They trudged back into the corner office.

  Damian was chewing angrily. They had stopped at a food stall to grab some fried bread on their way back, and Damian cursed all the way.

  “That went well,” Darrow started.

  “We couldn't just stand there,” Damian grumbled. His mouth was full as he staggered into the office like a furious chipmunk.

  “And now—no guild for a month,” Darrow said, shrugging.

  “Well?” Cassandra asked, looking up with an arched eyebrow.

  Damian grimaced. There was that look in her eyes. She sat behind her desk, watching the two, the scrying-glass flickering before her, those sharp eyes assessing everything.

  Then she looked back down at the scrying glass, and they went on to explain.

  “Banned. A month.” One of them said. She didn’t look up to see who it was.

  In fact, she just shook her head as if she already knew they’d get into trouble.

  “You two…” she said.

  “We defended someone,” Darrow grinned sheepishly.

  She sighed.

  “That’s not coin in my drawer.”

  Damian slumped into a chair, and Darrow flopped beside him.

  The scrying-glass showed images of nobles—some of the same ones they had just gotten into a spat with.

  “Hey, that’s the guy you wanted to fight.”

  Cassandra frowned. She narrowed her eyes at the scrying spell.

  “So that’s why you got banned.”

  "We were just helping,” Darrow said.

  “Fine. Just stay out of trouble and make yourselves useful,” Cassandra said and left through the front door.

  She’d started doing that more frequently. It had to be one of her clients.

  Minutes later, when Darrow was fishing through his pocket, something hot burned his fingers.

  Darrow flinched, cursed, and tossed the letter from the Rogue’s Gallery.

  “What is it?” Damian asked, fingering it nervously.

  “The letter from the Rogue’s Gallery,” Darrow said, sucking at his burnt hands.

  Damian raised an eyebrow.

  “You still have it?”

  “I couldn’t just throw it.”

  It sparked. They watched the letter burn up until only ashes were left.

  A few days later, Damian was the first to wake up in the morning. Light spilt through the shutters, and as he walked into the room, he noticed a folded paper on the desk. The handwriting was Cassandra’s, and he wasn’t even surprised to see what it read in her sharp, neat form.

  Damian read it: Don’t leave your shoes in the hall.

  Darrow just chuckled when he found the note left for him: Don’t slack on your stretches.

  They were used to it by now—it had been happening for days. Some notes were practical, while others were oddly personal.

  There was a knock on the door, and the two looked at each other.

  Damian opened the door to find a messenger in guild livery. The man lifted a letter in his hand and pushed it forward.

  “Summons from the guild master. Immediately.”

  Darrow walked over to the door, and the brothers exchanged looks. It was the kind of look Cassandra always noticed when they got themselves into trouble.

  They exchanged nervous laughs, and Damian reached out to take the letter.

  "When does she—, " Damian started, but the man was already turning the corner.

  "immediately, don't be late." the runner said as he sped off into the busy road.

  Soon after that, they also left the storefront.

  They rushed through the crowded streets of New Calvessan, past the rumbling spirit carriages and the new enchanted hex-diesel gliders.

  “What do you think this is about?” Darrow asked as they reached the guild square.

  The towers surrounding the plaza loomed high, their banners rippling in the wind—and had they looked closer, they would have noticed a lionin a banner flying among them.

  “Whatever it is, we can’t let Cassandra find out.”

  “Yeah, I forgot about that,” Darrow said.

  They pushed through the doors. The lobby hummed just like before—as if they had never left. The clerks scribbled away on parchment, stamping and stacking papers or rushing upstairs on urgent business.

  Adventurers spoke about new dungeons discovered that week and what loot they had gathered. Nobles and merchants sponsoring them signed receipts and appraised items taken from dungeon portals.

  Damian straightened as he approached one of the clerks, while Darrow tried to look as casual as possible.

  There was no doubt the people who had witnessed their incident with the lionin noble still remembered them.

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  “We’re here to see the guild master,” Darrow said, placing the letter before the clerk.

  The stocky dwarf in a vested suit, with a monocle attached to his eye, looked at them, then at the letter. His large forearms moved as he examined it, dipping a quill into ink before noting something in a ledger.

  The two shrivelled under his gaze, but he grunted and passed it back.

