Corinne's voice carried the exasperated fondness Caleb remembered from Katie patching up Jack's scraped knees. He winced as she dabbed more balm onto a particularly impressive bruise blooming across his ribs.
"Sorry." He shifted on the hay bale, trying to find a position that didn't send a fresh throb through his injuries. "Just not used to being someone's practice dummy."
They'd found a quiet corner of the stables, away from prying eyes. The comfortable scent of hay and horses wrapped around them like a blanket. Through the small window, the intense light of highsun cast sharp, overlapping shadows across the yard.
"You did well today." Corinne recapped the jar of healing salve. "Standing up to Narbok like that. Leo needed someone to show him he's worth defending."
Leo needed a dad, Caleb thought but didn't say. The comparison to Jack still ached, a wound no magical salve could touch.
“Narbok’s going to come for you again. He doesn’t like being embarrassed.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
“Captain Hatch won’t let it go too far,” she added, though she wouldn't quite meet his eye.
"Holy mackerel, that stuff works fast." The throb in his ribs had already dulled to a manageable ache. "Where'd you get it?"
Corinne's laugh was a bright, musical sound in the quiet stable. "Holy mackerel? I've heard delvers swear by a dozen different dungeon gods and twice as many beasts, but that's a new one. Where'd you hear it?"
A flicker of alarm went through him at the casual slip. He needed to be more careful. "Oh, just something I heard an old delver say. Claimed it was better for startling fish than scaring monsters. It kind of stuck with me."
"Well, it's definitely memorable," she said, her smile softening as she finally answered his question. "Mom keeps a supply for the staff who adventure on the side. Says bruises are bad for business—nobody wants to eat food served by someone who looks like they lost a fight with a troll."
"Your mom's a smart woman."
"Speaking of which..." Corinne stood, brushing hay from her work dress. "She was asking about you earlier. Something about being impressed with how you handled that lichen negotiation."
As if summoned by her daughter's words, Cassia Hearthsong appeared in the stable doorway. Her keen eyes took in Caleb's collection of bruises with maternal concern before settling into business mode.
"Thal. Good, I was hoping to catch you before the dinner rush." She produced a leather pouch from her apron, heavy with the distinctive rattle of preserved monster parts. "I have a task for you."
Caleb straightened, ignoring his body's protests. This felt different from the lichen errand.
"These are low-grade parts from last week's deliveries," Cassia continued. "Fernhorn scales, fog hound teeth, a few preserved mushroom caps from a sporecap shambler. Nothing valuable individually, but in bulk they should fetch a decent price."
She placed the pouch in his hands. It felt substantial.
"I want you to take these to the Adventurer's Hall and negotiate the best price you can. More importantly—" Her brown eyes held his. "—I want you to bring back every copper."
He weighed the pouch in his palm. This was real coin, spendable and stealable.
"I understand," Caleb said simply.
"Good. They usually offer fair prices, but push if you think you can get more. The Hall keeps standard rate charts posted if you want to verify." She paused, then added with a slight smile, "And Thal? Don't let anyone bully you into a bad deal just because you're young."
Or half-elven, Caleb mentally added.
Corinne beamed at him as her mother left. "See? Told you she was impressed. This is a big deal—she usually handles the monster part sales herself."
"No pressure then."
"You'll do fine." She glanced toward the kitchen door. "You should hurry, though. Dad will want you back to help before the evening meal service."
He gave Corinne a grateful nod. She was right, of course—he couldn't afford to dawdle. But Cassia's trust, as validating as it was, wasn't the only thing driving him. Another matter preoccupied him, one rooted entirely in survival.
This trip to the Adventurer's Hall had two objectives. The first was selling the monster parts for the inn. The second was more urgent. He needed to learn everything he could about hunting goblins.
He walked with purpose, the heavy pouch idly clutched at his side. The path from the inn to the Adventurer's Hall was short, a routine stretch of cobblestone and wooden storefronts. He barely noticed the other villagers hurrying to finish their business as highsun wound down. His mind was already inside, rehearsing his approach.
He pushed through the heavy doors into a blast of overlapping voices and the thick, ingrained scent of the place. Stale ale, old leather, coal smoke, and that underlying scent of controlled violence. Adventurers clustered around scarred tables, comparing kills and nursing drinks.
