Upstairs, John commandeered a table near the window. Paper spread before him, ink pot open, quill in hand.

  Erin sat across from him, reading Lia's book. Marcus had dragged himself to a nearby chair, picking at his teeth.

  At the corner table, Brennan sat slumped with his head in his hands, groaning quietly.

  John stared at him. An idea forming.

  He dipped the quill and started to write.

  The letters wobbled. Some were too large, others too small. They wavered down the page, not a straight line in sight. He tried to steady his hand, focus on making legible letters, but the quill kept catching on the paper, splattering ink in random directions.

  God, he missed his keyboard.

  He added to what he had written before. A Daughter's Misery at the Miller's house by the river. A Rat Too Clever for Kobolds. Echoes Beneath the Well. And more.

  "By the Light," Erin murmured, glancing over. "What is that?"

  "Notes," John said defensively, angling the paper away from her.

  "That's not writing. That's a crime."

  "It's fine."

  "Is that supposed to be an 'F' or a 'P'?"

  "It's an 'R'."

  Erin stared at him. "How?"

  John hunched over the page and kept writing. Locations, NPCs, general plot beats. Things he actually remembered with some clarity. His chicken-scratch handwriting barely conveyed the information, but it had to be enough.

  He glanced at Brennan again. Yeah, this could work.

  Twelve more pages later, John carefully ripped them out, stood, and walked over.

  Brennan didn't look up. "If you're here to gloat about not being hungover, you can piss off."

  "I have a job offer," John said.

  That got his attention. Bloodshot eyes focused on John's face. "What kind of job?"

  John set the pages on the table. "I need someone to follow up on these. I don’t know how accurate any of it will be. But I’d like someone to check."

  Brennan squinted at the first page, then frowned. "Your handwriting is appalling."

  "I know."

  "What is this?"

  "Information. Rumors. Things I've heard about. Some might be nothing. Some might be important." John pulled out the pouch Aldric had given him and dumped a portion of the gold onto the table. "I need someone reliable to check them out."

  Brennan stared at the gold. Then at John. Then at the gold again.

  "That's..." He picked up a coin, tested its weight. "That's a lot of money."

  "How long will it cover?" John asked.

  Brennan's throat worked. "For my whole team? Expenses, supplies, travel?" He did some mental calculation. "A full year. Maybe more if we're careful."

  "Then you have a year." John met his eyes. "Can you do it?"

  Brennan looked at the notes again, scanning the terrible handwriting, piecing together what he could. His expression shifted from confusion to focus. "Some of this... how could you know about—"

  John pointed at the gold.

  Brennan's jaw tightened. He stood, suddenly very serious despite the hangover, and extended his hand. "You can count on us. Whatever this is, we'll find out."

  They shook. His grip was firm, steady.

  "Start with the Miller's Daughter," John said. "That one's urgent."

  Brennan nodded, making a note of it.

  "I'll send updates," John added. "Where can I reach you?"

  "The Adventurer's Guild in Brackenford," Brennan said. "Leave word there. We check in monthly." He paused. "Or the Copper Bell tavern if it's urgent. The barkeep knows how to find us."

  Brennan gathered the pages carefully, treating them with more respect than the handwriting deserved. "Thank you. For this."

  "You came looking for an overflow dungeon, believing a Carrion Mother emerged from it," John said. "You went anyway. That's worth trusting."

  Brennan's expression softened slightly. He nodded once, then gathered his things and staggered for the door, already calling for his team.

  John returned to his table, feeling lighter. One problem delegated. Several hundred more to go.

  Erin was watching him with curiosity. "What was that about?"

  "Outsourcing," John said, sitting down.

  "What’s that?"

  "I have information. He has time and manpower. It's efficient."

  Marcus stared. "Did you just hire an adventuring company?"

  "Yes?"

  "With what money?"

  John gestured vaguely at his pockets. "The money I just got from Aldric?"

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "You had that for all of ten minutes!"

  "And I'm already putting it to good use."

  Marcus stared at him, "You're insane."

  John shrugged and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. This one wasn't for Aldric or the Valebrants.

  This one was for him.

  The starter quests he'd given Brennan? Those were good for someone playing casually. Safe. Reliable experience. But John didn't need safe. He needed fast.

  Cities had harder quests. Better rewards. Access to enchanters. The game's speedrun strategy had always been the same. Skip the tutorial areas, get to a city as fast as possible, grind the high-risk quests for maximum growth.

  He'd done it countless times. Knew the route. Knew the optimal path.

  Except now it wasn't a game, and dying meant actually dying, and—

  He couldn't afford to play it safe. He needed to get stronger before the Ward Wall failed.

  John's quill paused over the paper. The Ward Wall. He knew what was behind it. The Black Hymn. But how could he tell anyone? Examining it would show nothing.

  There was a way... But it would take a while.

  "What's that?" Erin asked, trying to peek at the paper.

  John covered it quickly. "Nothing. Just... planning."

  "Planning what?"

  "What I need to do next."

  The door to the kitchen opened. Leon and Lia came out, both looking thoughtful. They settled at the table.