  “Tell the guards to let you upstairs,” the clerk said.

  When they reached the top floor, another clerk sat beside an enchanted door leading to the guild mistress’s office—a VIP area, by the looks of it. The woman there was probably the highest-level clerk among her peers.

  “The guild mistress is waiting for you,” she said as they approached.

  A cold fear ran down both their backs at her pursed lips and stern look. The senior clerk paused at the door. She nodded to no one they could see and pushed open the large door.

  She gestured them inside, or rather, she would have, yet her stern look urged the brothers forward.

  The guild master’s office was both small and large at once—three steps led to the back of her desk, and the shelves seemed far too tall. The entire space felt odd.

  She looked up as they entered, watching them pause a few steps from the door. It was a show of deference—not stepping right up to her desk.

  Her desk was covered in papers. She waved her hand, inviting them forward.

  “You’ve been pardoned,” she said, carefully reading over a paper before stamping it with a wax seal.

  The brothers blinked, glancing at each other, then back at the guild mistress.

  “For… what exactly?” Darrow asked hesitantly.

  “Your one-month ban has been lifted,” the dwarf guild master said.

  “The ban is lifted by—who? Why?” Damian asked, brow furrowing.

  The mistress folded her arms on the desk.

  “Thank Lord Graldo,” she said, clicking her tongue.

  She looked straight at them—first at Damian, then at Darrow. Only now did she seem to realize how eerily identical the two looked.

  “Never heard of him,” Darrow said.

  “Well, Lord Graldo is a very rich man,” she said, glancing down at her papers. “He’s also very powerful. You should be careful.”

  Everyone knew nothing was ever free in the Eternal City. Cassandra had warned them about such things—the kinds of deals nobles used to trap others into unfavourable terms.

  “And what does he want in return?” Damian asked. She looked up and met his eyes.

  She hesitated for only a moment, then.

  “You two wanted to go into a dungeon, yes. This is your chance.” She slid a document across the desk.

  Damian’s eyes widened. Darrow’s jaw dropped.

  They looked down at the document—it was a contract for a single dungeon run, for their services as porters in a Silver-Rank Dungeon.

  “You will be porters,” she said, tapping the parchment, her gaze firm.

  Damian stiffened.

  The problem was clear—the stipulations in the count’s offer were dangerous. However much they wanted to reject it, they both knew they might never get another chance like this.

  Even through normal channels, guild approval could take months—and even then, their levels might disqualify them.

  They each had ten total levels, but to everyone besides Cassandra, they were level five. The guild restricted dungeon access by rank.

  “So, baggage carriers,” Darrow muttered.

  She ignored him, pulling out her seal, dipping it into wax ink, and stamping the contract.

  “You will accompany Lord Rraan and Lord Graldo’s forces into the dungeon.”

  “The one from last week?” Damian asked, frowning.

  Magda’s lips twitched. “Yes, the very same one.”

  “Perfect,” Darrow said, frowning all the while.

  They started to protest, hoping to stall and ask Cassandra first, but the guild mistress slammed her hand on the table. The two froze.

  “You two will obey orders if you ever want to be adventurers,” she said, leaning back. “He sent me a letter personally to pardon you, so please—don’t cause trouble.”

  Damian started to argue again, but the guild master raised her hand.

  “Dismissed,” she said, and the clerk outside opened the door.

  Back at the office, Damian and Darrow sank into the couches.

  “Are we really going to be carrying the heavy bags for nobles as they stroll through the dungeon?” Darrow asked, sinking further into the seat.

  “At least we won’t be fighting—and he might leave us alone.”

  “Even though you’re suspicious about it?”

  “Darrow, this is the chance we’ve been waiting for,” Damian said, though he sounded skeptical.

  “You mean to get into a dungeon?”

  “It was your idea,” Damian said.

  “Fine, if we can level up and make coin," Darrow said in defeat, sagging his shoulders.

  "That’s two birds with one stone,” Damian said, and it seemed like both their opinions on the matter had shifted.

  “Yeah, but it’s still a Silver-Rank dungeon—any monster in there could kill us.”

  “But we can work together to kill just one of them.”

  “How?” Darrow raised an eyebrow.

  “We’re technically level ten. And i have a Silver-Rank skill.”