Felicity looked up from her ledger as he approached the counter. Her dark brown hair was pulled back tighter than usual, as if the day had already tried her patience.
"Back already, Thal?" Her tone was neutral, businesslike. "What can the Guild do for you today?"
"Selling this time." He placed the pouch on the counter. "Low-grade parts, but good quality."
She opened the pouch and began her inspection, laying out each type of part in neat rows. Her fingers sorted the items with an economy of motion that spoke of countless repetitions. Fernhorn scales—she held one up to the light, checking for cracks. Fog hound teeth—she tested the points for sharpness. Sporecap mushrooms—she examined the preservation, nodding slightly.
"Twenty-three fernhorn scales, good condition. Fourteen mist hound teeth, two cracked but useable. Six preserved sporecap portions, standard quality." She made quick notations on a slate. "I can offer eight silver, four copper for the lot."
Caleb's mind ran the calculations. Based on the posted rates he'd glimpsed and his own [Appraisal], she was lowballing by about 10%.
"Nine silver seems more accurate for this quality." He kept his voice steady, matching her impersonal tone. "The sporecap portions alone should be worth two silver. They're perfectly preserved."
Her eyes sharpened. "You've been studying our rate boards."
"Due diligence."
"Eight silver, twenty copper. The cracked teeth bring down the overall value."
"Eight silver, fifty copper. The value of the high-quality sporecaps more than covers the discount for two cracked teeth. It's a fair price for clean parts."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Deal."
[Your proficiency with Haggling (F) has increased to Practiced]
She counted out the coins with the same precision she'd shown with the parts, sliding them into a small cloth purse. As Caleb secured the money, she tilted her head slightly.
"Hard day?" The formality in her voice receded slightly.
Caleb slid out a wry grin. "First day of youth training. That obvious?"
"The bruises on your hands are turning an impressive shade of purple." She paused, organizing the purchased parts into storage boxes. "Let me guess—they paired you with the pure-bloods for sparring?"
"Something like that."
Her expression softened further, a flash of shared understanding. "It never gets easier, you know. Being a dull-ear in their world. You just get better at navigating it."
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
The casual way she used the slur landed differently. A reclamation, perhaps. Recognition of what she endured daily. Guilt twisted him up—he'd been here less than two months, hardly long enough to claim her struggles. He still thought of himself as Caleb Foster, not truly one of them.
"Actually," Caleb said, seizing the opening, "I might have found a way to do more than just navigate."
"Oh?"
"Selara Veil offered me an apprenticeship. Conditional on proving I can handle myself." He met her eyes directly. "I need to kill a feral goblin."
Felicity's hands stilled on the storage boxes. When she looked up, shrewdness settled onto her features.
"Selara Veil. The Golden Mortar Selara Veil."
"You know her?"
"Everyone knows the Veil twins. Disgraced nobles who somehow landed on their feet. Aurelian's brilliant but impossible. Selara though..." She shook her head slowly. "D-tier, High-Purple. One of the strongest people in this village who isn't military or noble. If she's offering you an apprenticeship, that's not an opportunity. That's a golden ticket."
The respect in Felicity's voice was unmistakable. Coming from someone who dealt with adventurers daily, who saw the strong and the weak file through her hall, it carried significance.
"Which brings me to why I'm really here," Caleb said. "The guild seems like the ideal tool for achieving that goal."
"Does it now?" A wry, knowing smile touched her lips as her posture straightened, the friendly half-elf receding as the guild official took her place. "You're not wrong. While we've discussed the basics, allow me to give you the formal overview of what membership entails."
She rested her palms on the counter, a practiced gesture that commanded attention. "First, sanctioned work. Members gain exclusive access to all contracts posted through this Hall. That includes everything from simple harvesting requests to official bounties that pay in coin and guild prestige."
Caleb listened, recognizing the framework of the pitch. It was the same as any corporate recruiter's, just with more interesting threats than a malfunctioning printer.
"Second," Felicity continued, her voice crisp, "proprietary intelligence. Our maps are the most detailed in the region, updated weekly with reports on beast migrations and environmental hazards. That information is the difference between a successful hunt and a fatal misstep. It is not available to the public."
