounded from deeper in the village. A cart rolled out toward us, pulled by a single ox and driven by an older man with hard eyes and silver hair tied in a warrior’s knot.

  “Headman Rodal,” Yon saluted. We also gave a salute. It was so out of sync that I felt embarrassed.

  The man stood calmly as his cart creaked to a stop. He reached into a crate and lifted one rabbit after another, releasing them into the woods. The rabbits didn’t run; they marched obediently into the forest filled with creepy spiders.

  A few heartbeats later, we heard the rustling. A massive spider, the size of a wolf, pushed just beyond the perimeter, watching the rabbits with eerie stillness. Then it turned and followed them, deeper into the forest, far from our reach.

  Nobody spoke until it was gone.

  “That’s the village headman,” explained Yon. “Psychic affinity. He can control beasts to some degree.”

  “He will decide when, where, and how you kill a matriarch.”

  We got to work.

  For giant spider-related missions, it was kind of anticlimactic. We weren’t in any danger. We got attacked a few more times by cat-sized spiders that were too aggressive for their own good. But it wasn’t a fair fight. It was mostly Yon and Kan who did the fighting. The spiders showed up just to die.

  Silk harvesting wasn’t glamorous. You found a web and identified the thread; if it was the non-adhesive strands, it came out first, anchored it to a stick, and carefully spooled it like dental floss. The older woman was a master at this. calr was second, despite doing it for the first time. Vals made such a mess that he was put on adhesive silk duty. That got scooped into barrels using special gloves. One wrong move, and you’d end up stuck to a tree like a crushed bug.

  Shingo handled most of the hauling, his huge pack now split into two smaller loads. Calr and Vena worked close to me, efficient and light-footed. Kan wandered alone, keeping watch, her chain coiled like a lazy serpent around her left hand.

  We returned to the village in the late afternoon, arms aching and packs heavy with silk. There was a village representative who checked our harvest and wrote down contributions.

  We slept that night just inside the village walls, in a camping spot near the inner gate.

  There were inns, we passed at least two, but Yon waved them off with a grunt. “We camp together,” he said. “Easier to regroup if something goes wrong.”

  And just like that, it wasn’t a debate. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was safe.

  The next day passed without much excitement.

  A few village boys joined us as extra hands, just teenagers looking to earn a few bronze coins hauling silk. Yon’s reputation was high enough that parents didn’t bat an eye when their children went into a spider-filled forest with him. That freed me up from spooling duty, so I took up guard instead. I zapped a few spiders that wandered too close. Nothing major. Just enough to keep my reflexes sharp.

  Other freelancer groups worked their own corners of the forest, too far for talk but close enough for a nod. There was plenty of room.

  Then came day three.

  That’s when the assholes showed up.

  Ten of them, loud and smug, led by a cyan-haired noble with glowing tattoos that traced down both arms like arcane sleeves. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, dressed in finery with a leaf-shaped crest on his shoulder, proof of his Soulit nobility. His name was Sergeant Da’i.

  Yon gave him a cold nod. Nothing more.

  Da’i didn’t waste time showing off. He blasted everything that moved, fire, ice, lightning, wind, cycling elements like a carnival trick. His tattoos started glowing with different colors depending on the element he was using. Normally, most people are locked to two or three abilities. He had at least ten. And he wanted the whole forest to know.

  It might’ve been impressive… if his squad hadn’t been absolute garbage.

  They had no reason to set up near us. But they did.

  Yon pulled me aside the moment they started pitching tents.

  “That one,” he said quietly, nodding toward a tall guy with a buzz cut and a smirk too sharp for his face, “is Zabi.”

  My stomach dropped. “From the Underguild?”

  Yon nodded. “He’s the one who dragged Vals into that mess last month. Keep your distance.”

  I stayed close to Yon after that. It kept the worst of the harassment away from me.

  The others weren’t so lucky.

  One of the squad girls took every chance to needle Kan, especially when Yon was out of earshot, mocking her father, calling her a mutt and a coward. Another guy, greasy-haired and reeking of cheap cologne, kept flirting with Vena. If you could even call it flirting. Most of it was just comments about her chest, thinly disguised as “jokes.”

  And Zabi… Zabi kept daring Vals into idiotic stunts.

  “Run into the deep woods and bring back a spider leg,” he said, smirking. “Ten bronze if you make it back. Nothing if you don’t.”

  Vals didn’t answer. Just stared at the dirt like a beaten puppy.

  Then it happened.

  A matriarch emerged.

  She didn’t sneak in. She strode out of the tree line like a nightmare. Horse-sized. Eyes like wet obsidian. Fangs dripping. No sound but the thud of her weight against the forest floor. Probably drawn in by the stench of burned spider carcasses, Da’i had left smoldering with his magic.

  The temperature dropped.

  “She’s out of the line,” Yon barked, “Everyone! Fall back! Now!”

  But Da’i just laughed. “I’ve got this.”

  He raised his arms and blasted her with fire and ice. The matriarch reeled, screamed, and charged. He dropped low, slammed his palm into the dirt, and summoned a spike of stone that rose from the ground and impaled her mid-run.

  She died twitching.

  And the forest screamed.

