The office of Guildmaster Mylor of the Adventurer’s Guild smelled faintly of parchment and tea. Afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, spilling across shelves crowded with ledgers, scrolls, and metal tools that glinted faintly in the sun. Outside, the streets of Arnathe hummed with life. Cart wheels creaked, voices traded over market stalls, and somewhere far off, a blacksmith hammered steel to rhythm.

  Inside, the sound of that world faded behind thick walls. The Guildmaster sat quietly at his broad oak desk, a thin porcelain cup cradled in one hand. Steam rose from it, carrying the sharp, earthy scent of mountain tea from Kellen-Tir. It was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself. Since the dwarves reopened their trade routes eastward, the Guild had grown busier than ever. Contracts, shipments, repairs, all of it flowing through his hands. But this moment was different.

  He wasn’t reviewing trade reports today. He was waiting.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Enter,” he said, his voice even but expectant.

  The latch turned. Maruzan stepped in, framed by a slice of golden light from the hallway. His clothes were plain, but clean. His hair was shorter now, his face older, set in a quiet determination that hadn’t been there a year ago. He moved with the care of someone who had carried both tools and weapons, not uncertain, but deliberate.

  “Maruzan,” Mylor greeted with a small smile. “Good. I was hoping you hadn’t kept me waiting long.”

  He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “You can sit, if you like.”

  “I’ll stand,” Maruzan said.

  Mylor studied him for a moment, the tone wasn’t stubborn, just steady. Then he nodded, setting his teacup down with a soft clink. He reached for a folded parchment resting atop the desk, its edges heavy and smooth.

  “I’ll get right to it,” he said, turning the paper in his fingers. “The King has granted your request.”

  Maruzan didn’t move at first. His eyes lingered on the green wax seal pressed into the parchment, the royal sigil of Aerlane, the king.

  “Granted,” Maruzan repeated quietly. “That was quick work. The postals just returned a copy of the application days ago.”

  Mylor nodded once. “A Letter of Martial Favor. Signed by Aerlane himself. You’re now authorized to establish a sanctioned warband under royal charter.”

  For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Maruzan’s shoulders shifted slightly, not in surprise, but in the release of a long-held breath.

  The Guildmaster continued, his tone softening as he leaned forward. “You understand this isn’t common. Most of these letters go to noble captains, retired officers, old veterans of the Crown. Not to craftsmen.”

  “I understand,” Maruzan said.

  “I believe you do.” Mylor tapped the edge of the letter with one finger. “But you also understand why you were given it. The King knows what happened in Harbinth. He knows your name. The survivors spoke of you, not loudly, but consistently. And when quiet men speak the same truth, kings listen.”

  Maruzan said nothing. His hand twitched slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for the letter too soon.

  “The Vanguard’s quartermaster also sent word,” Mylor added. “They’ve taken an interest in your armor work. Basilisk hide, if I recall.”

  “Xonya hunts them,” Maruzan said, his tone faintly warm. “I just make use of what she brings back.”

  “Then you owe her more than coin,” Mylor said, allowing a small grin. “That hide is worth its weight in silver these days. The King’s soldiers would kill for armor half that light.”

  Maruzan didn’t laugh. He was already thinking ahead. A letter like this changed things, for him, for Xonya, for everyone who had followed him out of survival and into purpose.

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  The Guildmaster seemed to sense his thoughts. “Before you start making plans,” he said, sliding the parchment across the table, “there’s more.”

  Maruzan took the letter but didn’t open it.

  “The King has given you a first assignment,” Mylor said. “It’s not a public bounty, and it’s not for the Guild’s records. This one is personal, from the royal family itself.”

  “What kind of assignment?”

  “You’re to meet Princess Phoebe tonight, at the Evening Terraces near the royal garden.” Mylor’s eyes held his. “Alone.”

  The words hung in the air, heavy but clear.

  Maruzan blinked once. “The Princess?”