She paused, letting the weight of that sink in. "Finally, the network. You receive preferential rates when selling materials directly to the Guild, and your rank is recognized at any branch across the Dominion. You are never without allies or a place to find employment."
"Sounds perfect. How do I join?"
"One gold piece. Up front."
Caleb did the mental math. At five silver per day, minus living expenses... "That would take me over a month to save."
"Most take longer."
His business instincts kicked in. There was always a way around the initial buy-in. Employee assistance programs, deferred payment plans, performance-based contracts...
"What about sponsorships? Deferred payment against future earnings?"
Felicity's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's... not common knowledge. Where did you hear about that?"
"Just seemed logical. The guild invests in promising talent, recoups the cost from their success. Standard business practice where I'm—" He caught himself. "Where I've seen it done before."
"You're not wrong. Staff members can sponsor candidates with potential, deferring the fee against future earnings. But it's rare. We need to be certain the investment will pay off."
"Damn it all!" A rough voice cut through their conversation. "The kid gets special treatment?"
A man leaned against the counter nearby, face flushed with drink and resentment. His leather armor bore old stains and poorly mended tears. An adventurer, but not a successful one.
"I had to scrape for three months to afford my membership," he continued, voice rising. "Now every half-breed whelp thinks they deserve charity?"
Felicity's face hardened. "Branson, you're drunk. Go home."
"Not so drunk I can't smell favoritism." He jabbed a finger at Caleb. "What makes him so special? Another dull-ear thinking they're better than—"
Caleb's response was swift, but entirely mental. Engaging physically would play into the man's narrative, so he concentrated on his Status screen instead, using a technique he'd been practicing during quiet moments. The interface appeared in his mind's eye, clear as daylight. With careful Intent, he selected just the relevant Skills section and willed it forward, making it visible.
"I'm a good investment," he said calmly.
The ghostly blue panel materialized between them:
SKILLS
Combat
- [Ignore Pain (F)] - Novice
- [Dodge (F)] - Novice
- [Combat Analysis (F)] - Novice
- [Iron Root Stance (F)] - Practiced
- [Breaching Thrust (F)] - Practiced
- [Turning the Point (F)] - Practiced
- [Linebreaker Sweep (F)] - Practiced
- [Phalanx Guard (F)] - Practiced
- [Decisive Strike (F)] - Novice
Felicity's eyes went wide. Behind her quartermaster's composure, genuine shock flickered. Even drunk Branson took a step back.
"That's..." Felicity's voice came out strangled. She cleared her throat. "How long have you been practicing?"
"Started this morning."
"Bullshit!" Branson surged forward. "Nobody gains that many Skills that fast! He's clearly been training—"
"I'm telling the truth." Caleb met the man's bloodshot eyes steadily. "Go ask Captain Hatch if you need a witness."
The name shut him down. Branson's mouth worked soundlessly. Challenge a half-elf kid? Sure. Challenge the garrison Captain's assessment? Even drunk, he wasn't that stupid.
He shoved himself away from the counter with a curse, stumbling toward a nearby table. "Damn dull-ears," he growled, and slammed his fist down on the scarred wood.
A haze of something that looked like heat flared around the man's arm just before impact. The wood splintered with a sound far too loud for a simple punch.
Caleb watched, his mind on fire. What was that? He registered the brief, explosive energy, recalling his own clumsy attempt. He had pushed that energy into his fist, but without any control, the power had simply spasmed through his hand, snapping his fingers back painfully. The adventurer had shaped the power, channeling its raw energy through a practiced motion.
He strained his [Spiritual Perception], trying to grasp the memory of the event, but there was nothing to hold onto. He had seen the result with his eyes, a faint shimmer in the air, but his spiritual senses had registered only a brief flare of crimson energy from afar. The burst was chaotic and indistinct, offering nothing to analyze.
Darn it. If he could have felt the pathway that energy took, his [Perfect Memory] could have recorded it. His Impartments might have been able to deconstruct it. But he was blind to the specifics. He could see the result. The method remained hidden.
The frustration was so consuming that he almost missed it when the half-elf behind the counter finally broke the tense silence.