  Scritching, branches cracking, and leaves convulsing. The air filled with the sound of ten thousand legs skittering at once.

  The death of the matriarch had snapped something, some thread of control. And now every spider in the forest was moving. Not charging yet, but restless. Awakened.

  “RETREAT TO THE VILLAGE!” Yon roared.

  This time, even Da’i didn’t argue.

  We ran.

  Kan took the lead, chain uncoiled, swinging her spiked weight like a flail. I followed closely, zapping anything that got too near. Vena and Calr kept pace just ahead of me. The Misfits scattered like startled cats, but Yon held the backline, punching anything with too many legs.

  I glanced back once, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  Yon was in the thick of it. Seven spiders at once. he held no weapon. Just fists and aura.

  He wasn’t fighting like a man.

  He was fighting like a legend.

  Every punch cracked a carapace. Every movement sent a spider flying. One blow caved in a spider’s entire face like it was made of paper.

  By the time the village came into view, we were all breathless, covered in sweat and silk and grime.

  But the spiders were still coming. Out of the trees in waves, as if the perimeter meant nothing now. Among them were four more matriarchs, massive, elegant, terrifying.

  One charged us, fast and low.

  Vena had paused to heal a cut on Yon’s arm. She didn’t see the web until it slammed into her. She went down hard, tangled in silk, completely pinned.

  Yon stepped over her, fists raised.

  Spiders surged. Twenty or more. He held the line.

  I almost ran back to help, but then I felt it.

  A spike of aura. A ripple like thunder through the air.

  Yon moved.

  One moment, he was human. Next, he was a blur. I could hear the crack of air, of something beating the speed of sound.

  Perfect State.

  He hit the spiderlings so hard they exploded. He picked up the matriarch, actually picked it up, and hurled it back into the trees like it weighed nothing.

  He scooped Vena up and sprinted straight at the wall.

  Then he jumped.

  Cleared the five-meter barricade like it was a garden fence.

  He set Vena down gently, turned, and leapt back.

  Two more matriarchs had crossed the perimeter. He grabbed one in each hand like misbehaving puppies who made a mess indoors. He then flung them back over the perimeter. One hit a tree and collapsed.

  He made it back to the gate just as the energy left him.

  His knees buckled.

  And Yon, the indestructible, the brawler of Hano… collapsed.

  We all froze for a second. Then Shingo was the first to start moving. He lifted Yon, and Calr joined him. One on each side, like they were hauling a sack of bricks. Well… a sack of bricks that punched out monsters for breakfast.

  Kan and the older woman, the battle tailor, were working on Vena. She was still wrapped in webbing, and the two of them moved with quiet focus, slicing strands and pulling silk away, starting with her face. Making sure she could breathe.

  The rest of the freelancers, the Misfits, Da’i’s team, and the other harvest crews gathered near the inner gate, panting and dust-covered. Some were wounded. Nothing fatal, but enough to slow us down. And with Vena still down, bandages would have to do. Some were extracted from packs, others appeared from a spell.

  Right. Every freelancer has the Perfect State book and can summon that bandage made from hair ooze.

  Someone threw water bottles around like they were holy relics. We drank and caught our breath.

  Then Rodal showed up.

  The village headman didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Just walking into the middle of the courtyard was enough to hush everyone.

  “What happened?” he asked, eyes sweeping the group.

  Da’i stepped forward. “We, ”

  “Someone killed a matriarch,” I said, cutting him off.

  Every head turned. Including Da’i’s.

  I didn’t shout. I just looked back at him.

  Da’i squared his shoulders. “It charged me. I didn’t have a choice.”

  I didn’t argue. Not here. Not now.

  He outranked me. Outnumbered me. And outmatched me in raw strength.

  He knew what I did, preventing him from creating his narrative. And he didn’t like it. So I didn’t push him further.

  Rodal turned his gaze on the rest of us. “Were any others killed during the retreat?”

  “Not directly,” I said. “Yon threw a few back beyond the perimeter, but didn’t finish them. They should be alive. Just... dazed.”

  Rodal exhaled slowly. “Good. If we’re lucky, they won’t come rushing back. But the forest’s off-balance now. No one’s harvesting until further notice.”

  Everyone nodded. No one argued.

  He looked up at the palisade walls. “Until the spiders calm down, I want everybody up there. We should not get swarmed, not unless we provoke them. But we’re not going to take chances, either.”

  He turned to the gathered freelancers. “Who’s the highest-ranking?”

  Da’i stepped forward again. “I’m the only standing sergeant.”

  Rodal gave him a long, unreadable look. “Then congratulations. You’re in charge.”

  Da’i straightened a bit, that noble pride slipping back into place.

  “You’ll assign a rotation,” Rodal continued. “Keep the wall watched at all times. If any matriarch tries to climb or push past, you call me directly. Understood?”

  “Yes, Headman.”

  “Other spiders you can kill, but pushing them away is still better. I will use my power once they calm down.”

  Rodal gave one last look around, then turned and left with the same silent authority he’d arrived with.

  I glanced at Da’i as he started barking orders, too loud, too quick, no patience.

  I sighed and turned to Calr and whispered, “With this idiot in charge, what’s the worst that could happen?”

  He didn’t laugh.

  That was the part that worried me most.