They were led into the iron-framed wooden doors of the middle building. Inside the building, the layout was that of a briefing room. Rows of benches lined up in front of a raised platform. Reminds me of church. The thoughts of religion popped into his head. Rook had an estranged relationship with the place, but Grandpa Jimmy still managed to drag him on holidays.

  On top of the platform stood Phane, accompanied by two others. A short gnome wearing purple robes, marked with regal filigree. Aside from him was a taller man with cropped hair.

  Rook caught snippets of hushed conversations around him. Many commented on how strong Phane looked in his training garb, how handsome the commander was next to him, and how dangerous the gnome looked. All except the man in plate armor, who voiced his disbeliefs to the crowd, along with several disparaging remarks about the gnome. He looked upset, twirling his mustache. What a fucking idiot, karma’s gonna bite him in the ass.

  The man walked to the edge of the platform before standing at attention. The gold symbol of crossed axes glimmered in the stained glass ceiling above. “Take a good look, initiates and scribes of class three-four-eight. I am your Sentinel Commander Jensen Heck. You’re here for one purpose and one purpose alone.” He leveled a serious gaze at the crowd. “To join the greatest fighting force on Yorthon.” Jensen clapped an unfamiliar gnome on the shoulder. “My Scribe Commander will go over details for the upcoming weeks of your basic initiate training. Now, look to your left and right. Half will be gone by the end of the week.”

  “Ever vigilant, Jense,” the gnome said, with a smile.

  “Ever Vigilant, my friend,” Jensen responded.

  The room fell silent as the man left. Rook sighed inwardly, attempting to keep the nerves at bay. The whole thing felt eerily similar to basic training. Instead of a Drill Sergeant looming around like a predator animal ready to strike, we had a friendly enough-looking gnome with tribal lines tattooed on half of his face.

  “Psst.” Reina nudged Rook on the shoulder, sharing the information.

  Carrick Fezzbinder (Gold)

  Level 79 Shifomancer

  Sentinels Scribe Commander

  Where would I be without your identify Reina? A Shifomancer though?

  “You lot can call me Scribe Commander Carrick, or Fezzbinder. I’m the Senior Scribe for the Sentinels.” He slowly paced across the stage and his robes swayed with his footsteps.

  “You’re not initiates yet. Our selection will have you test your mettle and goodwill. Once you have the favor of a city’s Lords and Ladies, we will take you to the next step in the process.” He waited while the majority of the room broke into mutterings and silent curses. “That’s enough,” he said, tapping his stave on the platform. “We all had to do the same thing. My advice is to finish diverse quests and return when you are recognized by said Lords and Ladies of the city.” He placed a series of envelopes on the stage in front of him. “Sentinel candidates come over and grab an envelope.”

  Rook was the first to walk over and grab the envelope, which was the size of a gift card. When he held it in his hands, the blank cover became smoky. His initial reaction to drop it changed into the need to satisfy his curiosity. The ghostly smoke dissipated, leaving behind Samuel Rook Merrell and Reina Jax.

  Reina looked at the paper and then at Rook. “I forgot your name was Samuel. I like that more than Rook.”

  Rook felt the cold tug at his heart. The name weighed on him, one he’d worked hard to get rid of. The anger of the name made him puff out a breath.

  “It is, but please call me Rook,” he said.

  “I think your real name suits you, wonderfully,” Reina said, with a smile. “But, for now, I’ll call you Rook.”

  He looked back down at the envelope and the magical writing. That’s definitely not something you see everyday. Did I make the right decision? The weight of the question plagued his mind since the conversation on the comfy courtyard ground, near the bloody puddle of Jacob.

  Carrick pointed his sleek red staff towards Phane. “Dracosbane here almost didn’t make it into the Sentinels, wanted to join the Empire instead,” he said with a chuckle. “Bet any of you a gold he’d regret it if he didn’t.”

  Phane gave a slight bow of gratitude to the gnome. “Maker’s hell, where I would be without you saving my life…over and over again.”

  Dracosbane? Several of the others in the crowd questioned the name as well.

  Carrick gave a hearty chuckle and tapped his stave on the ground. “We earn monikers from our tasks and glory. Phane here led the charge into the Seared Depths Dungeon. Surrounded by the Draconkin whelps, we were going over the plan when the impatient lad ran in screaming his name. He nearly ruined the Sentinel raid. Carrick broke into hearty laughter, while Phane’s cheeks turned dark scarlet. “He killed so many that they fled as if he were the bane of the very dragonkin residing there. Now enough of that, as many of you are aware, there are posted boards around every city where you can curry favor.”

  One of the candidates cleared his throat; it was Mohawk. Standing from his seat, he rested a scarred axe on his armored shoulder. “Hey, gnome, many of us came in for the prospect of working with Commander Jensen. Not Fiddlywinks the gnome. Right?” the man asked, waiting for someone to back him up.

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  Nobody spoke, and Rook’s mouth dropped to the floor. This guy must have gotten thrown into the air nine times as a child and caught twice. He stared in awe at the stupidity of the man, just days ago, the man’s partner disintegrated an elf and griffin into a crispy pile.

  “The fact that the Sentinels allowed you to be more than a ferrier for the horses is beyond me,” The man laughed.

  Phane surged forward, his hand clutching the hilt of his blade. He was stopped by the loud crack of Carrick’s stave against the wooden stage.

  “I can handle myself, thank you very much,” Carrick stated.