Felicity had been staring at Caleb for a long moment. Her words were a hushed murmur he wasn't meant to hear. "Is he some kind of genius?"
Felicity’s statement interrupted his analysis, yanking his attention back to the counter. The fascination with Branson's show of power evaporated, replaced by a sudden dread.
Genius? The word was a glaring spotlight that caught him in its beam. For weeks, his entire strategy had been to be invisible, the quiet, reliable boy in the kitchen. But Branson’s casual bigotry, the sneering use of “dull-ear,” had scraped something raw inside him. For a moment, the frustration had boiled over, and he’d just wanted to shut the man up in the most undeniable way possible.
And he had. By ignoring every one of Cassia's warnings about standing out. He'd just hung a huge sign above his head that could make its way back to Captain Hatch. Crumb. That was monumentally stupid. He had to regain control of the narrative, and fast. Downplay it. Frame it as ordinary talent.
"I just learn fast." Caleb quickly dismissed the status display. "So—about that sponsorship?"
She shook her head, a slow exhale clearing the shock from her expression. "Alright. You're sponsored."
She slid a small, bronze token across the counter. It was circular, stamped with the same mossy spruce as the other badges but lacked any of the shimmering mist.
"This is just a temporary marker to show you're an initiate-in-training," she explained, her voice regaining its crisp, transactional cadence. "Your real badge is something you have to earn. Complete your first contract, bring me the proof, and then you'll take the Oath of the Guild and get your soul-bound bronze. Don't lose that token in the meantime."
"Understood." Caleb tucked the guild badge safely inside his shirt.
"Welcome to the Adventurer's Guild, Thal."
Relief flooded through him. One obstacle down. "Thank you. Now, about getting equipped for that goblin hunt—I'll need a spear."
"No."
The refusal was immediate, flat.
"But—"
"Guild policy is ironclad on this." Her professional demeanor reasserted itself. "We don't front equipment to novice members. Period. Your potential doesn't change the economics—if you die out there, we lose both the member and the gear."
"Then how am I supposed to—"
"However." She raised a hand. "I saw that skill list. More importantly, I saw combat skills at Practiced rank after one day of training. That's more than swift learning. It's unheard of."
She leaned forward slightly. "I'll make you a personal deal. This offer is from me, Felicity the investor, acting outside my role with the guild. Show me you can raise one of those combat skills—say, [Breaching Thrust]—to Adept rank. "Prove this isn't a fluke. Do that, and I'll personally front you the cost of a spear," Felicity stated, her tone laced with a knowing amusement. "With 10% interest, naturally."
"Deal." The agreement came without hesitation. With his Impartments, reaching Adept rank would just take intentional practice. "Though that raises an obvious question."
"Which is?"
The morning drills weren't enough, and his unnatural learning speed would attract the wrong kind of attention in a group. He had to practice alone.
"How am I supposed to reach Adept?" Caleb asked. "The scheduled trainings will take too long. I don't want to test Selara's patience."
She considered this, fingers drumming on the counter. "Fair point. Here's some free advice—approach Captain Hatch directly. Tell him you want to borrow a practice spear for extra training outside of regular hours."
"Won't that seem presumptuous?"
"Presumptuous?" She snorted. "He's a career soldier. Initiative and dedication are the only currencies he respects. A recruit asking for extra practice? He'll probably pin a medal on you."
"Or assign me extra laps."
"That too. But you'll get your practice spear."
It was reassuring, but his mind was already moving ahead. A practice spear would serve a double purpose—legitimate skill advancement and a cover story for his abnormal progress.
"Thanks for the advice. And the sponsorship."
"Don't thank me yet. The guild takes its investments seriously. You default on this debt, and we have extensive ways of collecting."
"Understood."
Caleb nodded and headed for the door. The oppressive glare of highsun was yielding to the cooler, crimson light of second dusk, a relief from the Hall's stifling atmosphere. He thought of the endless hours he’d spent at a desk, grinding away at spreadsheets for a promotion he never truly wanted. The tired eyes, the stale coffee, the slow death of a thousand mundane tasks.
Now, he had a goal that mattered.
Adept rank. A real spear. An apprenticeship. Work that resonated deep within him.
For the first time in a long, long time, Caleb couldn't wait to get started.