  “Yes. She asked for you by name. The letter arrived with her seal attached.”

  He let that sink in before continuing. “I don’t know what she wants. I wasn’t told. But the fact that the Crown moved this quickly means something important is shifting. You’re being trusted with something that matters.”

  Maruzan’s hand tightened around the letter. Trust. That word carried weight.

  Mylor leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “You’ve seen how the world’s been lately. The peace is still thin. Kobold raids near the Green Hills. Troll sightings north of the marshlands. And rumors of darker things, magic being stirred where it shouldn’t be.” He hesitated, eyes narrowing. “The court is restless. They don’t say it out loud, but they’re preparing for something. If the Princess is reaching beyond her guards and generals, she wants someone… different.”

  “Someone expendable?” Maruzan asked.

  Mylor smiled faintly. “Someone reliable.”

  They stood in silence for a long moment. Maruzan’s thoughts drifted, to the warband, to Ennett’s patient determination, to Xonya’s rough laughter, to Nethira’s calm voice. He thought of Velthur too, growing sharper by the day at the college. All of them had their roles. All of them trusted him to lead.

  And now the Crown was watching.

  “Guildmaster,” he said slowly, “if this goes wrong, it doesn’t fall just on me. It falls on everyone tied to the Guild.”

  “I know,” Mylor said. “That’s why I gave it to you personally.”

  Maruzan met his gaze, understanding the compliment buried in the words.

  Mylor picked up his teacup again but didn’t drink. “Whatever the Princess asks of you, listen carefully. Don’t promise more than you can keep, but don’t walk away too soon, either. If the royal family begins to trust us again, it could change everything. The Guild’s future. Arnathe’s future.”

  He paused, studying Maruzan’s face. “You’ve already shaped history once, whether you meant to or not. Perhaps it’s time to see if you can do it again.”

  Maruzan finally opened the letter. The wax broke with a soft crack. Inside, the words were clean and simple:

  By order of His Majesty Aerlane of Arnathe, this bearer is granted Martial Favor and the right to form a royal-sanctioned warband.

  He is to attend the Evening Terraces upon sundown and hear the request of Her Highness, Princess Phoebe of House Virlyon.

  Further details to be delivered in person.

  Signed and sealed.

  It was real.

  He folded it carefully and tucked it into his belt. “Thank you, Guildmaster.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Mylor said. “You earned this. Just don’t lose your head trying to hold it.”

  For the first time in their conversation, Maruzan smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

  Mylor chuckled softly. “See that you do. And send word to Ennett and the others once you’ve met with the Princess. Something tells me this isn’t the kind of favor you can carry alone.”

  Maruzan inclined his head, the faintest trace of a bow, and turned toward the door. His boots made little sound on the floorboards.

  “Maruzan,” Mylor said just before he reached the threshold.

  He looked back.

  “Whatever happens tonight,” the Guildmaster said, “remember, the Crown doesn’t hand out trust easily. If they’ve chosen you, it means they see something in you that most of us have missed.”

  Maruzan hesitated. Then, quietly: “Maybe they see what the others helped me become.”

  Mylor’s eyes softened. “Then make sure you keep becoming.”

  Maruzan gave a small nod and stepped out into the hallway. The guild was alive with its usual bustle, smiths shouting for apprentices, clerks tallying coin, a faint haze of smoke from the forges drifting through the rafters. Yet everything around him felt sharper, brighter.

  He glanced down at the folded letter again, the green seal cracked but still holding its mark. For two years, he had worked and waited, building something from nothing. Now the road ahead had opened wider, and stranger, than he had ever planned.

  He tucked the parchment away and walked toward the doors that led out into the sunlight.

  The city sprawled before him, full of noise and motion, but for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel lost in it.

  Whatever waited for him at the Evening Terraces, he would face it the way he always had — quietly, steadily, without fear.

  Because he wasn’t just a craftsman anymore.

  He was the leader of a warband.

  And the King had just called him to work.