  “[Lesser Strength],” Darrow huffed.

  “Yes.”

  The next day, they found the reinforced gear they’d bought from a dwarven vendor stashed under their beds.

  They took turns dressing in the hard brown leather. Darrow made sure to fasten his cloak. Dwarven armour was always the best—expensive, but worth it.

  “We look like real adventurers now,” Darrow said, striking a pose and flexing his arms.

  They packed carefully—rope, flasks, weapons. Damian fastened his sword to his belt. Darrow checked his hidden daggers.

  Cassandra wasn’t behind her desk again. She’d left a note, however: Don’t trust anyone.

  Whatever she was doing—it had to be dangerous.

  When they reached the portal site, the area was crowded. Guards formed a perimeter to keep onlookers back.

  The portal gate shimmered in the air, circular and alive with magic. Enchantments around it prevented it from expanding.

  Two noble banners flew nearby, alongside the guild’s own—showing who claimed ownership over the dungeon.

  What caught their eyes, however, was Lord Rraan. The lionin stood with his guards, wearing gleaming gold and silver armor. Rings adorned his fingers, and a scarlet cloak swayed in the wind from the portal.

  Darrow swallowed hard, then he felt a reassuring nudge from Damian.

  “Are you sure about this?” Darrow asked, watching the adventurers and nobles.

  Lord Rraan was speaking to another noble—a human.

  “Is that him? Lord Graldo?” Darrow asked.

  “He probably is,” Damian said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Is he a mage? He isn’t wearing any armor.”

  “Maybe he’s not coming with us,” Damian said.

  As they approached, the adventurers under the nobles’ banners glanced at them, sizing them up. Whispering.

  Damian straightened his shoulders, and Darrow smirked, hiding his unease.

  The lionin’s eyes narrowed slightly as he muttered something to the human lord.

  Lord Graldo was an average-looking man, with the kind of gut only nobles could afford—soft from too much fine food. He wore silks fit for a prince.

  “Are you two the porters I requested?” Lord Graldo asked.

  Rraan stood behind him, his braided mane heavy with jewelled cords as he crossed his arms.

  “Yes,” Damian said, bowing. Darrow followed.

  “You’ll be carrying monster parts and mana crystals,” the lord said.

  They nodded. The lionin sneered openly at them. Warning bells rang in both their heads.

  “Your bags are over there. Try to keep up,” the lionin said, turning away, his mane swaying.

  Damian and Darrow picked up the bags. Adventurers shifted around them, glancing, assessing.

  One human adventurer sharpened a too-sharp sword. Another fingered throwing knives. A woman checked her crossbow string. None of them smiled.

  “Shady,” Darrow muttered, eyes flicking from face to face.

  “I think they’re paid off,” Damian noted, nudging him.

  He gestured toward Lord Graldo’s secretary, who was quietly exchanging coins with several adventurers.

  Their gazes flicked toward the twins. They tensed.

  “You think they want us dead?” Darrow asked skeptically.

  Damian felt a cold wind brush his cheeks. For the first time in years, he felt uneasy.

  “We should be careful,” Damian said.

  After picking up their baggage, Lord Rraan and his lionin escort stepped forward.

  The portal shimmered before them all.

  Its magic hummed thick in the air, restrained by glowing runes. Guards pushed the crowd back.

  The adventurers steeled themselves; their blades and staves gleamed.

  Damian clenched his jaw.

  “Last chance to run,” Darrow said nervously, hoisting his pack.

  “No. No running, Darrow. Not today,” Damian said, shaking his head and walking toward the waiting delvers.

  Rraan glanced aside, where clerks, enchanters, and guards stood with Guild Mistress Magda. He nodded at her, and the dwarf returned the look, unimpressed.

  Damian took a breath, focusing on the portal. Darrow flexed his hands—the pack felt lighter than he’d imagined.

  “Enter,” the lionin lordling commanded.

  One by one, the fifteen adventurers stepped through. The portal rippled like water, swallowing each of them in shimmering light.

  Then Lord Rraan stepped through, his cloak rippling behind him.

  Damian and Darrow exchanged a look.

  “Here we go,” Darrow muttered. Damian could feel the nervousness.

  They stepped forward together. The magic thickened.

  The light swallowed them whole.