  The gnome stared at the man with an intense and almost curious gaze. The familiar look he’d seen on the goblins, the boar, and worst yet, Tyco the German Shepard. The eyes of a barely restrained wild animal. Many of those seated near Mohawk shuffled until they were farther away, some taking refuge near the back of the benches.

  “I’m surprised you had the nerve to say that out loud, and to a stranger no less,” Carrick said with a dry chuckle. “Not another word. Take a seat, or you and your Scribe are out of the candidacy.”

  “It’s fine, just met him the other day. Like I said before, gnome,” Mohawk began, before crying out, dropping his weapon to the ground below with a clang. “Stop it!” He exclaimed with a strained cry, and jabbing a thumb into his temple. “What?” With bulging eyes, the man pulled at his hair, ruining the immaculately kept style. He reached for other people before taking a few surging steps, lurching backward, bending impossibly to form a lowercase ‘n’. Bones audibly cracked as his body twisted and morphed. Screaming filled the room.

  “Stop!” An onlooker called out.

  “The Order of the Sentinels has no more room for those who are unfit. If he wanted to bleat like a goat, I will make his wildest dreams come true,” Carrick was speaking, but the voice that came out was loud and ethereal, echoing on the walls.

  Phane crossed his arms and watched, a smile curling the corners of his lips. People around Mohawk grimaced, and quite a few turned green. Reina cringed away, but Rook continued watching the man fold in on himself like a blanket, growing smaller in size until he was the size of a grotesque beach ball. Conversation erupted in the large space. He caught tidbits, mostly asking why Phane was so nonchalant. Wondering if the man was dead, and finally, reminders not to piss off the gnome.

  “Reina,” Rook whispered, leaning in. “What the fuck was that?”

  “That’s a gold-ranked Shifomancer.”

  A loud pop halted the conversation, and the man’s groaning turned animalistic. A goatish bleating to be exact. In the place of the mohawked beach ball was a goat with the flesh of a man. A black tuft of hair and mustache were on the goat, creating a macabre sight. That’s just freaking wrong. The goat jumped on a bench and bleated, its eyes showing brain-dead levels of stupidity.

  A tap against the wood silenced the room. “Now that the unpleasantness is over.” Carrick wiped his brow. “Most of you are Bronze and Silver ranked, with a few Coppers, respectively, of course,” he said, looking at Rook with a wink. “Everyone is the hero of their own story. Let’s hope your plot armor is strong enough to keep you safe.” With a graceful jump, Carrick landed on the ground in front of the stage. “Alright, everyone, to the training grounds,” he said with a smile.

  Phane followed close behind and stopped to kneel beside the confused goat that had been a man moments ago. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Scribe Commander?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  With a click of his staff, a green film surrounded the goat, and his body morphed back into a human’s, taking the same painful folding route back.

  “Come back next year, with respect for your elders,” Phane said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  The rest of the gathering was separated into columns behind Carrick and Phane, heading out the doors to the dusty training grounds. The air was filled with the sounds of steel and wood against wood. Grunts of exertion and battlecries.

  “Listen, candidates. And watch closely, these men and women train each and every day to protect the city from crime.” He took a moment to watch a fierce sparring match between two burly-looking men armed with wooden swords and shields. “Phane, if you’d be so kind as to demonstrate.”

  Phane walked into the training area, and a deep-set line was drawn into the sand, forming a circle in the westernmost portion. Good luck, opponent. I saw him fry a giant crab. The city guard captain pointed at four different guards. Three men and one woman, all capable-looking fighters. The combatants entered the ring, each with a different weapon style. The woman had twin batons, one man had a sword and shield, another a single sword, and the last a form of caestus.

  “These guards are Lieutenants,” Reina said, pointing at a black band around each of their right biceps.

  “How long does it take to get there?” Rook asked, focusing on the intricate swirling designs on the black bands.

  “Ten years, at least.”

  Phane craned his neck to look over at the bags laid out dress right, dress against the ring’s outline. “Do you all have potions in your training packs?” Phane asked, crossing his arms.

  The guards looked at one another, twin batons shrugged. Piss poor preparation means piss poor performance. Phane took a back stance, one hand guarding his face, the other in a tight fist guarding his midsection. His eyes narrowed on each guard as they shuffled forward, slow and careful as if he were a tiger.

  The group’s eyes flicked towards one another in silent communication. The sound of a wooden sword dropping into a barrel gave the signal to go. Caestus came first with a shuffling cross, and as he struck his fist, the weapon expanded to easily triple its size. Phane rolled under his guard, launching a reverse elbow upwards, catching the man in the jaw and sending him stumbling backward to the dirt like a falling tree. Batons came next, giving three or four swipes of inhuman speed. The air whooshed around the woman as she rushed Phane. He almost looked bored ducking and weaving out of the way. With an aggravated shout, she leaped into the air, striking downwards with a twin attack. The impact sent shockwaves into the dirt, missing Phane and kicking up dust. Leaving her no time to recover, he shuffled forward, striking with two punches, then swiveling out of the way of the Single swordsman’s flaming slash. He was now just a bad breath’s distance away from the Shield Bearer. Batons grit her teeth, clutching at her stomach. With a side kick, the sword user was violently sent piling into her.

  He focused his attention on the Shield Bearer, who now lunged his body forward, bashing the shield out. Phane redirected the strike to the left with a deflecting strike, sending the shield connecting with another combatant. The Single sword user grunted as the shield collided with him. Phane easily dodged the shield’s retaliation. The series of high and low slashes failed to connect with the guard captain, whose shuffling footwork kicked up a cloud of dirt.