  Leon noticed the pages in front of John. His expression went through several stages of disbelief.

  "Are those your notes on the Pre-Veil ruin?" Lia asked, leaning forward.

  "No," John said. "I got distracted. I'll write them later."

  "John!" Lia looked genuinely scandalized. "He's a Grand Magister! You can't just—"

  “He’ll live.”

  "We can send them to Aldric," Leon said mildly, though his lips twitched with amusement. "I'll need to make a copy anyway with legible handwriting. And another to send to our parents. They'll want to know every detail about the ruin."

  He looked at the pages again. "What... is this, then?"

  "Other notes," John said evasively.

  "This looks like a child's first attempt at letters."

  "It's legible!"

  "Barely," Erin said. "And I'm being generous."

  "Is that supposed to say 'dungeon'?" Lia squinted. "Or 'donkey'?"

  "Dungeon!"

  "Are you sure?"

  Thankfully footsteps on the stairs caught their attention.

  Henna wobbled down from the second floor.

  She looked like she'd just run a marathon. Twice. Her hair was a disaster, her dress was askew, and she moved as if her legs had forgotten how to work.

  But her expression was one of profound satisfaction.

  She reached the bottom of the stairs, noticed everyone staring, and shrugged.

  "What?" She stretched, wincing slightly. "Surprisingly limber old man."

  Then she walked out into the morning sunlight without another word.

  Marcus started laughing. It started as a chuckle, but built into a full belly laugh.

  Erin was trying to maintain her composure and failing. Her shoulders shook.

  Even Leon cracked, one hand over his mouth, eyes crinkling with barely contained mirth.

  Lia had gone bright red, staring determinedly at the table.

  "Limber old man," Marcus wheezed.

  Leon cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "As eventful as this morning has been, we should move on. There's nothing keeping us in Greyford now."

  The mood shifted, becoming more serious.

  "South to Thornhaven," Leon continued. "We keep a manor there."

  He looked at John. "Will you come with us?"

  "Yes."

  Leon blinked, surprised by the immediate answer. "You're certain? You don't need time to think about—"

  "I'm certain." John met his eyes. "I need what Thornhaven offers."

  "You have plans," Lia observed, her tone curious rather than questioning.

  "Yeah." John said.

  Leon nodded, satisfied. "Good. We'll leave within the hour.”

  "And pack," Lia added. "Do you have anything besides what you're wearing?"

  John thought about his single set of clothes and his miraculously cleaned sneakers. "Not really, no."

  "The wind cuts like a knife up there" Marcus said, standing and stretching. "Let me find you something that won't leave you frozen solid."

  Molly appeared before Marcus could move, holding a neatly folded bundle.

  She thrust the clothes at him. Thick wool trousers, a padded leather jacket with reinforced shoulders, proper traveling boots that looked like they'd actually keep his feet warm, and a scarf that felt soft enough to be expensive.

  “These are my son's. He won't miss them."

  John took the bundle, feeling the weight of good craftsmanship. "Your son?"

  "Dead ten years." Her tone is matter-of-fact. "Bandits. But his clothes are still good, and you need them more than moths do."

  The words hit harder than John expects. "I can't—"

  "You can and you will." Molly's expression brooks no argument. "He'd want them used. Practical boy, my Thomas. Hated waste." She waves him toward the stairs. "Go on. Change. And don't take all morning about it."

  John climbed back to his room, the bundle heavy in his arms.

  They fit surprisingly well.

  When he came back down, the others were already assembled in the square outside, griffins waiting patiently.

  Molly stood by the door, arms crossed.

  "So," she said. "Off to the big city."

  "Looks like it," John said.

  "Good." She reached out and gripped his shoulder. "You did well here, boy. Don't forget that."

  "I won't."

  "And don't let those fancy nobles push you around. You're worth ten of them." She paused. "Maybe five."

  John laughed. "Thank you, Molly. For everything."

  She released him and stepped back. "Go on, then. Before I get sentimental."

  John reached into his pouch and pulled out a handful of gold coins.

  Molly stared at him. She didn't move to take the money. Just stared.

  John held them out for a moment longer, then nodded and slipped the coins back into his pouch. He headed out into the square.

  The griffins were saddled and ready. Frostfeather stretched her wings, Ironwing preened, and Stormwind let out a low, rumbling chirp.

  "You're with me again," Erin said, gesturing to the space behind her on Frostfeather.

  John climbed up, settling onto the griffin's back. The feathers were warm beneath him.

  Leon mounted Ironwing with Lia behind him. Garren took his place on Stormwind with Marcus.

  "Ready?" Leon called.

  "Ready," Erin confirmed.

  Frostfeather launched into the air.

  The ground fell away. Wind tore at John's face and clothes. His stomach dropped as they climbed higher, the village shrinking below them until it was just a cluster of buildings surrounded by green fields.

  The other griffins fell into formation. Leon leading, Erin and Marcus flanking, the world spreading out beneath them in a patchwork of forests and roads and distant mountains.

  John looked back once. Greyford was already disappearing behind them, swallowed by distance and the curve of the hills.

  John turned forward, toward Thornhaven, and whatever came next.